hold my hand?

rabbot WIP I am so excited about and having so much fun with... and I wanna draw some more pitt ships soon aghhh

So, structurally, it's really about coming in with one resolute idea, which is, I'm excited to go on the sabbatical, and this is my last day, and I can't wait to get out of here. And then as the day goes on, you just start to chip away at that resolve and show that the more, the closer you get to the door, the closer you're coming to face your own mortality. And as people get more and more desperate, they get less and less graceful. So I wanted his behavior to seem a bit more erratic, sometimes volatile, sometimes petty, sometimes mean, sometimes challenging, but very out of character for him, where you could reverse engineer all of that pathology and go, oh, look at that.

He didn't know how to ask for help, but he's screaming, somebody stop me. Somebody ask me about my behavior. Somebody put me on a hold, you know. And then ultimately, you know, everybody tries. Langdon tries, Abbot tries, Dana tries, and they do begin to kind of, I think, get through to him that this is a community of people that really have a vested interest in him staying alive and being part of this community.

And then what we've been sort of building to, I'm not being very articulate about this, is that the original wound that we've shown in season one, this loss of mentor that died during Covid, that was the catalyst for his breakdown, was not the original wound. He's predisposed to abandonment because of how he was wired young and went into this line of work because he wanted to save people he couldn't save.

And so here you are in the room where you lost your mentor, where you lost your son's girlfriend, and you're holding another abandoned innocent who's about to face a very similar road that you faced. And in that, what is your advice to this innocent? That they should get a motorcycle and not a helmet, or hang on, there's gonna be some beautiful things to see and some things worth hanging around for.”

- Noah Wyle

Awards Chatter: Noah Wyle - 'The Pitt', Jun 9, 2026

She got the idea for the study while walking with her advisor at Stanford to discuss her thesis topic, and the paper she eventually published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology in 2014 is sharp enough that it should have ended the seated meeting on the day it came out.

She ran 4 experiments on 176 people. Same person tested twice. Once sitting, once walking. The creativity tasks were the standard ones psychologists have used for decades to measure how good a brain is at generating novel useful ideas.

81% of participants in the first experiment produced more creative ideas while walking than while sitting. In the second experiment, 88%. In the third, 100%. Every single person walked into a more creative version of themselves. On average, people generated 60% more novel useful ideas the moment their legs started moving.

The skeptical question is the obvious one. Maybe it was the fresh air. Maybe it was the scenery passing by. Maybe it was the change of environment doing the work, not the walking itself.

Oppezzo killed every one of those explanations with one experimental decision. She put people on a treadmill facing a blank wall. No scenery. No fresh air. No environmental change. Just legs moving in place while staring at white drywall. The 60% boost held.

Then she ran the experiment that closed the case completely. She took participants outside in two conditions. Half of them walked through a Stanford courtyard. The other half were pushed through the exact same courtyard in a wheelchair. Same outdoor stimulation. Same scenery passing at the same speed. The only difference was whether the legs were moving.

The walkers produced dramatically more novel high-quality ideas than the wheelchair group. The outdoors did almost nothing on its own. The walking did everything.

She also tested the opposite kind of thinking. Convergent thinking. The kind where there is one right answer and you have to narrow down to it. Word puzzles where 3 words share a hidden fourth word that connects them. The seated participants did slightly better on these. Walkers got slightly worse.

Walking is not a general intelligence enhancer. It does one specific thing. It opens up the divergent search inside your brain. The part that generates options. The part that produces unexpected connections. The part that takes a problem and finds five ways into it instead of one.

When you need to converge on the single right answer, sit down. When you need to find the answer in the first place, get up.

The mechanism is now well understood. Walking selectively activates what neuroscientists call the default mode network, the system inside your brain that runs when you are not consciously focused on anything. The DMN is where mind-wandering happens. Where memories cross-reference each other. Where ideas that have been sitting in separate folders inside your head finally bump into each other.

When you sit at a desk and force yourself to concentrate, you suppress the DMN. When you walk at a natural pace, the executive part of your brain gets just busy enough handling the walking that the DMN comes online and starts doing the work that focus was blocking.

The most useful finding in the entire paper is the one almost nobody quotes. The boost did not turn off the moment people stopped walking. Participants who walked first and then sat back down stayed elevated. Their next round of seated creativity work was still significantly better than people who had been sitting the whole time. The rest lingered for at least several minutes after the legs stopped moving.

You do not need to do creative work while walking. You need to walk before the creative work. The brain holds the state.

Jack rubs his eyes until stars dance in his vision.

He’s lost it. He’s finally cracked. After decades of emergency medicine, Jack Abbot has lost his goddamn mind to the point of hallucinating, because there is no way in hell what he just saw was real.

His name, in his very own squashed, chicken-scratch handwriting, sprawled in an arch over Michael Robinavitch’s right hip.

Of all the things he expected to happen today, Robby getting sprayed with an unfortunate bodily fluid and having to change his scrubs wasn’t high on the list, but it’s not entirely out of left field. However, seeing a soulmark on him was.

Jack recounts every time he’s seen Robby change before. There’s not many. Unlike Jack, who happily strips wherever is convenient, Robby tends to maintain his dignity by finding somewhere private before taking anything off.

He should leave it alone. Jack only caught a quick glimpse before it was covered again, and he easily could have misread what it said. It might not even be a soulmark; Robby has plenty of voluntary tattoos, he might have gotten another and didn’t feel the need to share it with Jack.

But the script nags at him. Jack has signed his name thousands of times; he likes to think he knows his own writing, and, he’s seen it before, nestled under his wife’s breast that he would trace and cherish every day until he lost her.

The scar etches itself in Jack’s mind as permanently as it is settled in Robby’s skin.

He lasts a month before the bubble brewing in his chest bursts. “Hey, Mike. Got a minute?”

Robby turns around, exhausted. He’d already given up a full day off to help out with the night shift; Jack is certain the last thing he wants is for this to be brought up, but he can’t resist any longer. He’s been staring at the hem of Robby’s scrub top all night, hoping it would raise enough for him to get another look, but his undershirt kept getting in the way.

“Yeah,” Robby rubs a hand over his face. “What’s up?”

“Uh.” The bright hospital lights blind him. “Not here. Walk with me.”

Robby frowns, but follows. Once they’re a safe distance away, Jack tugs uncomfortably on his backpack strap. He forces the churning in his stomach to relax enough for him to speak.

“I, uh, if I’m wrong, I’m really fucking sorry, and we can just forget this whole thing,” he starts. “But it’s really been eating at me, man, so I gotta ask.”

Robby stares expectantly. “Well?”

“A few weeks ago, I saw something on your hip.” All the color drains from Robby’s face, and he takes a wonky step back. “I might’ve misread it,” Jack rushes out.

A trembling hand massages the lines decorating Robby’s forehead. “Jesus Christ.”

“I might’ve misread it,” Jack repeats weakly.

“You know you didn’t,” Robby’s gruff voice shakes the ground beneath them.

An eerie silence settles between them. Jack rocks back and forth on his feet, keeping a nervous eye on Robby. He wouldn’t put it past him to bolt and never be seen again.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Jack starts, tentatively. “And I don’t think it’d be a bad idea.”

The wrinkles on Robby’s face deepen. “What?”

“We get along, and you’re a handsome guy—“

“No,” Robby barks. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—“

“No!” Robby’s white face blooms with red splotches. “Don’t do that. Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not!” Jack insists. “I think we’d be good together.” He points toward the hospital, “We make a great team, and I like guys—“

“Don’t tell me that,” Robby’s voice cracks. He takes another step back, his head shaking frantically. “I don’t want to know that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s like you’re…” Robby inhales a shaky breath. “You’re close, but out of reach, and I don’t want you getting closer when I still can’t have you.”

“But that’s what I’m saying, Mike, you can. We can; we could have a real go at this.”

Robby’s bottom lip quivers, “No.”

“Why not?” Jack can think of worse fates than waking up next to Robby every morning.

A hard sniff rings through the air. “Do you have my name?” He asks. “Or just hers?”

Instinctually, Jack’s hand raises to trace the name embedded on the back of his neck. For a lot of his life, he despised that it was impossible for him to see directly; after his soulmate died, he was grateful that it didn’t mock him every time he got dressed or looked in the mirror. Now, he wonders how often he’s turned around under the pressure of Robby’s gaze, thinking he was trying to get his attention, when really Robby was willing the writing to change to match his own.

“I know you don’t have mine,” Robby’s wet voice burns Jack’s ears. “You would’ve said something by now.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be together.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Jack reels. “I wasn’t lying before, I like you.”

“Well, I love you.” Tears shine in Robby’s eyes. “Known each other for fifteen years, Jack. You’re my soulmate. I’m past ‘like.’”

“I love you too.”

“Stop.”

“I’m not saying that I’m in it the way you are. Not yet, but I could be. I know I could. You’re a great man.”

“I don’t want my soulmate to have to learn to love me.”

“That’s not what I meant—“

“If she didn’t have your name, would you have married her?”

“That’s…” different, he wants to say. But it isn’t.

The tears streak Robby’s cheeks in a feeble path. “I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m never going to have the real soulmate love everyone else gets. It’s not going to be any easier holding your hand,” he laughs bitterly.

“It might be,” Jack says.

“Live some fantasy, knowing you’ll never love me as much as I love you? Waking up every day knowing that, at best, I’m the second greatest love of your life?” Robby’s head shakes in a violent twitch. “Sounds like torture.”

“We could make it work.”

A cruel laugh breaks from Robby’s throat. “I’d rather be friends. Fuck. I’d rather be strangers.”

Jack fidgets uncomfortably with the tag hanging from his bag strap. He doesn’t want that. No matter what name, or lack of, is on his skin, he’ll always be grateful to have Robby in his life.

“The day I met you was the happiest day of my life,” Robby tells the sidewalk. “And then you turned around, and I found out you were married. Jesus, Jack. You have no idea. I wanted to die.”

Jack’s own eyes begin to sting with guilt.

Robby wipes his face, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Jack chokes. “Whatever I can do to help; anything you want, Mike. I swear.”

“Start by calling me Robby,” he says. All the fight has drained from his voice; only miserable acceptance remains. “Like everyone else.”

rabbot dancing in their kitchen yippie!!!!! (in my mind they are dancing to the german song „Sommerregen“ (summer rain)!)

~ Song and Details under the cut ~

The Pitt cast at Season 2 Emmy FYC Event

More videos and photos on my Instagram

For Robby, each hug stays with him for much longer than he knows it should. They touch something deep within him that he tries to bury day in, day out.

For Robby, each hug is like a reminder to himself that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how hard he fights, he is still broken. Beyond repair.

To Jack, they're everything.

To Jack, they serve as a way to connect with the one person he couldn't bear to lose anymore.

To Jack, they're a reminder, a fucking neon sign screaming: This one. It's been this one for so long!!!

To Jack, they feel like the one time Robby doesn't actively try to slip through his fingers. Stops performing. Stops being Chief Attending Robby and truly becomes Michael Robinavitch. Something that Jack has learned to treasure more than most other things.

To Jack, every hug is practice for the one he's terrified he won't get to give anymore. The one that would be too late.

Robby knows the second he walks into the ED that Jack’s leg is bothering him.

His gait is unbalanced, and his face screws nastily when he lands on his foot wrong. Everyone else has likely written it off as building irritation from the past twelve hours, but Robby knows better. Not ever Jack’s beaming face can hide it from him.

“Hey, Mikey,” Jack says when he spots him. “What’re you doing here?”

“Woke up unfortunately early for my day off. Decided to walk here, thought maybe we could get breakfast after you hand off.”

“That sounds great. Let me—“

“Oh, no,” Robby shakes his head. “We’re going home.”

“Wha—“ Jack throws his hands out, mock-offended. “You can’t tease me with a date, then say it’s not happening.”

“If you took proper care of your leg, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

Jack’s smile flattens into an unimpressed line. “We’ve been over this. I have to wear it at work. Crutches and the chair take up too much space for what we’re dealing with.”

“Sure, but you don’t just wear the leg to work—“

“Work outs are easier when—“

“And that’d be fine, but you’re already wearing it more than you should just by being on shift. Something's got to give. You can’t be on it for 14 hours a day, every day.” Robby snatches Jack’s bag from under the desk and digs around for his keys.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Hm.”

“It’s been worse.”

“Oh,” Robby laughs. He swings the key ring around one finger. “I’ll keep that excuse in mind the next time you’re worried about me.”

Jack huffs. “Let me do the hand off,” he grumbles.

His leg must be bothering him worse than Robby thought, because on their way to the parking lot, he hooks their elbows together and gives too much of his weight to Robby to hold for it to be strictly romantic. He doesn’t even refuse help getting into the passenger seat.

The desire to tell Jack to take the prosthetic off while they're in the truck itches at Robby's chest, but he keeps his mouth shut. Jack is being shockingly receptive to help, and the last thing Robby needs is for him to get defensive again.

He offers a hand to help Jack out of the car, but doesn't make a fuss when it's ignored, no matter how much he'd like to. "How do you feel about a bath?"

That perks him up a little. "With you?"

It'll be a tight fit, but Robby has had to squeeze into worse places. Better to be cuddled close with his husband than bumping shoulders with another doctor every five seconds while they rush around a new trauma. "Sure."

Immediately, Jack picks up the pace.

"Slow down," Robby calls after him.

Jack waves him off and manages to get up the stairs to their front door in record time. Robby grimaces at the extra pressure that must have put on his knee. "Come on. Open the door."

"You need to relax."

"I'm fine."

He's not fine. His residual limb is rubbed raw, with a large, ugly pink mark near his scar. "Christ, Jack."

"It's not a big deal."

"It looks like road rash."

"Well, it's not." Jack bites. “I don’t need you to baby me.”

“I’m not babying you—“

Jack leans from his spot on the closed toilet and starts up the bath water. The echo from the walls of their guest bathroom hides Robby’s sigh. He taps his fingers on the counter and excuses himself to get towels.

Robby buries his face in the soft cotton. He wants to be frustrated with Jack; he is, but he knows he shouldn’t be because he’s just as much of an ass when Jack’s the one with concerns.

On his way back to the bathroom, Robby’s eye catches a photo mounted on the wall. Framed in a handsome mahogany is Jack signing their marriage license. Robby is sitting at his side, smiling brighter than the sun, his name already stamped proudly on the paper. He traces his finger over Jack’s frozen figure; his precious curls had only just begun to grey at his temples, the stress of the past 45 years finally catching up with him.

When Robby returns to the bathroom, Jack is already sitting in the bath, looking lonely.

“Can I still join?”

Jack splashes the water in front of him. “I’m never gonna complain about having you in my lap.”

Once Robby is stripped and settled against Jack’s chest, he lets the rhythmic pattern of his husband’s breath calm him.

“I don’t ever mean to imply that you can’t handle yourself,” Robby says. “But I can see when you’re hurting, and I hate it.”

Jack kisses his temple. “I know, but I don’t know how to fix it. Not wearing it isn’t an option most of the time.”

“I get that,” Robby whispers. Jack adjusts under him, and the raw flesh under his knee lands on Robby’s thigh. He pets around it delicately. “But I’d still like to see you hurting less.”

Jack takes in a deep breath and latches his right arm across Robby’s chest, resting his hand above Robby’s tattoo. Robby takes the opportunity to bury his nose in the crook of Jack’s elbow, letting his cheeks be smushed by his muscles. He loves being close like this; he wishes they could do it more frequently and under more pleasant circumstances.

“I’ll talk to my doctor about getting a new one,” Jack offers. “This one’s going on four years, and I abuse the hell out of it.”

Robby’s soft chuckle vibrates through his bicep.

Jack continues, “Maybe one of those fancy cooling liners.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Being able to go out to breakfast would be nice.”

Robby tilts his head and presses a quick kiss to Jack’s chin. “Take a nap, and maybe I’ll treat you to lunch.”

Jack relaxes back against the porcelain. “Wake me up if I start to drown.”

Noah Wyle at The Pitt Season 2 Emmy FYC Event

More videos and photos on my Instagram.

rabbot dancing in their kitchen yippie!!!!! (in my mind they are dancing to the german song „Sommerregen“ (summer rain)!)

~ Song and Details under the cut ~