When things get hard, Jack’s therapist has a habit of reminding him that going back to basics is smart, thoughtful, and kind. Jack’s rarely in the mood to hear it, but he gets it—gets that he has to do the ordinary shit, like drink enough water, if he wants to do the more complicated stuff, like figure out his fucking life. But it’s beyond irritating to have to care about putting actual meals in his face rather than inhaling a bag of Doritos before he crashes into bed at night. Annoying, if he’s honest.
There’s a chance the annoyance is displaced, he grants, but fuck it, he’s feeling his feelings.
Thing is, when Jack looks at Robby, when he sees him trying to find calm and quiet inside himself, enough to get through a shift now his sabbatical’s done, he wants to pass on the advice. Drink some fucking water, man. Go take a leak. Eat more than a protein bar. Does Robby even know what sleep is? The man has his own therapist now, one who’s stuck with it despite Robby’s no-doubt pugilistic attitude, and Jack’s pretty sure the ‘back to basics’ stuff is the kind of thing all therapists cover as a matter of rote. Still, Robby doesn’t seem to be doing any of it. It makes Jack want to climb the walls.
So he does something about it. Makes a point of buying Robby a really great water bottle, with all the mod cons water bottles offer these days, and sticks a label on it that says “use me, you dipshit.” (A similar bottle shows up two days later with a label that says “physician, heal thyself.” Fucking smartass.) Jack starts making himself a meal before he comes on shift, just so that he can put the leftovers in a plastic box and hand it to Robby before he leaves for the night. Robby starts showing up with breakfast in a to-go bag, shoving it in Jack’s hands and holding up a finger when Jack tries to protest.
Jack hates that he doesn’t say anything when Robby holds up that finger, but he’s learned it’s futile to argue, and he was done with being “tsk!”d when he was about nine.
Jack leaves sandwiches in the staff-room fridge, and Robby starts leaving salads, and Jack starts feeling better about the way Robby looks—better fed, more rested, like he’s not about to collapse, dehydrated; like he’s taking care of himself. He enjoys the salads, too, a meal he would never, ever make for himself because of all the faff involved, the ingredients, the fucking choices when it comes to dressing. He’s happy to let Robby do the thinking.
Shifts being what they are, there’s a stretch of three days where they’re both out of the ED, and Jack texts Robby on day two, asks if he wants to go to a game, and they eat more hotdogs than anyone should, and beer is not technically the way to take care of the resulting thirst, but whatever. Robby hoots when there’s a double play and Jack looks over at him, at the way he seems more whole, reaches out to pat his knee out of deep-felt satisfaction, and then just leaves his hand there for reasons that he doesn’t care to delve into too deeply.
Robby looks back at him. “You okay?”
Jack gives him a nod. “I think I am.”
The smile Robby gives him is some kind of pleased-as-punch and maybe even a little smug. He covers Jack’s hand with his own, and then they’re just sitting there, holding hands, watching three shitty pitches in a row, and Jack bumps his shoulder against Robby’s, and Robby bumps his shoulder back.
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