Archive of Our Own ^beta

By now, Jack had learned the trick to Robby’s door. There were two locks and with each you had to jiggle the key a certain way for the door to give. This was his third time here, when Robby wasn’t home, and just like the first two times, Jack was too tired to feel weird about it, too tired to really care. He tossed his keys on Robby’s kitchen island, hung up his jacket and began unbuttoning his pants as he walked down the hall towards the bedroom. 

In just his boxers, Jack slumped on the rumpled edge of Robby’s hastily made bed, the dark sheets straightened but not smoothed across the mattress, the light comforter thrown over an askew pillow. He took off his prosthesis. The sigh of relief as his leg came out of the socket was habit, and he flexed and turned, rubbing some feeling back into the limb. Jack could have gotten into the other side of the bed, or taken the couch in the living room or even the sofa bed in the den that Robby had bought for when his sister came to visit, but Jack slid under the covers on Robby’s side, turned his face into Robby’s pillow. 

The bed was cool, not sleep warm, but a buffet of smells still lingered. A medicinal hint of shampoo, baby powder deodorant, hospital antiseptic, all mixed with a light layer of nighttime sweat. Jack stretched, curled onto his side, shoved an arm under the pillow and already his mind started to fuzz out. The night drained out, a little at a time, and he was pathetically grateful that this trick was working, that sleeping in Robby’s apartment, in Robby’s bed, let him actually rest. 

***

Jack’s nightmares were predictable. It was hard to explain to someone that the dreams he had, and had been having for years, were not the screaming, crying, wake up shaking in a corner kind, but ones just disturbing enough to cause a low grade level of misery. They were chaotic, fragmented, more thematically disturbing than visually jarring. The dreams woke him up in starts and fits, settled into and around his body, so that he felt like that ghost in A Christmas Carol, wrapped and rattling in heavy chains.

In Robby’s bed, for the past few nights, he’d gotten a break.

Jack was always gone by the time Robby came off shift, even if he wasn’t the one coming in as relief. He didn’t shower there or eat breakfast or even turn on the news. They did all that stuff —have dinner, watch a Pirates game—when Robby was around, but when it was just him, Jack tried to respect Robby’s privacy, though Robby wouldn’t care if he rifled through his drawers, poked around in the medicine cabinet. 

“I gave you a key, feel free to use it,” Robby had said, a few days ago, hovering over him in the staff lounge. Their conversation had started with a critique of his haggared face, and spiraled into an inquisition on how he was sleeping. 

“Not great,” Jack said, but that was obvious. “It happens sometimes.” 

Progress came in waves, growth wasn’t always linear. For some reason he was backsliding, slipping into old patterns that left him pacing his apartment, anxiety so bad it made him want to sleep with a gun under his pillow. Just looking at his bed made his pulse spike. Before going to Robby's, Jack had tried his couch, the on-call room, and finally the staff lounge, where Robby had caught him, head tilted against the wall, slumped on the cheap plastic sofa. 

“It might help,” Robby shrugged. “Change of scenery.” 

They didn’t talk about it, not directly, but Robby could tell. Not just because Jack showed up looking less like death for the handoff but because his bed was always crisply made, the military instinct for sharp corners not something that Jack could just turn off. The first day, he changed the sheets, threw the ones he’d slept on into the wash. 

“Don’t do that,” Robby told him, quietly, under his breath the next morning as they stood side by side, staring up at the board. “It’s not necessary, plus,” he flicked his eyes over Jack’s and a bit of heat crept up his cheeks. “I don’t want you to.” 

They were not fucking, not by a long shot. That was a line they were dancing around, both of them weary of that kind of happiness. Too much, too soon, while they were still getting their footing. PittFest had shaken Robby bad, teetering on the brink of getting help. Jack kept saying he was fine, but now, suddenly, the dreams were back. 

Plenty of guys had recurring dreams, but Jack’s nightmares were like a Lay’s variety pack. Every night, a new flavor. Maybe tied to Fallujah, maybe to Korengal, maybe to his last tour. His dreams weren’t dark and confusing, instead they were bright, blinding, crystal clear. Sun bleached horror. 

“New shampoo,” Robby told him one morning, as they stirred their coffee in the lounge. He’d been hot racking for almost a week now. An indecent amount of time to be in someone else’s bed. “Sheets smelled different. Couldn’t place it at first, but that’s what I think it is.” 

Jack laughed. “They didn’t have the kind I usually buy. Had to settle for Timber instead of Bearglove.” 

“Wow, hard swap. I prefer Volcano, myself.” 

“Is that what it’s called,” Jack said, familiar with the way the specific smell drifted into his dreams. It was like a muddy river or a cotton bank. 

“Pillow smelled like a temple,” Robby mumbled. “Like sandalwood.” He came in close and then closer, lifting his arm to open the overhead cabinet for no reason. Robby brushed his nose against Jack’s hair, the curve of his neck close enough for Jack to lick. Jack lingered for a long moment, before stepping back. 

“Is it helping?” Robby asked. 

Jack scrubbed a hand across 8am stubble. “It’s working, for now.” Robby didn’t like the qualifier, frowning, eyes already searching for a permanent solution. “Up and down, Robby. That’s the way it goes.” 

His mouth worked, a dozen different questions forming and dying in his eyes. “You’re limping, a little,” Robby said finally. “That means you’re tired.” 

“Good thing I’ve got a warm bed waiting for me.” 

Jack moved to leave, but Robby blocked his way, putting that big body of his between Jack and the door. They weren’t shy about hugging at work or casually touching, but this felt charged, reckless. Robby put a light hand at his hip, crowded him, close but not touching, so that when Jack nudged him aside, he felt the heat of Robby’s body, the sharp scent of morning coffee. 

In twenty minutes, he was in Robby’s bed, down to his boxers, curtains drawn. The sheets were soft and cool, and Jack was where Robby had been a couple of hours ago, his long, thick frame taking up more space than Jack’s body. Jack rolled onto his stomach, recalling the heat of Robby standing too close to him, his nose buried in Jack’s hair. He felt it low and steady, a pleasant, welcome pulse between his legs. Jack shifted, rubbing against the sheets, nose in Robby’s pillow. He got harder, and the rubbing turned into a slow, deliberate grind against the mattress. It’s not how he usually did it, not on his stomach, but it worked right now, pushing into Robby’s sheets, imagining Robby’s broad back, hairy thighs under him. The image rocketed through him and Jack groaned, worming an experimental hand down his boxers, stroking lightly, seeing if fondling was enough or if he could finish himself off. The grind became a thrust, his fist wrapped tight around his dick. Fragments of images—the curve of a shoulder, the back of his neck, spread thighs—rushed through his body. It was light, fleeting, sleep warring with lust, but quickly Jack’s hand became tacky with come that he wiped on the sheets. 

When he woke up, Jack didn’t strip the bed. He dressed, used the bathroom, left the bed exactly as it was. The covers stayed rumpled, pushed to the side, the mess he made visible, delicate, dirty.

***

The next morning, Robby grabbed him by the elbow in the ambulance bay and shoved him behind one of the dumpsters, back cutting into the concrete. He held Jack’s face with his hand, and pressed the full length of his body against him, so he could feel the hard line of Robby’s erection against his thigh. He was big, full, and a little desperate. Robby licked at his mouth, made a frustrated little noise as Jack gripped him by the hips and rocked them together, sucking at his tongue.  

“Fucking filthy,” Robby said into his mouth, in a choked voice that indicated he didn’t mind at all. 

It was just a kiss, maybe a torrid one if Jack wanted to be poetic about it, but laced with the kind of longing that had been building like layers of sediment. Slowly, steady, deep. Jack licked the inside of Robby’s mouth, let Robby suck on his bottom lip, shove his tongue inside the soft palette of his cheek. He was instantly hard, straining, but Jack wasn’t going to make Robby come outside the hospital, in his work pants, before a shift, his mouth stale with coffee while Robby’s was fresh with toothpaste. It was good to know that he could, if he wanted to. They pulled apart, flushed. 

“I handoff to Shen tonight, right?” Robby said, wiping his mouth as they walked back into the ED. “Why don’t you stay? We can get dinner.” 

The sheets were fresh, the bed not crisply made but certainly better than Robby usually did. Jack grinned, knowing that Robby was trying, for him, to be less of a slob. He went to draw the curtains and discovered that Robby had installed blackout shades, which plunged the room into darkness. 

There was no hot racking in the Army, that was more of a Navy thing, specific these days to submarines, but Jack had shared a cot with a jar head from Akron in the Korengal Valley, where they took shifts sleeping, on high alert for snipers or a sneak attack. The unit he was with had been assigned to Firstbase Restrepo, but Jack was often in the field, the only medic on hand for anything that went down. The Valley was deceptive, with blind spots and rough terrain so that movement anywhere was dangerous. Too many times men went out on recon and came back with bullet wounds. The Taliban used small range weapons, but also had their fair share of snipers. Jack learned to live with the constant chill down his back, that meant he was being watched. The hairs on his neck prickled with anxiety, he tensed, waiting for the bullet that, if he was lucky, would whiz by his ear. Watch your six, they always said, but that was hard to do when he was huddled over a soldier, hands slippery in blood. Jack couldn’t find where the bleeding was coming from, which was the first step as a medic. The boy’s eyes were blank, and the air around him hot and sulphuric, which was odd since the Valley was cold as fuck, always chilly. He yanked at the boy’s chin strap, tried to remove the helmet since it was clear it was a head wound, had to be, but the straps were thick and uncooperative in his fingers. At his back, Jack felt that someone was coming up closer and closer, or was it from across the Valley where the bullet might hit him, straight through the neck, like had happened with Corporal Wallace, a 20-year-old radio tech from Stockton who’d been spinning up the satellite phone when, out of nowhere, a sniper had fired and hit the carotid artery. He was shaking badly, fumbling with the goddamn helmet, but now Wallace was yelling for Jack’s help, and he was sure, so fucking sure, that someone had their rifle on him and he waited for that pop, that bang. 

The room was still pitch dark when Jack opened his eyes, pins and needles across his back and arms and legs, breath so shallow he was practically hyperventilating. Blinking, Jack twisted his hands in the sheets, wondering if he could still get to Wallace even though the kid had been dead for 15 years. He pressed into the bed, feeling the solid support of the mattress under his back. The racks in Korengal sank so low he was basically sleeping in the dirt. 

Robby had put fresh sheets on the bed and they smelled anonymous, which Jack suddenly hated. He wanted that after shift smell, the tang of body odor mixed with chilly autumn air. Lying there, Jack picked up sound from the street. Robby’s bedroom was near the back of his brownstone condo, but even facing the alley, Jack strained to hear a garbage truck rumbling by, a moped gunning its muffler. 

He lay still for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, untangling past and present, traveling from Afghanistan back to Pittsburgh, a distance that was thousands of miles, seemingly hundreds of years. When he’d convinced himself that there was no enemy fire around the corner, Jack tossed back the covers and grabbed the crutches that Robby now left by the side of his bed. Still shakey, Jack got spare sweats from the dresser and made himself a weak breakfast of eggs and toast and oatmeal, even though it was already 2pm. 

He ate standing up, against the counter, out of the sightline from the windows. Turning on the TV would help, ground him to the present with noise, but the remote was on the coffee table, which was exposed, no cover. 

It was a sign of all the progress he’d made, of how far he’d come, that Jack could stand with his back to the sink, calmly finish his oatmeal, and run through the PCL-5 questionnaire in his mind. 

In the past month, how often were you bothered by being “superalert” or watchful or on guard? 

Build up of cortisol in the system, he heard his therapist say, can often lead to increased anxiety, insomnia, nightmares. His brain was in overdrive, his parasympathetic nervous system revved up like a hot rod, but knowing all that didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

In the past month, how often were you bothered by strong negative feelings such as fear, horror, anger, guilt, or shame?

Hand still trembling, Jack put his bowl in the sink and grabbed his keys, gritting his teeth as he left the apartment. Out in the street, his heart raced at the everyday noise. Dogs barking, a baby crying. There was a gym, two blocks down, and Jack managed a half assed workout before heading inside a Trader Joe’s, where he blindly grabbed produce and snacks, scanning for threats the entire time. 

How often were you bothered by repeated, disturbing thoughts of the stressful experience?

The dominoes were falling, but Jack tried his hardest to keep them upright. He peeled the carrots and chopped onions, marinated the chicken and washed the rice. He stayed focused on the cooking and clean-up, and was surprised when the door rattled, Robby coming home. 

“Hey.” His grin was broad, easy. Making out in the alley felt like eons ago.  

Robby tossed his backpack into the corner and lifted up the lids of the pots and pans on the stove, exclaiming that Jack didn’t have to do all this, that he could get used to this kind of behavior, why had Jack never mentioned he could cook?

“I can make three dishes,” Jack said. “All of them variations on chicken and rice, so don’t get too excited.” 

“Oh, I am very excited. Are these carrots julienned?” His smile was embarrassingly fond, and Jack pushed him out of the kitchen and towards the shower, while he opened up a bottle of wine. Robby was back quickly, wet hair curled against the nape of his neck, barefoot in sweats. Without a second thought, he went into the living room, swiped the remote from the coffee table and stood dead center in front of the windows, flicking channels aimlessly. 

“There’s Pens Rangers on tonight,” Robby mumbled, punching the buttons. Jack watched from the counter, jaw tight. “Maybe it was last night but I’m pretty sure it was a Wednesday night game. That’s the problem with—” 

“Robby.” 

“—the local stations. Sometimes it’s a blackout if it’s a national game.” 

“Robby!” 

Jack shouted. Loud. Across the room. Robby looked up, startled. 

“Just step back from the window.” 

Robby titled his head, like Jack was making a joke, but even from across the room Robby saw the pulse jumping in his jaw, the tight square of his shoulders. It took everything Jack had to not throw him down, behind cover, to keep him safe. “Jack—”

“Two steps back, even. Closer to the sofa.” 

Jack imagined the glass splintering, the swift, deadly hiss of a sniper shot in its wake.

Were you bothered by, the PL-5 wanted to know, suddenly feeling or acting as if the stressful experience were actually happening again?

“Away from the goddamn window, Robby!” he said, moving now, lunging for Robby before quickly catching himself. Jack stopped, mid step, and shut his eyes, remembering his EMDR therapy, taking slow, deep breaths. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. Just, step away from the window, please.” 

Tossing the remote on the sofa, Robby went to Jack in the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” 

Like that morning, in the alley, Robby breached personal space but there was nothing sexy about it. Jack slumped against the fridge, eyes closed, door handle digging into this back. “It’s been a tough day.” His voice cracked, embarrassingly, and he swallowed down exhausted tears. “I’m alright. Let’s eat.” 

Robby kept light fingertips at his waist. “How bad?” 

Jack laughed. He’d lost days, weeks, months to feelings worse than this. He remembered the weeks he slept with his boots on. The period in his life when he carried a side arm wherever he went. The time he’d gotten so startled in a grocery store he’d slugged a guy and almost been booked for assault. “Not bad,” he said, thumping his head against Robby’s chest, breath finally coming slow. “Not bad at all.” 

Robby put his arms around him, and Jack felt much smaller, much shorter, as Robby’s hand cupped the entire back of his head. “You sleep?” 

“Terribly.” 

“Ah, the magic trick didn’t work, huh?” 

“Fun while it lasted.” 

They untangled themselves, ate, and Robby found the Pens game that gave them something to stare at while they sat close to each other on the sofa. “You want me to get curtains?” Robby asked, gesturing towards the windows. 

“No, it’s temporary.” 

“You sure?” 

He nodded. “It passes.” 

“Come here.” Robby tugged and Jack laid down in the makeshift pillow of his lap. They were both hidden now, well below the sightline, invisible if anyone was staring through the window, though he knew no one was. “It’s alright.” A hand settled in his hair and a wide palm starfished over his heart. Jack lifted the hand to his lips, kissed each hairy knuckle, before dropping it back down. He shut his eyes, grief, panic fading, as Robby rubbed a thumb over the two-day stubble on his cheek. 

***

Jack went back to his own bed. Robby had a shift in the morning, and he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, not even a little. “You can stay,” Robby suggested. “Sit on the couch, watch TV, read, whatever.”  But Jack didn’t want to use him as a crutch, didn’t indulge the itch to hide in his bed. He put an end to the hot racking, though he missed it. 

Robby was confused, but patient. His bed stayed unspoiled and even though he didn’t like it, Robby didn’t push, not at first. For the next week they overlapped at work, Robby coming in noticeably earlier so they could grab a few minutes alone in the lounge. Jack kept the conversation neutral, talking about patients, Gloria, Langdon’s progress in rehab. After days of water cooler talk, Robby turned abruptly and rattled the cabinets looking for coffee mugs which Dana always kept in the drawer so the shorter nurses and interns could reach them. “Are you still dreaming?” Robby asked. 

Jack nodded, though Robby couldn’t see him. “It’s not bad. It’s just a phase.” Sometimes the phase lasted days, sometimes weeks. 

“So, uh, who are the  characters in your nightmares?” 

“What?” 

“Or, if there aren’t characters in your dreams, what’s the setting?” 

“Robby.” 

“You can also describe what the characters are doing.” 

At that, Jack laughed, loud, uncontrollable. “Oh my god.” 

“Jack, come on—” 

But he was practically giggling as Robby leaned against the counter, arms folded across that broad chest, suddenly looking very put out. “You know, this isn’t funny.” 

He grinned. “It is. It’s actually hilarious. But very sweet. Very, very sweet.” 

“Jack—” 

When he’d first started therapy, his doctor had handed Jack a worksheet titled Normalizing Your Nightmares. The questions were basic, exploratory, meant to get the patient to think dispassionately about their dreams. The questions Robby had asked were right off the sheet, like instead of leaning on his psych training, he’d gone home and googled, how to help someone with PTSD. “I just think it’s cute that you're trying to workshop my dreams.” 

Robby blushed. “I’m trying to help.” 

“You help, man. In a hundred different ways, you help, but this is my responsibility, got that? I don’t—” the door opened, and Princess walked into an abrupt silence. She looked between them, rethought her coffee needs, and walked right back out. “I don’t need you to fix this,” he said. 

“I’m not trying to fix it.” His shoulders were up by his ears, “Christ, I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. I’ve been getting the Jack Abbot Ted Talk on Sharing Your Feelings for the past month and but every time I ask you what’s going on, you disappear. And I mean that literally, Jack.” 

Mohan and Whitaker barged in, oblivious and loud. They found the mugs Dana kept in the drawer, nudged Robby out of the way, and took too long to notice the awkward silence in the room. 

“I’m not trying to disappear,” Jack said, after they’d left. “I’m just trying,” and he had to pause, to make sure he told Robby the truth and not just some version of a lie. “I’m just trying not to pull you down.” 

Robby’s shoulders dropped, his eyes went soft. “There’s a lot happening up here.” He mimed a halo around his head. “I don’t have to explain it to you because you know the mess that’s in there.”

Jack nodded. 

“Even with that, even with all of that, I’ve got space, Jack. Lots of space, for anything, anything you want to share.” 

He remembered Robby standing in front of the windows, exposed ankles, pale forearms. Now, his heart kicked up just remembering how vulnerable he looked, standing there, in just a t-shirt. It was torture, to care about someone. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I really am. It’s not as simple as a worksheet.” 

Robby sat at the table so their thighs brushed, offering himself up. Now, Jack wanted someone else to walk in, make a racket looking for coffee cups and creamer, but the door stayed closed.  He pushed back his chair, knocked his foot against the table leg. “I’ve been sleeping in my boots,” Jack admitted. “In case something happens, something urgent, and I need to get up and book.” 

“How long?” 

“Couple of days. Can’t sleep if I don’t have ‘em on.” 

Robby squeezed his knee, left his hand there for too long, before pushing his chair out and getting up. “You can sleep with your boots on in my bed,” he said, opening the door. “I don’t mind.” 

***

When Jack left work, he skipped the T and decided to walk, not because he needed the air but because sitting in a packed rush hour train set his teeth on edge. When he slept, without his boots, remembering Robby’s hand on his knee, he saw six pools of water in front of him. They looked cool, inviting, but when Jack touched his hand to the edge, he had to pull back from the heat. The water wasn’t water at all, but baby powder sand. Dry, gritty, the kind that blew in his face while he tried to work, tried to keep the wounds clean. They were pits of sand now and Jack dug into them to try to find his scalpel, retractors, growing more panicked every second, his hand burning from the heat. Every fistfull he grabbed ran through his fingers, so Jack dug harder and then faster, scooping out fistfulls, looking for his equipment, his tools, waking only when his fists hit the hard thump on a dead body. 

He startled awake, the cool, clammy feel of a corpse under his hands. Outside, the rain had started coming down hard and Jack listened to it gratefully. It never rained when he was in country. Never. 

It took him many minutes to get his crutches, hobble into the shower. He ate, slowly, without any real appetite, and then went to the closet where he kept his go bag and packed and repacked his kit at least five times, counting, cataloging, till there was a knock on his door. 

“I do think it’s weird that you have a key to my place and I don’t have a key to yours,” Robby said, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you know, it’s glaring.” 

Jack waved him into the apartment, which was smaller than Robby’s but had all the same elements. Kitchen island off the living room, overstuffed sofas, a coffee table piled high with medical journals. He tossed him a hand towel, to wipe his face.

“I feel bad,” Robby said, once he was dry. “I pushed you today and I shouldn’t have. Maybe I’m not the one you want to be telling these things to. Maybe it’s not my place to know.” 

“It’s not like that,” Jack said, but Robby shook his head. 

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t come here to make you talk. I just wondered,” and he stopped himself, started again. “I miss you, Jack. I’m not trying to fix you or solve your problems or, or whatever. I just wondered…would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” 

Jack smiled. “Like a date?” 

“Yes, like a date. Like a real date. Dinner. Maybe a walk after. No one jerking off in anyone’s bed.” 

They picked a sushi spot close to the river and sat under a heat lamp while the rain blew around them. Robby didn’t ask questions when Jack swapped their seats so he could see the exit, didn’t complain when Jack made him walk on the inside. Back home, he stayed on the threshold while Jack stepped into the apartment first, out of habit. 

Robby teetered on his heels, hesitating, but Jack pulled him inside and lined him up against the door. He twined his fingers through Robby’s short hair and pulled him down into a kiss. It wasn’t animalistic, like the day against the dumpsters, but Robby was easy, ready, mouth open at the slightest lick of Jack’s tongue. His beard scratched Jack’s cheek, their noses bumped, and slowly, Jack put his entire body into it, pinning Robby with his hips, gripping the soft, fleshy love handles. He nipped at Robby’s lower lip, sucked at the tip of his tongue and then worked his way down Robby’s neck, kissing a bruise right below the collar bone. They rocked against each other, easy, swelling, till Robby wrenched his mouth away. 

With his hands around Jack’s waist, Robby walked them backwards towards the sofa, where he sprawled on Jack, heavy, damp from the rain. He kissed down his neck towards his chest and the back up to his mouth. Shirt rucking up, Robby slipped a hand up his chest, scratching at the sparse chest hair. They kept their hands away from the important bits, the tenting of his pants as obvious as the bulge in Robby’s, and explored hardly visible bits of skin. Forearms, clavicles, the scruffy underside of a jaw, till they were parched and their skin raw from beard burn. Robby pulled away first and got them two glasses of water. Jack tugged down his t-shirt which was up around his arm pits, and Robby buttoned up his flannel, which was open down to his navel. 

Back at the door, Jack gave in to not just another lazy kiss, but a long embrace, where Robby kissed his temple, the spot below his ear and told him not to stay up all night.  

*** 

They didn’t neck in dark corners like teenagers, or make out behind the dumpster. The benefits of middle age meant Jack could keep it in his pants but he was intimately familiar now with the exact taste of Robby’s mouth, the under the covers smell of his skin. When they did the handoff, standing shoulder to shoulder at the nurses station, he’d get a passing whiff of that particular mix and it sent a strong pulse through him, to grab Robby’s hip, bite his neck.

“I, uh, switched shifts,” Robby said, after they’d done the rundown. For some reason, he looked shy. “Took a personal day, asked Weir to swap some things around. You’re not handing off to me in the morning. I’m off for the next two days, and if I’m not mistaken, so are you.” 

He grinned. “Math checks out, Dr. Robby.” 

For once, Robby didn’t look beaten down, like he wanted nothing but sleep or a good long look off the roof. He matched Jack’s smile. “You’ve got a key, Jack. Use it.” 

It would’ve been nice to get lost in it, swept up in the feeling like it was nothing more than a crush, but every day was a new gauntlet. Robby had left him an upper GI bleed, a possible heart attack, a minor with arm lacerations. It all looked routine on the surface but the minor with lacerations turned out to be self-harm, a teen who had hatch marks all up and down her arms. A younger brother, who couldn’t have been more than ten, had dragged her in, and jumped in to answer questions when the sister wouldn’t. Jack couldn’t stay in the room to listen to the details, but Henry, the on-call social worker, shook his head when he passed Jack in the hall. It was bad, he said, and he was getting nowhere. “Abuse,” Henry explained. “Physical, maybe sexual, emotional. Could be all three.” 

They called CPS but the kids snuck out, filling their coat pockets with sandwiches from the nurses fridge, but Jack didn’t have time to dwell, had to focus on the home birth gone wrong that the paramedics had just wheeled in. The mother was hemorrhaging so much, Jack couldn’t keep enough blood in her. She was pale, weak, kept asking if her baby was okay. They got her to the OR but Jack wasn’t surprised when he heard she coded on the table. 

It drove him up to the roof, where he wondered why no one in that woman’s family had called 911 sooner, and about the kids who were so hungry they’d lifted day-old egg salad sandwiches. The air was cold now, not just brisk like it had been in the fall, but numbing, that high up. 

Face red and wind chapped, Jack went home and packed a bag. By the time he got to Robby’s, it was past 9. The place was empty though, Robby’s keys and sneakers missing from the hallway. He showered, noticing the bar that Robby had installed in the stall. Damp, Jack pulled on fresh boxers and went face down on Robby’s side of the bed, the crutches clattering behind him. Robby was out at the gym or the grocery store, maybe he’d decided to keep playing pick-up basketball. 

The sheets cool, the bedroom dark, the familiar smell that now tricked his brain into relaxing. It smoothed out the anxiety of the day, that he’d had his back turned for too long while those kids ran away, that he’d missed some crucial step with the mother, or that he’d missed a patrol, that somehow he’d lost his unit and Jack had only a few minutes to find them before something big, something catastrophic went wrong. He had both his legs, but he walked slowly through the heavy sand, carrying his gun, medic bag strapped across his chest. He was at the beach, but there was no water around, just an intense, flaring heat, and kids running in every direction. Squinting into the sun, Jack couldn’t tell if the kids were laughing or crying, their screams hysterical or joyful. He tried to run, to catch them, but behind him, men were yelling. His boots sank faster into the sand as he turned, towards the smell of burnt tires and sulfur, already choking. It took everything he had to heave one leg after the other, trying to get to them. There was so much shouting, from all directions, making it impossible to think. Where were the kids? The screams were loud, the flames hot. He was close, almost there, when a hand, slippery with blood, grabbed for him. He jerked away, scream tight in his throat. 

“Jack.” 

The room was still dark, no burning sun, no smell of tar and spent ammo. 

“Jack, easy.” Robby put a hand on his chest. “Breathe.” 

“Shit, shit.” His face was damp, t-shirt soaked through with sweat.

“Do you know where you are?”

Struggling up onto his elbows, Jack looked around the room, panting. Reading glasses on the side table, an old fashioned alarm clock. A half-empty bottle of melatonin. “Your place.” 

Robby swept this thumb over his ribs, in a half-moon. "It's okay. Just breathe. In and out. Good.” 

The blankets lay bunched around his waist, and a thin trickle of salt dripped into his mouth. Sweat, tears. He’d been crying, hopefully quietly. Even in Robby’s bed all he could remember was that hand grabbing for him in the wretched heat. “Sorry, shit. I’m alright. It hasn’t been that bad in a while.” 

“It’s okay, nothing to be sorry about.” 

Jack held his wrist, stopped the slow movement of Robby’s hand across his chest, which was heaving. As much as he wanted to forget the dream, Jack didn’t let himself lose it totally. He owed it to them, the ones who didn’t make it back, to remember them. To feel the pain, not push it away like it had never happened. He half expected to see his own hand bloody, but there was nothing there, and slowly, Jack gave himself over to the nearness of another body, the sounds of an afternoon street. “I’m okay. Really.”

Robby took back his hand, and shifted away. “I’ll get you some water.” 

Jack sat on the bed till the sweat on his skin dried and then hopped around the room, putting on a fresh t-shirt and sweats. In the kitchen, Robby waited patiently at the counter with a glass of water. It was near one, and there were lunch dishes in the sink. 

At the island, Jack glanced through the windows, out towards the river.  He waited to feel that prick of fear, that anyone could look through the windows, but it didn’t have teeth. 

“You hungry?” 

Next to the water, a slightly soggy BLT waited for him, which he ate in a few huge bites. 

“You want to talk about it?” Robby asked, but then back peddled quickly. “Or not. If you don’t want to.”

He remembered Robby standing in his door, dripping with rain water, worried it wasn’t his place to know. It was Jack who had been keeping him at arm’s length, weary of leaning too hard, wanting it too much. “One thing people get wrong about the nightmares,” he started. “You’re not always reliving what happened, not exactly.” 

Robby pulled two cups from the cabinet and poured what smelled like a fresh pot of coffee. He handed Jack his cup, no sugar, no cream, and waited. 

“I’m not back in Afghanistan, not really. Things get jumbled.” He shook his head, pushing the words out. Figured he owed Robby that much. “I don’t have recurring dreams. Not in the way some people dream the same thing over and over again.” 

“No characters in your dreams,” Robby said, referencing the nightmares worksheet. 

Jack shook his head. “Sometimes I remember a specific event,” which is what happened with Wallace, though that was almost 15 years ago now, “and that sets me off.” It was a chicken or the egg argument, as far as Jack as concerned. Did the nightmares trigger PTSD episodes or did PTSD episodes trigger his nightmares. “Most of the time, it’s just a feeling. Like dreaming that you’re at school in your pajamas, or that you forgot to study for a test.” 

“But worse.” 

“A lot worse.” He let the coffee burn his tongue. “My second tour, I was on a short layover at a forward operating base in the Kunar province. Real sleepy section, till one night a civilian bus jumped the check point, came roaring into the camp. The bus was filled with people, most of them screaming, some trying to jump off while it was moving. I heard the gun fire first, saw two guys just spraying that thing. A Jeep took off, gave chase, and boom. I came out, and just,” he stared into his cup, smelling the blood, the burnt skin, the acrid rubber. “Bodies everywhere.” 

“What’d you do?” 

“Started triaging any patients I could. My brain just flipped, you know? Tried to figure out who had a shot of living, who was likely a lost cause.” They both knew what that was like, the detachment that had to take over if anyone was going to make it out alive. “17 victims total, and it was just me, two nurses, and a surgeon.” In his dreams, when he remembered that day, it was always hot and dusty, but in reality, the weather had been cold and dry. He never understood it. The cognitive dissonance of weather. “There were a few of our guys who were hurt, but it was mostly the people on the bus. Just some villagers trying to get home, you know? It was so random. So senseless.” 

“It never makes sense, Jack. Never.” 

“There was one man though, older, and he had,” Jack had to take a breath, hold it, let it go slowly. “He had half his leg blown off, femoral artery severed.” 

“Five minutes, max,” Robby mumbled. 

“He kept grabbing at my hand, asking for help. Shit.” Jack covered his face, remembering the man’s wrinkled skin, the pale blue tunic he wore, how no one deserved to die that way, alone, begging, in the dirt. “Shit, Robby. That poor guy.” 

Reaching across the island, Robby dug his fingers into Jack’s shoulder, kept them there till he’d managed to dry his face. “It doesn’t happen often, but in the worst dreams, he’s reaching for my hand. Grabbing at it. I can be anywhere, sometimes grocery shopping, sometimes at the beach, and I feel it. Worn, bloody, begging.” 

“Jack.” He came around the counter, stood close but not touching, that familiar Robby smell making his eyes prick. 

“I just had to shake him off, move onto the next patient. There was nothing I could do.” 

He tucked Jack into his chest. Jack wasn’t a big guy, but he was wide, hefty, had shoulders that could clog a door. Next to Robby though, he was petite, waif thin. Warm arms wrapped around his back and held him tight, and Jack dug his fingers into Robby’s back. They stayed that way for a long moment, till Jack slid his hands down Robby’s side, pulling away. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Robby had his own shit to deal with. Didn’t need him crying all over his kitchen. 

“Janey used to ask me about work, all the time,” Robby said, sitting next to him. “It was normal stuff. How was your day, what kind of patients did I have, did anything crazy happen. At first I really tried to tell her. She always cared, always listened, but it was hard to explain exactly what was happening to someone not on the inside.” 

Jack got it. That’s why he and Robby could skip the boring parts. They had a hard earned short hand. 

“I’d tell her about a patient, someone who died, and she’d always want to reassure me, make me feel better. She’d say, ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ or ‘you did the best you could,’ or ‘sometimes it’s just their time to go.’” 

This was the kind of stuff they told younger residents all the time. For all the good that  it did. 

“Truth is though,” and he looked at Jack, like if anyone would understand, it was him. “I wanted to feel bad. I wanted to feel like shit. Felt like I owed it to the patient to carry that around with me, at least for a day.” 

“Like forgiving yourself was taking the easy way out.” 

Robby nodded. “It wasn’t deliberate, but I think I just stopped talking about work. It was too hard. Too hard to explain what was going on, how awful it could be. After a while, I was just hiding. I’d be with her and all this stuff, all the work stuff, everything it brings up, I shoved it away, like junk inside a closet.” 

“Is that why it didn’t work with her?” 

“Mostly that,” Robby said, sighing and rubbing a hand across his face. “A few other things too.” He caught Jack’s eye, gave him a little wink and a smirk. “But it was hard, being the only fucked up person in that relationship.” 

Jack barked out a laugh.”You’re saying this quid pro quo? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?’ 

“Don’t apologize, Jack. Not for the nightmares, not for the windows, not for keeping me on the inside of the sidewalk.” Robby gave him that bashful smile, the one he hid in his chest. “It makes me feel like I don’t have to hide. Not any more.” 

“Come here.” Jack kissed him. He tugged Robby’s hair and slotted their mouths tight, no agenda but affection and gratitude, but the heat that sprang up, through his stomach, right around his dick, was immediate, dangerous. Robby pushed him back up against the counter, and they necked again. Jack rubbed his stubble over Robby’s neck, hissing as he nipped at the skin. 

“We can stop,” Robby said, cautious that Jack’s face was still tear streaked, but Jack was exhausted by grief, by death. 

“Closer,” Jack said, against his mouth. “Fuck, get closer.” 

Using the wall and Robby’s arms for support, they worked their way back to the bed, fell on to it with such a thud that Jack worried the frame wouldn’t survive. Usually, when he was in this bed, he was face down, in the sheets, but now he was on his back, Robby on top of him like a heated blanket, tall, craggly, hairy. 

“Off, off,” Robby huffed, tugging at Jack’s shirt. He yanked it off, musing his hair, and Robby pushed him back down on the bed and went after his mouth, kissing him deep and wet and long before swirling his tongue around a nipple. Jack tangled his fingers in Robby’s hair, spread his legs and rocked against his stomach, so Robby could feel that he was instantly hard. With one hand, he pulled Robby’s sweatshirt off, and then his t-shirt, getting an annoyed grunt when it meant Robby had to lift up his head. Jack raked his fingers through the dark thatches of chest hair, noting the red patches of arousal all across his cheeks, his chest.  Like Jack, Robby’s shorts were tented. Making a semicircle with his first, Jack cupped his cloth covered erection, gave it an experimental tug. 

“Fuck.” 

He grinned, did it again, sliding Robby’s dick around in cotton, before thumbing the head till he leaked. “Jack, come on.” Robby dipped his head, captured his mouth again, and they rutted against each other. Even more than the friction, Jack got harder at the noises Robby made, how sweet the smell of skin and pre-come and spit was. 

“Come on, lift your hips.” Robby pushed at his sweats, which came off easy, and he wrapped that enormous hand around Jack’s cock, fisting him slowly at first and then with a dedicated rhythm. He bent his head, spit trailing from his mouth, so it landed in a glob. It was just enough wetness to make it even better, and Jack’s hips jerked up, fucking into Robby’s fist. He grabbed the muscle and fat at Robby’s waist, held him tight. “I’m gonna come,” he said, gasping up at the ceiling, and to ensure it, Robby spit again, picked up the pace, and licked the underside of his jaw, till Jack bit down on the meat of Robby’s shoulder, spurting thick ribbons across his stomach. 

He was dazed, hazy, body shaking but not yet totally spent. He guided Robby’s hand away but nudged the head of his dick against Robby’s bellybutton and navel, feeling the new and silky softness. Still thrusting, he pushed down Robby’s shorts and took him in his hand.

“Impressive,” he muttered, which made Robby blush. He hid in the crook of Jack’s neck, like the size of his cock was somehow humiliating. “You feel good,” Jack cooed, and Robby began to thrust his hips. Jack slicked his right hand with his own come, and set the pace. Slow at first, which wasn’t what Robby wanted, but Jack liked the feel of him in his hand, heavy, hot. 

“Faster,” Robby gasped, twisting his hand into the sheets. 

Jack shifted, found a better angle, the right cadence. He slipped his other hand below Robby’s waist, and tugged lightly at his balls. 

“Jack, fuck.” 

“Come on, let me see it.” What was a slow rock became a thrust and the bed creaked with the full weight of Robby shoving into his fist. “Yeah, that’s it.” 

Robby turned his face into Jack’s neck, sweat pricking along his bare back and between his already damp legs, he groaned out Jack’s name and came along his thigh, his waist, hitting the sheets. 

They traded kisses and weak thrusts, wringing out what they could. Jack wrapped his legs around Robby’s waist, his stump grazing Robby’s calf. Robby pushed a hand through his damp curls, and rested their foreheads together. Everything was a heady, unspecific mix. Robby’s breath mixed with his shampoo, the hospital smell mingling with sulfur and toothpaste and coffee. Sheets that reeked of them both.

Jack pulled Robby on top of him, suffocating himself in the curve of his shoulder, blocking out everything but carnal, temporary, flesh. 

“I’m heavy,” Robby whispered, into his ear. 

“I can handle it.” 

They napped, or at least Jack did, out like a light for a couple of hours, only to wake up to Robby asleep for real beside him. They had two days alone, which didn’t seem like enough time and also like all the time in the world. They stayed in bed one long day but then left the apartment to go buy curtains for the big windows, just in case, if needed. 

“Don’t want to ruin the view,” Jack said. 

“So we can leave them open.” 

He was out of clean clothes and on shift in a few hours, needing to change before he went to work. 

“You coming back?” Robby asked, seeing him off at the door. Jack nodded. It would be dawn, just past, when he left the hospital. “The door sticks,” Robby reminded him. “You gotta jiggle it just right. Or it won’t open.” 

What privilege, what terror, Jack thought, to have someone to come home to.