huge fan of how isolated they kept robby in s2 because like. he doesn't have anyone. he didn't have anyone in s1, he doesn't have anyone in s2. not truly, not really. it's not the literally no one is there type of loneliness. it's the fact that you're surrounded by people, and you're still deeply alone.
even the people that help him or confront him or reach out to him the most, he barely has. dana, who is first and foremost a coworker before a best friend, who had no idea about robby's abandonment. jack, who's admittedly closer, but I assume is included in "no one knows", + is avoidant, often working, and hasn't faced most of his own shit. not truly reliable.
I mean, that scene where robby is grinning and refusing eye contact and not reassuring jack he'll be okay... and jack doesn't even follow him. just leaves. and later, when dana is practically begging jack to at least say something. do something. but jack is also closed off, so it took that push. he didn't even truly initiate the reaching out.
even duke's connection to robby gets overinflated, and I think it suits the narrative much better to view it as it is: duke and robby are not particularly close. it's implied it's a recent friendship, mainly over motorcycles, which is a recent development in robby's life. and robby, over and over, has to practically plead with duke to stay, have the CT for him, and is generally difficult.
robby is grasping to this friendship because it's likely one of the only ones he has, possibly the only one. and eventually, yes, duke softens at the desperation and comforts him, but it's still just... they're clearly not very close. robby is desperate for connection and unwilling to let it go, he's crying out for help, whoever will help.
him and noelle clearly aren't that close, including the fact that she gossips about something personal to him to dana without a second thought. it's not even a want for robby, the comfort of a warm body in his bed, it's a need. he knows he can't be alone. he can't handle it. but he doesn't wanna get close enough to anyone to be abandoned, so he always leaves first.
yana kovalenko, who is one of the people who cut through to him emotionally the most, is a patient. cassie, who also checked in on him and made an effort, is his resident. the vast majority of people that are considered his "support system" are his responsibilities as well, or at the very least his coworkers first, which heavily clashes.
that's why he latches on so heavy to duke, why duke gets through to him easily, even though he's... honestly pretty surface level, and I assume knows very little about robby's inner self, just as everyone else. all he really knows, from that day, is wow this hospital is draining. but that was enough for robby. because robby is desperately lonely and duke is not a responsibility or a coworker. and duke is older, and robby is subconsciously always searching for a figure like that. someone to guide him. a mother, a father, a mentor. anyone.
anyways I just feel like most of robby's relationships, (even heather in s1 and sometimes especially her,) get wildly overinflated. and it does a disservice to his character. one of the core parts of his character that explains many of his motivations are how completely lonely he is.
Doctor Robby who can't hold down a relationship no matter how hard he tries.
Doctor Robby who pushes it down, and down, and down, doting on his partner is any way other than that, until it becomes too much and he can't he just can't, and fuck-
Doctor Robby, who has just realised he's asexual, by reading a fucking facebook post.
Shit.
It wasn't even a good one.
He sighs, swears, sighs again, swears some more, and presses his hands into his eyes harder than he should.
Of all fucking nights.
An executive decision is made that fifty one is too late to have a sexuality crisis, the laptop is closed, and Robby at least pretends to sleep.
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.
But it’s fine. Manageable, at least.
Or it was.
Because now he’s fifty four, like nearly one hundred percent convinced that asexual is the only word to describe what’s wrong with him, and Jack Abbot is asking him out on a date.
Like a real date.
And yeah, logically he knows that being ace is an okay thing, but what if jack doesn’t know what that is and he has to explain it all, then jack realises how awful and manipulative he is and hates him, and then they stop being friends all because Robby’s brain is too fucking stupid to just do the thing that every other human on the planet loves so fucking much-
And before they’ve even sat down over a candlelit dinner, Robby’s stupid fucking mouth blurts out “would you want to have sex with me?”
Because as much as he doesn’t want to, he needs to know.
Because jack deserves someone who can give him longer than seven weeks.
And speaking of the guy, he takes it about as well as he could have.
Sure, he stands there, mouth opening and shutting like a particularly gormless fish, but once he scrapes his chin from the tiles he says:
“Listen man, I was hoping this would come up at least a little bit later, and like I completely get if it’s like a total dealbreaker or whatever…” he looks down and lowers his voice, “…but the, erm, pipes are a bit rusty these days, if you know what I mean…”
Robby looks confused.
Abbot sighs.
“The old metro gets bunged up…?” He tries.
Robby just looks more confused.
Jack rubs the back of his neck before whispering:
“Man to man, I have… erectile dysfunction.”
“So you don’t want sex?” Robby clarifies.
Jack shrugs. “Kinda? It’s fun to jerk off every so often, but the sheer quantity of viagra sorta ruins the mood.”
Robby laughs. Actually laughs.
He beams from ear to ear.
“Nah brother, it’s cool. I can’t fucking stand it.”
Werewolf dom/sub 'foster' au where newly-turned wolves must be placed in the care of an alpha who either leads their own pack, was born into it, or has simply been around and stabilised for long enough that they're respected in the community.
Human Robby who's aware that Jack has put in for some time off recently because he has been assigned a new wolf by the state. He feels vaguely ashamed that he hasn't been checking in as thoroughly as he should, but he has been finding time to message and ask Jack how his latest 'cub' is between shifts.
Jack's responses have always been that everything is going fine, it's an adjustment as usual, but nothing out of the ordinary. Robby feels like there's something that he's missing, some unspoken context lurking in bright white between the words. He presses Jack, but doesn't have as much time as he'd like to hunt down the trail that Jack isn't doing a great job of covering up.
One evening, just as he's clocking out, he gets a message from Jack that takes the guesswork out of it all.
Need your help with my puppy. He's struggling and he's a fucking handful and I gotta admit I'm not doing right by him. You free to help me out?
And there's only one answer Robby will ever give to Jack.
Always.
Robby hears the issue before he's even stepped into Jack's house.
Even through the closed door, he can hear Jack's footsteps approaching, and underneath that, a constant, fractious whining sound, interspersed with the sound of rhythmically-clanging metal.
"Brother, am I fucking glad to see you."
Jack leans heavily into Robby's embrace, and even to Robby's human nose he smells like sweat, exhaustion, and the slightly wheaty-milky smell that all newly-turned wolves have.
Robby follows Jack through the house and watches him flop on the couch with a sigh. Robby notices the fabric on the corners has been torn, and the wood underneath has been chewed into damp, splintered crescents.
The whines that have been drifting through the house suddenly pick up in their intensity, and Jack's eyes grow fond even through the exhaustion.
"Dennis, buddy, I'm right here. You're okay, I'll be with you in a minute."
Robby takes a seat next to Jack, allowing the warmth of their thighs to press against each other.
"Tell me what's happening, brother."
The whining in the next room pauses, chokes and grumbles into something wary, something warning. Jack opens his mouth, but Robby cuts him off.
"Ignore him, he'll be fine. You know he'll be fine. Let him cry for a minute, it won't hurt him. Tell me."
Jack sighs, scrubs a hand down his face.
"He's a sweet kid."
"That why your furniture's all chewed up?"
"He is a sweet kid. The furniture is chewed up because he's also a brat, he's scared, he's restless, and he's in pain. I also think he's - not particularly one of the lucky ones."
Robby ducked his head, curtailing some of the comments that had been tripping off the tip of his tongue, about Jack being a soft touch and thinking that all brats were sweet kids, even when sometimes a brat is just a brat.
Dennis being...unlucky changed things, just a little.
Sometimes, particularly if a turning is violent and traumatic, it can do more than just make a wolf of a man. Sometimes, the change can knock something off-kilter in both man and beast, and in the worst cases, loved ones have reported being barely able to recognise their person, even when they're not under the influence of the transformation.
"Did you know him before? What kind of severity are we looking at here?"
Jack shook his head, cast a quick glance back at the spare room, where the sounds have quieted to the gentle, metallic shuddering sounds of teeth gnawing on a cage.
"I didn't know him before, so it's not like I can comment on his baseline. It's more that I see something in him sometimes, and I know that's probably who he was before all this."
Robby leans over to press a hand to Jack's back, sweeping it up and down in broad strokes, daring once or twice to venture to the back of Jack's neck and squeeze comfortingly.
"Severity? Nothing too bad - he's not really aggressive, he's just...incredibly rambunctious, restless to the point where even he's frustrated with it, and he swings between wanting to take a bite out of me to being so incredibly clingy that I can't take a piss in peace."
Robby quirks a smile at that.
"Cute. Sounds like just another day at the office to me, Abbot." His lips twitch at Jack's snort, and he flicks his gaze to the spare room and the gnawing sounds.
"What are we today? Clingy, or bitey?"
"Can't a man have a bit of both?"
Robby rolls his eyes, jerks his head at Jack.
"Helpful. C'mon then, bring him out here and I'll take a look."
---
Jack is gone for longer than Robby had anticipated, and he hears the low, soothing rumble of his voice followed by the clink of a crate door being unlatched, and then the whining sounds from earlier return with a vengeance.
"Oh, I know, I know. There you go, you're okay, I'm back now. Come on, we're going to go through and meet a friend of mine."
Quiet, frantic chattering that Robby can't quite make out.
"Yes, I'm sure he'll like you, and I'm sure he'll want to be your friend too. But you have to be a good boy, because Robby only likes good boys."
Robby raises his eyebrows reflexively, barely has time to school his face and wipe the slight smirk off it before Jack rounds the corner, half-dragging Dennis behind him by a firm grip on the back of his neck.
"Dennis, this is my friend, Robby. Robby, this is Dennis."
Jack has to practically drag Dennis to sit on the couch with him, pulling him tightly to his side to try to contain some of the restless wiggling and attempts to climb into Jack's lap and seemingly directly into his skin.
"Hi Dennis. I know this must all be very confusing, and I know you're struggling, and I'm here to help with that. Jack's told me a little bit about you, but would you like to tell me about yourself?"
"No." Spat petulantly into Jack's neck, where Dennis is trying to hide himself. Jack's gaze hardens a little.
"Dennis. I told you, Robby is my friend, and he's trying to be yours. You will be polite."
Dennis whines like Jack has told him he can't have his favourite treat, and Robby finds himself ticking off all the relevant boxes in his head, and writing little notes in the imaginary margins.
He tilts his head, tries to make eye contact with Dennis, who only glares at him with one baleful eye, the other hidden in Jack's clavicle.
"Dennis, I think it's going to be a lot more helpful if you look at me and answer my questions. Can you do that?"
"Fuck off."
Jack looks like he's about to snap a reprimand, but Robby simply nods at Dennis, slow and calm, as if he's made a mildly interesting observation.
"Okay." Soft and gentle, voice pitched low as if to soothe. Robby makes eye contact with Jack, asking a question that doesn't need to be spoken between them. Jack nods in return, and Robby smiles.
He's standing almost as fast as a natural-born wolf, one hand closing on Dennis' scruff and the other on his wrist with practiced ease, and he hauls him off of Jack, manhandling him while he wails and writhes in his grip.
Those newly sharp teeth snap around the air where Robby's hand was, and Dennis grunts in surprise when Robby easily nudges the back of his knees and sends him toppling to the floor, bent and kneeling beside Robby's legs.
A sharp crack snaps through the air, and Dennis' startled cry is almost comically delayed. Robby's hand stays poised by Dennis' thigh, where it has just made a hard and sudden impact.
"You do not bite." Robby's other huge hand is clamped hard around Dennis' neck, and he shakes him by the scruff briefly for emphasis, jiggling a soft whine from Dennis in the process. Robby leans down to speak into Dennis' poor, red ear as the puppy flushes in shock and humiliation. His voice is like velvet, gentle and calm and slightly unsettling if it's rubbed the wrong way. "You do not bite me, and from now on you do not bite Jack unless I'm here to supervise your playtime. I can already see you've done damage to his furniture, but that stops now. Oh, I know, that's all very cruel, isn't it?"
Robby has slowly manipulated Dennis so his head is forced to lie on his knee. He can see the poor thing's eyes darting frantically towards Jack. He taps Dennis' thigh once more in warning, clicks his tongue.
"No, I'm talking to you now. You don't need to look at Jack, he's already put up with enough from you."
A choked whine with some real distress in it, and Robby lets his voice soften just a little.
"Don't work yourself up, he's not abandoning you and you're still his very sweet little puppy that he's very fond of. But you've been misbehaving - no, we don't need to hear any whining from you, thank you - so I'm going to help you be a good boy for Jack. Because I think that's what you want, isn't it? Just to be a good, sweet boy, am I right?"
Despite the shock still clouding his eyes and making his pulse flutter frantically at his throat, Dennis' body has started to unwind from its unbearable tightness as Robby's voice washes over him, and his head grows heavy as he settles, trance-like, further into Robby's lap and his hold. He nods, once, barely perceptible.
Jack smiles and Robby coos gently down at Dennis, who is aware on some level that this big, strange man is patronising him, but he just can't bring himself to wish that he'd stop. The words, the voice, they all drag him down to a place where the aches and pains and frantic, screaming new instincts in his body are all like distant, fading echoes in a dark place. It's peaceful here.
"Oh, what a good boy. See, we can be friends now, can't we?" Robby glances up at Jack, keeps one hand locked to the back of Dennis' neck and squeezing rhythmically.
"Is he eating?"
"Inconsistently. Sometimes he acts like he's starving, other days I have to wrestle water down his throat. Nothing too out of the ordinary, given the new senses can be pretty overwhelming."
Robby nods, running his other hand up and down Dennis' back, feeling his muscles shudder and chase the sensation. He allows himself a small smirk up at Jack.
"Touch?"
"Wanted. Constantly."
Robby chortles a rusty laugh at the dryness of Jack's tone, the quirk of his eyebrow.
"But he's also incredibly restless, and his muscles and bones hurt all the time from the change. He wants to pace and play and wrestle - and bite - at all fucking hours. He won't stay still enough for anything else. He barely sleeps, which is only making everything worse."
"Okay." Robby nods thoughtfully, patting Dennis' back and feeling him twitch in response. "Well, let's start there, then. See if we can't get some of this tension out of you, hmm?"
Without any further discussion or hesitation, Robby reaches the hand that isn't clamped on Dennis' neck down to his legs, and nudges them apart.
"Okay Dennis, just let me in and give me some room - there you go, there's a good boy."
Dennis is so startled by the hand easily dipping below his waistband that he barely does anything more than grunt at the sensation of one of those big, hairy hands closing around his cock. He reflexively jerks, tries to curl around the intrusive hand, but his neck is still being squeezed, his head still pressed against Robby's knee, and even the gentle, steady pressure on his cock isn't enough to fully yank him out of that warm, comfortable low place he's sunk to. He whimpers when Robby's hand actually starts moving firmly, stroking up and down his cock in a somewhat clinical fashion.
"Mm, I know, you weren't expecting that, were you? Poor puppy. I know, it's all very personal, isn't it?" Robby's musing in the same mild way he might have been talking about the weather, and it makes something writhe in Dennis' belly as his hips start to twitch ever so slightly. "Just relax, there's a good boy. You've got all that pent up energy, and it's only getting you in trouble, isn't it? Give it to me and I'll get rid of it, there we go."
"He's responsive, that's a good sign," Robby directs casually to Jack, who has resumed swigging at his beer as he lets Dennis hold hazy eye contact with him. He smiles at his poor, befuddled boy as his cheeks start to flush and he starts to vocalise in tiny, repeated little whimpers.
"Can't say I'm surprised," Jack returns easily, "he's all over me the minute I do so much pat his hand. Hell, sometimes all I have to do is look at him and he'll come running over here like I've dangled a treat in front of him."
"Jack!" Tearful and wobbly, Dennis' part-plea part-protest almost gets swallowed by his unsteady breathing as Robby starts to twist his wrist on the upstroke.
"Ah ah, drop the attitude." Robby ceases all movement, gripping Dennis' cock tight at the base and nodding when it tears a quiet cry from Dennis' throat. His hips bob helplessly, though it does him no good to essentially be humping the air. "If you want to whine, I'll make sure you have something to whine about."
"I'm - I'm sorry. Robby, I'm sorry."
"Not to me."
"Jack - Jack, I'm sorry. Sir, I promise I'm so - I'm so sorry."
"Very pretty, such a good boy." Robby gently coos down at him, slowly resuming his stroking as Jack lowly assures Dennis.
"I know you are, Den. You're doing very well. Does that feel nice?"
Dennis nods frantically, as much as he can with Robby's hand still clamping down on his neck and keeping his head on his lap. His eyes are red-rimmed as they gaze up at Jack, whimpers falling quietly but far more freely from his lips as he alternates between holding his breath and panting in desperate, gulping breaths.
"You've been tense and hurting for a long time, haven't you Dennis?" Robby murmurs, low and quiet into his ear. A sound a lot like a sob tears its way through Dennis' throat and he nods in frantic, undone agreement. His hips are faltering in their rhythm.
"And it's all built and built inside you until it all comes pouring out," Robby glides his fingers over the head of Dennis' cock, feels his whole body twitch, "in such naughty behaviour. So we're going to make sure you have a proper outlet for that, hmm? We're going to make sure you're nice and empty down here, so that head of yours can be quiet and fuzzy and relaxed."
Dennis is starting to let out urgent little sounds now, eyes glued to Jack, almost like he's making a distress call, begging Jack to answer, to give him what he needs.
"Robby-"
"He can come when he's remembered his manners."
"Please! Sir - please. Can I? I'll be good, I promise I'll be - be good."
Robby laughs at the sheer desperation, and Jack makes a lazy attempt to hide just how sweet he finds it. Robby raises his brows at Jack, shrugs at him.
"He's your puppy, not mine."
"Go ahead, Denny, let Robby get it all out of you."
The way Dennis curls violently around Robby's hand, the way he wails, open-mouthed and distraught, Jack almost thinks he's in mortal pain. He shudders and sobs and convulses in Robby's hand while the older man shushes him and gradually slows the action of the hand between his legs, while the one gripping Dennis' neck starts up a gentle palpating motion.
Jack feels compelled to reach over and stroke a hand down Dennis' narrow, shuddering back.
"Denny?"
A low, ruined sob is his only answer, and it pulls at Jack's hearstrings. He looks to Robby for approval, and a brief, fond nod is his only answer. He reaches down to haul Dennis up beneath his armpits, passing his limp, shuddering form easly over to Jack.
"Hey sweetheart." Jack rumbles into Dennis' ear, settling him against his chest, patting the muscles that still twitch. "Does it all feel a little less staticky now?"
An exhausted whine is the only sound the drifts up from the shuddering heap that is Jack's puppy, and Robby snorts fondly.
"Go put him to bed, before he does a header straight into the floor." Robby's wiping his hand off as he casts a fleeting look up at Jack. "When you come back, we can talk logistics for how this is all going to work."
“Have you ever thought about us putting each other on a hold?” Jack had asked him one night, many years ago.
The sun had long set below the horizon, leaving a low haze of rapidly cooling air blanketing the city. It was the first night they’d been able to sit on the roof comfortably all year, propping up the broken camping chairs they kept under a tatty strip of tarp, hidden from the janitor.
Robby chuckled, but didn’t reply, his thoughts pleasantly smudged by the cheap bottle of vodka that kept passing between them.
“You're fucking romantic, you know. Most couples talk about sex, or groceries, or…” He sighed deeply, a drunken lilt slurring his words, “...how the fuck am I supposed to know?”
As far as he remembered, it was a nice night.
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s what we are now. A couple.”
Robby shrugged. “I dunno what they’d call us. Everything else just seems… juvenile?”
There was a long pause. It wasn't often they were openly affectionate with each other. Not like this, anyway. The sex was just catharsis. This was intimate.
“That’s a long word, Robinavitch.”
Robby rolled his eyes and took another swig of vodka, grimacing slightly as it went down.
“Prick.”
Jack smiled gently. “That’s more like it.”
Robby thought about that night often. Sometimes it came to him in a nightmare; Jack’s face twisted into a grotesque shape as he leered over the bed Robby was tied to. Sometimes it was triggered by him putting a patient on a hold, wondering if they’d ever discussed it with their loved ones. Mostly, it came of its own fruition. The hours he spent in the dark, waiting for the mercy of sleep to take him under, replaying every mistake he’d ever made over and over and over until it became too much and he gave up on rest.
He thought back to that night now.
It seemed appropriate.
He knew there was only so far he could push it before someone snapped. He knew it would get to a point where someone would notice, and he was not in the least surprised when in the end it was Jack who saw through his bullshittery.
He just wished he’d had longer.
A drop landed on his paper trousers, and for the first time Robby realised he was crying. He smeared a hand across his face, catching the remaining cold tears on his sleeve.
It was not an unusual occurrence these days— to find himself crying. Stacks of paperwork with tear stains dismissed as water marks, falling asleep on a damp pillow night after night, and realising with disconnect that his cheeks were wet were all regular occurrences. It's not like there was any relief, it was just too much emotion spilling from an overflowing box.
He wished Jack could be here now.
He’d probably smile and say something stupid.
He’d probably forgive Robby for all those words he said earlier.
Not that he deserves it.
The doctor part of his mind cannot help but remain detached from his consciousness, reminding him that it’s not unusual for psych patients to lash out, that he’s in a vulnerable headspace, that severely depressed patients try to push away their loved ones to make suicide easier on them.
Every other part of his mind screams how much of a vile person he is, how he needs to kill himself because he cannot face the people he’s hurt, that they never should have to interact with him again. Every other part of his mind questions Caleb’s “diagnosis”, all their excuses for his abhorrent behaviour. Maybe if he was a better person, tried harder, saved more people, it might never have ended like this.
It’s times like these when Robby treasures that memory from all those years ago. Times like these when he simply cannot fathom a future for himself, so he clings to the past with all his might.
And tonight, curled between the bed and the wall, spine pressing into the bricks behind him, he can pretend, for just a moment, a fragile, fleeting moment, that tomorrow will never come.
“Have you ever thought about us putting each other on a hold?” Jack had asked him one night, many years ago.
The sun had long set below the horizon, leaving a low haze of rapidly cooling air blanketing the city. It was the first night they’d been able to sit on the roof comfortably all year, propping up the broken camping chairs they kept under a tatty strip of tarp, hidden from the janitor.
Robby chuckled, but didn’t reply, his thoughts pleasantly smudged by the cheap bottle of vodka that kept passing between them.
“You're fucking romantic, you know. Most couples talk about sex, or groceries, or…” He sighed deeply, a drunken lilt slurring his words, “...how the fuck am I supposed to know?”
As far as he remembered, it was a nice night.
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s what we are now. A couple.”
Robby shrugged. “I dunno what they’d call us. Everything else just seems… juvenile?”
There was a long pause. It wasn't often they were openly affectionate with each other. Not like this, anyway. The sex was just catharsis. This was intimate.
“That’s a long word, Robinavitch.”
Robby rolled his eyes and took another swig of vodka, grimacing slightly as it went down.
“Prick.”
Jack smiled gently. “That’s more like it.”
Robby thought about that night often. Sometimes it came to him in a nightmare; Jack’s face twisted into a grotesque shape as he leered over the bed Robby was tied to. Sometimes it was triggered by him putting a patient on a hold, wondering if they’d ever discussed it with their loved ones. Mostly, it came of its own fruition. The hours he spent in the dark, waiting for the mercy of sleep to take him under, replaying every mistake he’d ever made over and over and over until it became too much and he gave up on rest.
He thought back to that night now.
It seemed appropriate.
He knew there was only so far he could push it before someone snapped. He knew it would get to a point where someone would notice, and he was not in the least surprised when in the end it was Jack who saw through his bullshittery.
He just wished he’d had longer.
A drop landed on his paper trousers, and for the first time Robby realised he was crying. He smeared a hand across his face, catching the remaining cold tears on his sleeve.
It was not an unusual occurrence these days— to find himself crying. Stacks of paperwork with tear stains dismissed as water marks, falling asleep on a damp pillow night after night, and realising with disconnect that his cheeks were wet were all regular occurrences. It's not like there was any relief, it was just too much emotion spilling from an overflowing box.
He wished Jack could be here now.
He’d probably smile and say something stupid.
He’d probably forgive Robby for all those words he said earlier.
Not that he deserves it.
The doctor part of his mind cannot help but remain detached from his consciousness, reminding him that it’s not unusual for psych patients to lash out, that he’s in a vulnerable headspace, that severely depressed patients try to push away their loved ones to make suicide easier on them.
Every other part of his mind screams how much of a vile person he is, how he needs to kill himself because he cannot face the people he’s hurt, that they never should have to interact with him again. Every other part of his mind questions Caleb’s “diagnosis”, all their excuses for his abhorrent behaviour. Maybe if he was a better person, tried harder, saved more people, it might never have ended like this.
It’s times like these when Robby treasures that memory from all those years ago. Times like these when he simply cannot fathom a future for himself, so he clings to the past with all his might.
And tonight, curled between the bed and the wall, spine pressing into the bricks behind him, he can pretend, for just a moment, a fragile, fleeting moment, that tomorrow will never come.
i think s2 is just proof that yes, dennis is a brat, but someone *cough cough robby* had to teach him how to be one.
and what i specifically mean by that, is he was loved into being a brat.
he had to be taught that affection was not conditional and would never be taken away in instances of bad behaviour, and that in a functioning relationship, there is such a thing as "bad behaviour" because one person should not hold all the power.
he had to be taught that food was unconditional and limitless, and that shelter was a fucking human right, and he didn't have to exchange sex to be given a place in robby's bed.
robby had to manufacture a disagreement to prove that he would still be given all these things, even if they were not 110%, and that if they had an issue with the other, they could raise it with absolutely no consequences because once again, mutual loving relationships aren’t dependent on the mood of one person.
the first time they were in bed and dennis uttered "make me", robby had to completley pause and make sure dennis meant it in the bratty intended way, and not because he was legitimately uncomfortable.
since then, dennis had been an untempered force.
robby didn’t buy any dessert? boy does he know the puppy dog eyes are coming out, but the consequential dairy queen trip was no more than a coincidence. dennis wants robby to touch him more and more and more and “what do you mean sweetheart, i’ve already got my hand on you?” and the resounding “but robbyyyy” because dennis did in fact just want robby to squeeze him in a suffocatingly tight bear hug. on those days when robby had no choice but to pull a double, he knew dennis would give him grief when he got home and would do anything in his power to find a way round it (and if that was having a positive effect on his mental health, dennis needed to be none the wiser).
nowadays dennis is such a confident brat it was easy to forget about the shivering mouse he started out as. that is, until, occasionally robby will say something, and dennis will flinch imperceptibly. or when a patient starts shouting and dennis just stands there and takes it. or when snuggled into robby’s chest, nearly silent sniffles are accompanied by a dampening t-shirt.
because although dennis is a brat, he is a brat of robby’s making, a brat under robby’s love, and a brat because for the first time in his life, he feels safe enough to be one.
having a lot of feelings about this one :') something about him sleeping with his backpack in the first one (zipped up) and in the second one leaving the backpack on the ground (unzipped)
i didn’t send you, but this fic is one of, if not the most criminally underrated fic i think i’ve ever read, and i’ve read a lot of fucking fics. i’m not even going to tell you what it’s about because you all deserve the suspense, but it’s like dennis angst hucklerobby (not angsty between them specifically, but in that general direction lol)
sorry for the inbox spam this one is also angsty & patient death so beware idk and no pressure to write 🙂↕️
dennis being a service dog for a patient and maybe he senses something is wrong and thinks about fetching a doctor but the vitals are all fine and everyone’s busy with more immediate trauma patients. dennis closes his eyes and the patient codes
Service dog AU part 6
Sorry this took so long! Thank you so much for the prompt, I hope this sort of does it justice!
Dennis likes all the patients that want him around. He likes being able to help people on their very worst day, being able to soothe their fear and frustration. It never failed to make his tail waggle when he was settled in or against a patient’s bed, and their hands became steadier as they smoothed over his head or squeezed gently along his tail, and there were bonus points if his presence also managed to help friends and family. Often, Dennis would find a patient gently redirecting his attention to their spouse or parents or children, and Dennis was all too happy to either lean against them or sit unobtrusively wherever he fit, until they felt able to reach out and make hesitant contact.
Dennis tries not to pick favourites, but the time he secretly feels most valuable, most - most good is when he can help a patient who doesn’t have anyone to visit them. He never knows why, unless they decide to volunteer the information, and he doesn’t consider it necessary to know. All that matters to him is that someone is scared, sick, often in pain, and besides the doctors and nurses, they are alone.
Dennis will spend as long as he possibly can sitting with them; sometimes they like to chatter as much as they’re able, sometimes they want to listen to Dennis while he babbles happily about whatever comes to his mind. Sometimes they just want to hold Dennis in silence. That one hurts, because he feels like he wants to do more, but he takes comfort in the settling of the monitors attached to them, and reminds himself that it’s not about what he wants, or what he would find comforting.
Mr Wisheart is a chatterer, and Dennis is boldly unashamed in his favouritism.
He had only been with them for two days (Dennis had diverted himself to nuzzle against Robby’s neck after he had had a close-to-screaming row with Dr Underwood over staffing and bed shortages in the ICU), but if Dennis is being honest, he wouldn’t have minded spending all his patient time with the man. He would never want his other patients to suffer, and he loved them all. But Mr Wisheart made something in him feel hurt and soft and warm all at the same time.
He’s elderly, and his arms are frail when they wrap around Dennis when he invites him to curl up next to him in his bed. Princess smiles and makes jokes about Dennis’ puppy fat whenever Dennis has to roll around in order to get out of her way when she does her checks, and Mr Wisheart indulges Dennis’ dramatic whining by playing the role of the avid defender, making sure Dennis gets the treats - the ones they all denied carrying in their pockets even though he could smell them - he deserves as recompense.
He would be content to lean ‘against’ Mr Wisheart - he never puts his full or even partial weight against that frail body, but he would press his side gently against Mr Wisheart’s so they could both feel the warmth - and listen to the man’s stories all day if he could get away with it.
“And that old biddy used to waddle along to the fair with her store-bought crap - she didn’t even bother to peel the damn label off properly!” Dennis’ laughter wasn’t perhaps as quiet as he would have liked, his tail contributing its own silent amusement, and he presses his face a little tighter to Mr Wisheart’s chest to smother his chortling just a little. “And every year, those idiots gave her the blue ribbon for her ‘hand-made’ preserves, just because she was old and looked innocent, and liked to pretend she didn’t know what she was doing.”
He’d lost the battle against his own noises, and the sound that left him was an odd combination of yip and laughter, and as he stared up at Mr Wisheart’s eyes - watery and pale, but brimming with quieter delight at provoking the sounds - he feels like something small but important shifted. Something unseen and unheard, slipping somewhere else and vanishing, softly and suddenly.
He stiffened, and immediately forced himself to unwind and release the springs that felt like they had tightened. His eyes scoured Mr Wisheart’s face, and found nothing amiss. No frown, no tension or pain, unless you counted the remembered indignation at blue ribbons and little old ladies who had long ago passed on and were ‘defrauding all the saints and sinners’, according to Mr Wisheart.
“You alright there, boy?” Mr Wisheart’s face was impossibly soft as he looked down at where Dennis had wound his arms around his middle. He looked like he was seeing something that Dennis had forgotten he should remember.
“Yeah - yeah, of course!” He forced his tail to wag against their joined forms, beating softly against Mr Wisheart’s belly. The old man chuckled, setting his hand gently atop the wiggling appendage and watching it continue the good fight despite everything. “I’m sorry, I’m just - I think I’m just a little sleepy, that’s all. I need to annoy someone into taking me to the park later!”
He felt the laugh wheezing in the chest beneath his head, crackling against his ears. It was nothing particularly unusual for Mr Wisheart, and Dennis knew from the steady sounds of all the monitors and the knowledge that Robby had managed to quiz into him, that his vitals were stable. It still made his nose twitch and his eyes dart around the ER in search of Robby.
“Well, you know I’d be happy to take you if I were ten years younger and everything didn’t creak.” Dennis rubbed his head against Mr Wisheart’s chest, kneading his ears against the man’s hands when they came down to scrunch circles into them. “But the best I can do for you right now is a nap, if you’re sleepy. I may not be able to throw a ball around with you right now, but by god I can throw my weight behind a siesta.”
Dennis chuffed against Mr Wisheart’s chest, feeling it like a jolt from a shock collar when his eyes found Robby in the crowd at the nurses’ station.
When Robby eventually turned, his eyes caught Dennis’ like a loose thread snagging on a nail. Dennis kept his gaze and tried to squeeze every ounce of please, I don’t understand into the distance between them. Robby tilted his head ever so slightly, glancing between him and Mr Wisheart and contemplating for a moment, before sticking his hands in his pockets and calmly wending his way over to them in a way that made Dennis’ ears twitch.
“How are we doing over here, Mr Wisheart?” Dennis felt something in his body give way like permission, just a little bit, at the sound of the semi-lilting, almost playful gentleness that had become so familiar to Dennis that it was like listening to his own breathing. His tail wriggled where Mr Wisheart still held it trapped to the blanket.
“Oh, just peachy. I was just telling Dennis here that fetch in the park is a young man’s game.”
Dennis blushed, unease momentarily forgotten at the sound of Robby’s quiet laughter and those warm brown eyes crinkling at him.
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” Robby rumbles in quiet amusement at Dennis’ squirming. “I take him out every morning before our shift starts, and by the time we’re done, I want to go home and Dennis is asking if we can come back before the lunch rush.”
Dennis is making quiet sounds of mortification into Mr Wisheart’s hospital gown, turning his head to fix one baleful eye at Robby, who returns it with one of those stupid, obnoxious smiles as he reaches out to tweak the tip of Dennis’ closest ear.
“He’s got two modes; sleep, and bounce, and there’s very little in between.”
Dennis half-heartedly snaps his teeth at Robby’s fingers as they withdraw from toying with his ear. Robby kindly doesn’t mention that Dennis’ aim was off by a good five inches.
“Dr Abbot doesn’t seem to have the same trouble when he takes me out.”
“Dr Abbot is younger than me,” Robby returns without blinking. “And a veteran. And he plays pickleball in his spare time.” Robby’s face suggests that this is a singular and particularly distasteful character flaw which Robby has done the kindness of overlooking, at the expense of his very best judgement. “Dr Abbot and I are not the same.”
Dennis’ eyes, which had started truly drooping somewhere along the line, widen just a little at Robby, who blinks blandly back. Mr Wisheart snorts.
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a man doing that kind of thing for fun. But I am saying that you should look twice at someone who always needs to be that busy.”
Dennis doesn’t entirely catch what Robby says in response. He’s not sure what had got him so uptight, what had prompted the sudden urge to find Robby and have him here, but he allows himself to drift to the sound and feel of two rumbling voices and two sets of hands occasionally petting his ears.
-
The dark, comfortable warmth falls away from him in time with small, sudden movements, an uneven but not violent jostling, and the sound of voices and quickly-quieted beeping.
He’s aware of hands moving him, rolling him ever so slightly before they settle him back. He hears something crackle beneath his cheek, feels the still, warm surface he’s resting on.
All the sounds and touches fall together heavily, suddenly, and he yanks himself awake and up with an unadulterated yelp.
“It’s okay, Denny, it’s alright. You don’t need to move if you don’t want to.”
Robby’s voice, and it helps to ground him but for once it doesn’t settle him. Because he is standing above Dennis - Dennis and Mr Wisheart, whose eyes are closed and whose chest doesn’t rise anymore. Robby is standing at the bedside, eyes soft and fond, and there is pain there, but he is doing nothing. Princess watches on, and her eyes might be a little brighter than normal, but she’s not preparing any equipment, not reading out any vitals.
“Robby - Robby, he’s - help him, Robby.” He’s surprised Robby can understand him, for all that his words are almost swallowed by the whine clinging to the back of his throat.
But Robby must understand well enough, because he’s shaking his head and looking at Dennis like he’s the one in need of help.
“No, Dennis. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Robby’s voice is so soft, like it’s trying to cushion Dennis from where he feels like he’s falling from a great height. “Mr Wisheart had a POLST - do you remember what that is?”
Dennis nods, fast and frantic as though anything Robby says could change what Dennis’ body and nose are telling him now.
“He didn’t want any CPR to be performed, he didn't want to be intubated if he couldn't breathe, he didn't want any life-sustaining treatment at all. He only wanted comfort care, and I’d say you’ve done better than any of us have on that count.”
Dennis’ whole body trembles, ears pinned flat to his head as he looks at Robby like he might be speaking another language. He looks back down at Mr Wisheart for the first time since he had woken up alone in the bed.
“So he’s dead now.”
“Yes he is, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, nothing happens and everything just hangs in the moment, like dust motes caught in the sunlight.
Movement is sudden and violent, Dennis throwing himself off the bed and towards the door with a desperation that chokes him.
“I know, Denny, I know.” Robby’s voice is still low, pitched to the tone that usually soothes Dennis when his eyes are bright and his tail still. This time, though, it seems to have the opposite effect, as Dennis flinches back from the sound of it, his ears so low on his head that they almost disappear into his curls.
Dennis backs out of Mr Wisheart’s room, leaves Robby and Princess there to remain with the dead.
-
Robby gives Dennis as much time as it takes to check in with Princess and to ask Jesse help her with getting Mr Wisheart cleaned up.
“You going to check on Dennis?”
Robby nodded, casting his eyes around the ER in search of either soft ears or a throng of well-meaning staff members trying to soothe.
“Yeah, that’s my next stop. You see where he went?”
Jesse’s mouth tightens a little, and Robby’s stomach sinks in sympathy.
“I think he’s in his room, boss.”
And yeah, okay, that was…not the worst it could be. Dennis has never actually run out of the hospital or onto the roof unless it’s to find him or Jack, but Robby can’t pretend it’s not something that plays on his mind when Dennis seems overwhelmed by the weight of the world.
But usually, the only place that Dennis wants to be when he’s upset, when everything becomes too much and his tail drags heavily and his ears won’t stand up, is in his day bed underneath Robby’s workstation.
Sometimes, he squeezes himself in the space and then turns around so he’s facing the back of the cubby, and he can shuffle until his back is leaning against Robby’s shoes. Sometimes, Robby will crouch down and let Dennis piece his thoughts together, ask any questions he needs to, and Robby will provide answers if he can. He’d started to include Dennis on debriefs a while back, when it became obvious that Dennis was struggling to understand the whys and werefores; he was fiercely intelligent, but his own frame of reference was severely limited, and Robby had found that it had helped Dennis to slot things into place in his own mind.
Even when Dennis needs quiet, he prefers to have it around other people. He likes his small, enclosed spaces to be where people gather, somewhere he can curl up and be ignored by the people surrounding him and continuing on with their day. He likes quiet, not space.
Dennis has seen death before. It always upsets him, and he always needs time to process. Sometimes he does that by murmuring quietly up to Robby from his desk cubby, the occasional soft interjections that sometimes come twenty, thirty minutes apart and which Robby always makes sure to pause his admin work to address. Sometimes, he doesn’t want to say anything at all, he just wants to sit next to Robby while he charts, or follow Robby more closely when he makes his rounds.
If he’s retreating to the on-call room the hospital administration gave him, there’s something else happening that Robby has failed to factor into the equation.
Dennis’ door is closed, which Robby had also not planned for. He takes a breath, expelling the surprise and building unease on the exhale, knocking softly twice.
“Dennis?” Almost-silence, shifted only by the soft sound of brief movement. “Dennis, can I come in?”
Nothing, and Robby has to hold himself back from pressing his ear against the door.
“Can we talk about it, Denny? I don’t - if you don’t want me to come in then I don’t have to.” Robby glances around at the ever-present movement that cycles around all the department like its lifeblood. It wasn’t how he preferred to have these conversations, but -
“We can talk through the door, if that’s what makes it easier for you.”
“Please go away, Dr Robby.”
Small words, frayed and frail and wet, and they make something in Robby’s stomach pull like he’s missed a step. It’s a request he’s never heard Dennis make, and he’s never been less sure of himself.
“Dennis, I don’t think that’s something I can do right now.” Gentle, because nobody likes being told they don’t know what’s in their best interests.
“Please, Dr Robby.”
The entreaty mingles with Dana’s voice echoing through the department.
“Level one trauma, ETA two minutes.”
He allows himself the brief second to rest his head against the door and close his eyes.
“Okay.” His voice creaks like old, dry twigs. “I have to get that, Dennis. But when I’m finished, I’m going to come right back here, okay? You don’t need to do anything. I’ll come find you.”
-
By the time Robby has made it back to Dennis’ door - still shut - he feels like he made that promise days ago. He is surprised by how steady his fingers are on the door handle.
“Dennis? I’m coming in now, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, opening the door with the narrowest gap possible to allow himself to slip inside. He sits on the bed that Dennis isn’t using, because he’s stripped it of the sheets and shoved them, and himself, into the corner between the bed and the cheap, chipped nightstand.
“Can I touch you?”
Dennis whines, because Robby will never actually need to ask that of him, even though he might never know that.
“Is that a yes? I need you to start using your words for me, just a little bit.”
“Yes.”
Robby’s hand is beyond gentle when it settles on the back of his head, not moving or petting, just cupping carefully, like he thinks it might be in danger of bleeding.
“Mr Wisheart seemed like a very sweet man.”
“It was my fault.”
Robby’s words are barely out of his mouth before Dennis’ choked, wet confession spills out of his lips like this is his last chance.
Robby likes to think that one of the benefits of doing the job for as long as he has is that he’s never caught off guard anymore. He has seen and heard and smelled it all. Every hour of every working day, he has been there for the worst day of someone’s life. He has seen colleagues both thrive and fail, burn out and
triumph, and he’s seen them leave quietly or leave permanently. He didn’t think he was capable of being shocked anymore.
And yet, it still takes him five full seconds to process what Dennis has said. Another five to take Dennis’ wet, cold face in both hands and direct him - gently, urgently - to look at him.
“Dennis.” God, he’s never seen him so miserable, so truly and utterly despondent, and it makes something between his ribs feel fragile. “Keep your eyes on me while you talk, okay? I know, I know, but I need you to do this for me. Take as many deep breaths as you need. And then tell me why you think it’s your fault.”
Dennis’ lip wobbles as he struggles to follow Robby’s instructions rather than immediately letting all the words try to fall out at the same time and get stuck between his teeth. He takes a deep breath, and Robby can tell that it’s perfunctory, but that’s fine, because in his experience performance usually becomes need fairly quickly.
Sure enough, soon Dennis’ breathing does something that can’t truly be called evening out, but it’s no longer the frantic, unsteady rhythm it was when he first walked in.
“I smelled it.” A frown, his ears twitching and lips tightening in frustration. “Or I - I didn’t…I don’t even know if it was a smell, or - or something else.”
Robby nods, calm, holding Dennis’ gaze as it desperately searches his own for some borrowed understanding.
“Was it any of the normal smells you’re trained to alert to? Anything else you’d recognise?”
“No!” Sharp, pained, and Robby smooths his restlessly twitching ears until they settle. “No - of course not!”
He growls slightly, a small and desperately frustrated sound that most people in the department probably wouldn’t think him capable of making. Robby aches for the confusion and pain that he hears in it.
“I don’t even know what it was, I just - something wasn’t right.” Tears finally spill down his cheeks, over Robby’s fingers, and he gently wipes them away where they pool under Dennis’ eyes. “Something wasn’t right and I - I let him - I let him pet me and talk to me about old ladies that cheat at country fairs, and walks, and playing fetch, and I - I fell asleep.”
God. Robby thinks something in him breaks just a little bit in sympathy with the self-loathing he hears in Dennis’ voice.
“Okay.” He keeps his voice low and calm, because this isn’t about him. He gives Dennis a moment or two to hear the words and register them. “Okay. I hear you, Dennis. I hear you. I’m going to talk now, and I need you to listen to me, without interrupting. Can you do that?”
A whine, Dennis wiggling in discomfort and looking away from him, stealing glances back towards him until he realises that Robby is serious and won’t let this go. He nods his head.
“Good boy.” He pauses, gives himself a moment to collect his own thoughts into something coherent, something suitable to deliver.
“There is no medical process or failure in this hospital that will ever be your fault. Shh, I’m not done.”
Fingers easing over Denni’s tense ears as he trembles with the effort of following instructions.
“You are not a doctor, or a nurse, or anyone who is responsible for providing medical treatment to the patients here. You are a pivotal part of my team, and you provide an invaluable service. But you’re not the one responsible for evaluating, diagnosing, testing, or treating. Ultimately, as the chief of this department, all of that falls under my remit. I am responsible for my patients, and the patients that my doctors and nurses treat. That will only ever be on me.”
Here he pauses, looks down at Dennis, and - and he smiles. It’s fond and sad and it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it hurts Dennis to look at.
“Dennis. Do you think I didn’t run all the tests that I could? Do you think I didn’t exhaust all the treatment options we had?” Dennis shook his head, filled with horror at the thought that he would ever even consider Robby’s failure as an option. “Do you think I didn’t have that conversation with Mr Wisheart?”
Dennis stopped, and something within him crumpled like paper, but felt like glass on the way down. Robby’s smile was still so tender, and it hurt to look at.
“What you felt? Whether it was a smell, or something harder to define, or just a feeling?” Dennis’ chest felt full, felt tight like something was wriggling around in it.
“Dennis, sometimes that’s what death can feel like to the people around it, just before it happens.” A horrible, thin, high-pitched sound starts to escape from the back of Dennis’ throat, and Robby lets it happen, doesn’t quiet him or scold him for it, and doesn’t get awkward and let it silence him.
“And there are scientific explanations and studies for some of it. There are peer-reviewed papers on the sensitivity of hybrids to changes in scents, in chemical and hormonal balances. There are studies that I can give you access to, if you’d like to learn some more about how your body and brain makes sense of death. It might help you understand what you’re feeling a little better.”
Dennis is almost doubled over on himself, tail held close to his body, hands gripping onto it like a lifeline, and Robby can’t do anything other than open his arms and softly click his tongue.
“Come here, Dennis. Come on, sweetheart.”
Dennis’ hands and knees are bony and seem to stick and poke into all of Robby’s soft parts as he launches himself into his lap. His strange little half-claws, which Robby has always been oddly fond of, catch in his shirt where Dennis fiercely winds his arms around his chest and clings. He’s significantly smaller than Robby but still just a little too big to truly comfortably fit on his lap, more of an ungainly tangle of limbs than anything else, but Robby has never been more grateful to feel minor physical discomfort.
“There’s always going to be a point where we’ve done everything we can, and the only thing left to do is be there, make them comfortable, try to make sure they’re not scared.”
Dennis whimpers into Robby’s chest, clings harder, takes a big gulp of air in the crook of Robby’s neck. Robby leans down closer to Dennis, makes it easier for him to nudge his head against Robby’s in something more akin to a gentle, desperate headbutt.
“You’ve done something that I’m not good at Dennis, something I’ve always struggled with. You gave Mr Wisheart something so incredibly important, something that very few people can do. And I’m just so very sorry that I didn’t explain his condition to you beforehand, make sure you were prepared. I’m sorry we haven’t had a conversation about how you experience patient deaths before now. I owe you more than I’ve given you, and we can talk about how we handle that tomorrow, but for now, how about you tell me what you need, hmm?”
Dennis’ gasping breaths are slowing, becoming softer and less laboured where they crash against Robby’s neck. There is no longer a faint, distant whine shadowing his every exhale. His tail gives one, miniscule twitch against Robby’s belly.
“Just stay. Please.”
It’s the easiest thing this place will ever ask of Robby.
Trinity who (on the advice of her therapist) tries to find an alternative outlet when the scalpel calls to her. Tries so many things, 3am workouts, ice packs, journalling.
Trinity who finally lands on baking. Keeps her hands moving, has to focus enough to measure accurately, has to wait watching cakes rise for 25 minutes through the oven door, crossed-legged on the kitchen floor. Will be there as dawn breaks pulling out a sheet of cookies.
Everyone in the Pitt loves her baking. She brings in muffins, banana bread, bibingka. Smiles are thrown her way every time, words of thanks between bites.
Except Baran, who watches as Trinity drops three tins of baked goods onto the break room counter one morning, early enough no one else is around. Who steps close to her, gently pushes her hair back from her face where it's fallen out of her ponytail. Who rubs her thumb, once, twice, over Trinity's cheek.
Guys I watched one TikTok (real questionable that these are on my fyp in the first place) and now I’m like going insane at the idea of tactical hybrid Jack trained for combat who gets adopted post service by Robby and he’s a real soft dog at heart yanno? Pathetic soft combat trained mutt who learns he has value
Im thinking about this a lot actually, because writing MSDD is making me think of the differences between Dennis and Jack's experiences of being hybrids in the military complex. Would obviously be a slightly different world, but I'm thinking Jack joins at a point where hybrids are dehumanised but in a very different way, it's not sexual like Dennis, but he is a combat mutt you know? His senses are slightly different from humans and he's trained in specialist ways, and yeah- he's given medic training and all that, he's very competent they don't deny that, but smart dogs can be trained well with repetitive tasks and rewards right? Thats the attitude. He's treated is as a combat animal not a person. Like they'll let Jack patch them up in the field but not sit at the table with them, or talk to them, and will mess with him until he snaps with his slightly more canine teeth because it's funny to muzzle him. Just, military men being dickheads you know? Ironically, he's not enough of both things, not human enough to be one of the men, not dog enough to be a mans best friend. So he's routinely treated as this fucked up half-mutt.
So Jack learns to be hard, to take it, to growl and snap when people try and mess with him. To growl at the other (real) dogs when they make him sleep with them because it's funny to deny Jack his bed. When they make him fight for scraps with them. He only really uses his voice to talk when he's assessing peoples injuries, because he's learn thats what's accepted of him.
And slowly, attitudes are changing. Hybrid science is becoming better understood, but like a lot of things, the military is slow to follow, so for most of Jack's service he's constantly and routinely dehumanised helping fight a war he didn't sign up for (it wasn't his choice to join). To the point he's more often than not routinely muzzled. His belgian malinois ears big and pointed out the side of his combat helmet, one of them with a chunk out near the top where it got grazed with a bullet. (He refused to whine in front of his team, but alone later he'd whined himself softly to sleep- kicking away one of the German Shepards that tried to comfort him).
All this to say- after the IED, Jack's reintegration into civilian society is not easy. He's in pain and he hurts and he snaps and growls at people who come near him- the doctors keep him mostly sedated during those early days. When he's required to talk, it's short and clipped and he's confused when the doctors smile at him and let him stay in the bed. He's even more confused when he sees a hybrid visiting a friend, and she's chatting away, her tail wagging as they shriek and laugh, and she's complaining about her co-workers as if it's normal that she- a hybrid- has a job like a real human woman. Thats inconceivable to Jack- who's main concern is that someone should be putting him down, anytime now, because what use is he anymore?
And the military obviously have no real support system for discharged hybrids. Theres no support packages, the VA is off limits to him, and he's not getting a prosthetic. No he's just left, told they've covered his medical bills, and his contract has ended, thanks for your service, mutt. But then a nice nurse, a nurse he growls at when she gets too close, hands him a leaflet about a hybrid-vetran association charity in Pittsburgh, and asks if he would like to be put in touch with them. Well, it's not like he has any other options is it? He nods.
What follows is a truly awful year of physio, learning how to use his prosthetic, and bounding around placements because he's too difficult for people to handle. Jack knows he's a bad mutt. He was told it constantly, so it's no surprise to him that he's not wanted. That also seems to upset the people at the H-VA, which Jack doesn't understand. It's like they want to pretend he's a human, but he's not. His teeth are too sharp and don't they know he bites?
Eventually, when Jack's regressing even further into his dog-like tendencies, they assign him to a doctor- Dr. Michael Robinavitch.
Robby is apparently quite a Big Name in the hybrid-equality spheres. (Jack later finds out that Robby has both a bleeding heart, and a hybrid mother- a mother who society turned their back on and started a series of events that left Robby to be raised with his grandmother). A heavyweight publisher in hybrid-medicine journals and a large donator to the H-VA.
Jack assumes he's really in the shit, if they're sending him to the big dogs.
Except, instead of leashes and a firm hand, he's faced with big brown compassionate eyes. Instead of being treated like a dog or a human, Robby helps him adapt to being what he is- a hybrid. Robby calls him a roommate too, and a friend, rather than his ward. Jack finds he quite likes these distinctions Robby makes.
The first time he lashes out, he feels the guilt swallow him whole and for the first time in years he cries and whimpers, soft and pitiful. Because really, at his heart, Jack is not a violent dog. He doesn't know why he bites.
ANYWAYS something like that? Thinking about a one shot after MSDD is completed
nope i can’t fucking deal with it i had to sleep on the kitchen floor last night because i live in a fucking terrace on the top floor and it was the only cool room in the house i legitimately need someone to kill me right now i swear to god
editing this to say i’ve just checked met office and not only is it 29° in MAY there’s a THUNDERSTORM WARNING AHHHHHH SHOOT ME SHOOT ME SHOOT ME
another update with slightly good news because it’s going to be 15 degrees tonight?!?? hello??! i’m actually a bit happy! it got down to 26° last night i might actually sleep lmao
Hear me the fuck out. Noah Wyle is ADHD and it bleeds through with his stimming. That man is physically incapable of standing still. Rocking, shifting, drumming...
And Robby does it all. Plus that boy thrives in the chaos of a trauma room. The more hectic, the more his brain gets the happy pats and quiets down. It's where his anxiety is forced to take a backseat. Where his depression is told to shut the fuck up. All the negative voices are pushed behind a line because the dopamine is dopamining and there's so much going on that there's no room for the other fuckery his brain is trying to drag to the front.
Gimme a Robby on Vyvanse who doesn't feel the hunger at all during the day but is ravenous once the meds wear off and he's home.
A Robby who is on a high enough dose that he's on his fucking A Game but still stims because it doesn't fix everything and he's getting dysregulated the more his mental health declines so the stimming is increasing.
Gimme a Robby who forgets to take his meds one day and the ED gets to see the full goblin that he is just ping ponging so over the place because no matter what he's still brilliant, he just can't focus on one thing at a time right now but as soon as a trauma comes in he can LOCK THE FUCK IN.
A Robby with hyperfixations.
A Robby who talks Jack's ear off about said hyperfixations. But once they're done he never mentions them again.
He'll eat the same thing for every single meal for three months in a row and then all of a sudden be repulsed by it.
A Robby with such horrible Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria that Dana often has to step in and redirect his brain and it doesn't always work.
A Robby that can't ever seem to get paperwork in on time.
A Robby that's always early because he's so terrified of being late because of his time blindness that he arrives for his shift at 6am and ends up sitting in the park panicking still that he'll miss it (he never does. Dana or Jesse usually grab him).
A Robby that has always been a reader because THAT holds his attention as long as he is interested in the book but it will literally CONSUME him to the point that he'll read the whole thing in one night and needs Jack to physically take it out of his hands and tell him to go to bed.
A Robby that knows just enough about so many topics. Has doom boxes filled with abandoned hobbies. Impulse control with money. A Robby that, when he gets into a topic, won't shut up, but is so self-conscious about it that he's become a master of masks.
Forgetting his meds is like ripping that mask off and he doesn't know what to do with himself.
ziggie’s in the pitts @greatsluginthesky - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
