They were supposed to watch the game tonight. It was a rare night that Jack had off and he had brought in a six pack and takeout from their favorite Mexican place. But it seems like all of that was off the schedule now.
He let himself into Robby's apartment that was glaringly empty. No sign of the man anywhere, that is until he heard the sounds of retching coming from his master bathroom.
"Robby?", he pushes open the cracked door to see him doubled over the toilet. "God", he grabbed a washcloth from underneath the sink and drenched it in cold water. When he pressed the fabric to his overheated neck, Robby sat up and tried to make apologies, excuses, typical rushed responses from a man who runs from vulnerability being caught in a vulnerable state. Jack shushed him and rubbed a tentative hand down his back.
But what really hit him was how miserable he looked. Puking is never a pleasant experience, but he looked pale, sweaty, and in an extreme amount of pain.
"What'd you eat man?", he says, trying to ease the obvious tension between bouts of Robby heaving even though internally he's doing recon on his state. Trying to apply his most prevalent symptoms with anything outside of the causal stomach bug. Trying to see if this requires a trip to the local pharmacy, a trip to their own place of employment, or just a bottle of Gatorade and sleep.
For a moment, Robby's apologies start up again, but this time Jack doesn't have a chance to make him stop because his own body shuts him up with aggressive gagging and a shiver that causes him to groan.
His eyes survey the area around him as Robby acquaints himself with the bowl of his toilet for probably the dozenth time since he's gotten home.
And then his world tilts on it's fucking axis.
Sitting in the trash can, is an empty orange bottle. A bottle he sees everyday that holds thousands of different pills for thousands of different reasons. But today, this one sitting in his best friend's trash can, is situated against a similarly empty box of narcan, and a used spray container.
It's like he gains a third eye, or an extra brain, or whatever the fuck makes everything make sense.
Pittfest. He knew something switched in Robby that day, he just couldn't put his finger on it. But in the four months since then, he's noticed. Skinnier. Quieter. Hoarser. More tired. Gradually getting better at hiding. Even from Jack, which is a feat. It all feels like a puzzle he didn't even know he was trying to solve just clicked together.
He turns to the man who just saved his own life from a drug overdose and squeezes his nape softly. "Robby", he nearly whispers, he thinks, his ears are ringing too loud to really know, "What did you do?"
The dam breaks with no resistance. He's crying. He's sobbing. He's shaking. He's apologizing even more but now it sounds less like avoidance and more like regret. Jack can't help but pull him in.
Β§
It took too much convincing to get Robby into his truck to drive him to the ER. Their ER. But they're in the ambulance bay parking lot with a hoodie placed over his head to ensure nobody would immediately recognize him, his one stipulation that Jack understood better than most.
Once he got him in a room with a little back and forth with Ellis on this clearly odd situation, he got the full works done on the figure on the bed who's been completely shattered into pieces that Jack didn't even know he was stepping on.
He finally spoke, so softly that Jack almost didn't catch it, "I regretted it as soon as I did it. I got so scared I didn't have narcan in my place like I thought I did, it was deep in all my stuff."
Jack stopped, "Why did you do it?"
He was silent for a long time, long enough to cause Jack to move past it in acceptance and continue monitoring vitals.
More minutes passed, "I think you know the answer to that question."
He felt like he wanted to cry. Cause he did. He knew that moment he saw that orange. He knew even more the moment Robby choked around his own tears.
"Guess we're going to have to take shit a lot more seriously around here then."
Robby knew what he meant. All he got in response was a nod, and a silent thank you in the form of a clasped hand around a forearm.
