Chapter Text
Robby has been a doctor, or has been in training to be a doctor, for almost all of his adult life, year over year -- living, eating, breathing medicine. Even as a kid, as he pressed a toy stethoscope to the heart of a stuffed animal in the throes of a pretend-emergency, Robby knew that he wanted to practice medicine when he grew up. He wanted to save people, to be there for them in their time of need.
There is nothing Robby knows better than how to be a doctor, and, subsequently, how to function in an emergency. A crisis. He’s done it before, too many times to count.
But, standing in Frank Langdon’s kitchen, staring at a cowering, shaking Frank, Robby feels lost. Adrift.
Suddenly all of Robby’s training has slipped right past his fingertips. His vast knowledge about how to function in a crisis has just summarily… fallen away, leaving Robby with nothing other than a pounding heart and a deep hole in his chest.
He watches as Frank swallows, as he shifts. Frank’s big eyes are caught on Robby like a deer in an unforgiving set of headlights, unwilling to look away. The set of his shoulders speaks to something between fear and defeat, and his posture is so unfamiliar on Frank’s frame that it’s hard to look at for too long, haunting.
Frank used to look at Robby with hope, like Robby hung all the stars in the sky. He used to tag along at Robby’s heels like an enthusiastic dog, eyes always trained on Robby, always ready for his next command. Now, Frank just looks at Robby with trepidation, with fear in his eyes. Like he doesn’t know what’s coming next. Like maybe Robby’s hands could be the ones to deal him the next round of damage. It hurts, seeing him like this. Seeing him look at Robby like this.
But Frank is stubborn deep down to his core; that fear doesn’t prevent Frank from clenching his jaw and squaring his shoulders when Robby doesn’t leave. Robby can practically see the way he lets the anger back in to take the place of the fear.
Robby can’t blame him for that.
“I thought I told you to get out,” Frank snarls. He would sound more convincing if Robby couldn’t see him trembling. All bark, no bite.
Robby takes a breath. He lets the air fill his lungs, feeling the expansion of it in his ribs until his chest feels wide and cavernous, and then he lets it out.
Frank is here, Robby reminds himself. He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s not in imminent danger.
He is also afraid. And angry. And hurt.
“I promise I’ll leave,” Robby says, “but I’d like to make sure you’re alright, first.”
Unsurprisingly, at the suggestion, Frank stiffens. It’s not quite a flinch, but it’s a jolt all the same, his muscles going tense, tight like they had been only moments ago. Robby watches as Frank presses himself up against the opposite wall, unable to get any further away from the source of his discomfort, his tension: which, at this moment, is Robby himself. That aches, too.
After a long, drawn out beat, Frank suddenly laughs. In the quiet of the apartment, it sounds wretched, raw.
However, the not-quite mirth dissolves as fast as it arrived, leaving Frank’s expression twisted, strange in its aftermath.
“God. Now you give a shit,” Frank says, disbelieving.
“Frank—”
“Look, this isn’t your problem. I’m fine. You can just go.”
But Robby can’t just go. There are ligature marks on Frank’s neck, on his wrists. His lip is split. And that’s just what Robby can see -- who knows where else Frank is hurt, what his clothes are hiding like the blanket had been. Robby hopes there’s nothing else to find, no other damage from whatever attack Frank suffered last night, but the sinking feeling in Robby’s chest speaks volumes.
But Frank is also right, fundamentally. He’s not Robby’s problem, at least not when they’re no longer under PTMC’s roof. And Robby has done very little to maintain any semblance of their past friendship. So, he also can’t fall back on that as a reason that Frank should let him stay. But, at the end of the day, Robby is a doctor. Even if all of his medical training has fully failed him in the last twelve hours with this whole situation. With Frank.
“I can’t leave here knowing you’re hurt,” Robby says. “You know that.”
Frank scoffs. “I’m fine,” he says. “A little bruising isn’t going to kill me.”
“Frank.”
“What, you want to put some neosporin on my neck so you can feel better? Hand me an aspirin for the pain? That’s not going to do shit and you know that."
“I was going to suggest an ice pack,” Robby says.
He’d love a closer inspection, too, to determine if there’s further damage, but he’s not sure Frank will even let him get close enough to make that assessment.
Frank just glares, unmoving. Robby realizes he has to pivot, to change tactics; Frank’s already on the defensive, and Robby’s not sure how much more he can take before Frank’s placid anger has the potential to turn on itself into something that could make him liable to lash out, to really show his teeth. Would Robby let him, if he did? Maybe that would even be good for Frank, to have a target for his frustration. Maybe it would let him feel in control.
“You came to my house last night,” Robby says.
Perhaps it’s cruel to bring up, but it’s also true. He came to Robby’s. To Robby.
That has to mean something, right?
“I knew you weren’t home,” Frank reminds him. “I lost track of time.”
A long time ago, Frank used to come to Robby’s after a bad day at the ED or during a rough patch with Abby. Back then, Robby was a steady shoulder for Frank Langdon. A safe place. Maybe his house remained that safe haven. Even without Robby in it. Perhaps because Robby wasn’t in it.
“If you weren’t looking for medical care—”
“I wasn’t,” Frank snaps.
“You—”
“Look. Can we drop the pretense?” Frank says, cutting Robby’s line of questioning off. “I just needed somewhere to go and I wasn’t thinking about it. It’s not that deep.”
Robby doesn’t know what exactly happened to Frank, the gory details of it all, but regardless of what happened, Robby doesn’t like the shape of it. The bruises on Frank’s neck, the flinching, the space Frank’s fear takes up in the room. He particularly doesn’t like the way that Frank refuses to acknowledge anything aside from writing it off, and he really doesn’t love the way he refuses to let Robby look him over. If it was a simple mugging, as Frank claims, Frank’s reactions are strangely outsized. Warning signs. If the attack was more than that, in any way, Frank could be hiding more serious injuries. And the idea of Frank hiding things from him chafes in a way that leaves Robby clenching his teeth.
Robby clears his throat. Changes his tone. “Any type of trauma can be triggering. It would be understandable if—”
Frank scoffs loudly. “Wow. Jesus. I wasn’t—I’m not—going to relapse. So, you can write off that concern, yeah?”
Robby can’t help himself. He knows it’s not the whole issue here, but Frank’s addiction is a sore spot. Something raw, right underneath the surface -- for them both. Robby can’t help but veer the conversation into it, like a well-worn trench. Something he doesn’t know how to steer away from.
“That’s not the way recovery works,” Robby says. “You know it’s not that simple.”
Frank scoffs again, this time louder. He’s angry, now, all coiled tight -- but in his anger, he at least no longer looks so hunched in on himself, so small. He looks more like the Frank that Robby knows, and that, in and of itself, is heartening. Even if he’s angry at Robby.
“Yeah, I know it’s not that simple,” Frank snarls. “I’ve been fucking living it, yeah? You want to tell me more about my own recovery?”
Like a mirror, Robby can feel a matching flare of anger in his own chest. It’s not helpful, but Robby can’t help the heat in his blood, the way his body is trying to match what it’s finding in Frank. It doesn’t help that Frank’s addiction is something that lives right under Robby’s skin, something that catches on him every day like a barb, something he can’t let go of.
“I can tell that you’re struggling,” Robby says, trying for even and measured, and knowing he misses the mark by a million miles when Frank’s eyes go hot, when his jaw clenches.
“Wow,” Frank says. “How observant of you. Thanks. That’s so fucking helpful.”
“It’s OK to struggle,” Robby continues. “Recovery isn’t linear, and the road isn’t always smooth.”
In response, Frank just laughs. The sound is sharp, brittle, mean. He clenches his fists at his sides, shifts his weight, and looks at Robby a like he wants to punch him. But Robby soldiers on, both unable and unwilling to let up.
“It’s important to understand when you’re struggling, when it’s tough. There are support systems, people to lean on. You don’t have to do it alone.”
Frank just laughs harder. His eyes are bright, wet.
“Oh, and now you care, huh? All of a sudden, you want to be a fucking pinacle of support?”
Robby thinks of Frank on his living room floor in the dark. He thinks of trying to kick Frank out, of wanting to be done with the problem more than anything else.
Robby swallows down the hurt that comes with Frank’s words alongside his own inability to stop replaying his previous night’s desires in his head, the understanding of how royally he mishandled the situation.
“This isn’t about my fucking addiction,” Frank says, tight. “And this isn’t about you.”
Robby takes a breath. “I can tell you that whatever happened to you last night isn’t something that—”
Which is all it takes -- it’s like watching a rubber band snap. Frank surges forward, hands outstretched, and shoves Robby by the shoulders, hard.
“Shut the fuck up,” Frank snarls, teeth bared.
Frank’s hands are rough against him, but Robby lets himself be pushed, walking backwards, easily going wherever Frank wants to put him.
“Shutting up,” Robby says, hands back in the air in surrender, palms bare to Frank.
Even as Frank shoves at him, Frank’s fingers grip at Robby’s shirt, like he can’t decide between whether to let go or hold on tight.
“You don’t get to say shit about last night,” Frank hisses at him. His fingers tighten into fists and Robby’s shirt pulls taut against his chest. “You don’t know me. You think you do, but you don’t. Not anymore. You don’t know shit that’s going on in my life, and you don’t get to waltz in here like we’re still friends, not when you just came here to sate your fucking curiosity, to make sure I wasn’t fucking ODing in my fucking bathroom.”
He shoves at Robby one last time and then lets go. It puts some space between the two of them. Not much, but enough that they’re no longer touching. Strangely, Robby can’t help but miss that connection, that closeness -- even if it was charged, tense. Full of anger and frustration.
It’s closer to Langdon than he’s felt in months.
Standing in front of him, shoulders squared, Frank breathes heavily, clearly trying to catch his breath.
“God, you’re always such an asshole,” Frank tells him with a disbelieving laugh.
Before Robby knows it, Frank’s taking another step back, putting even more space between them, and then another, until it feels like he’s carved out a fucking canyon between them. But as the space grows, the tension starts falling away from Frank’s shoulders. Sliding off like water from a duck’s back.
With the tension, the anger gone, his hackles are no longer up, and he no longer looks so on edge, on guard. Instead, without all that bluster, Frank just looks exhausted. Worn down to the bone.
The bruises on his throat look so dark. Robby wants to reach out and trace his fingers along their paths.
“You said I should have come to you,” Frank continues, voice thin. “What a load of bullshit.”
Robby wants to argue, but he can’t. He doesn’t have the words to dissuade Frank. Robby has spent a lot of time turning it all over in his head over these past months, and he’s only ever been able to come up with the same horrible truth: that Frank is right. That there isn’t a world in which Robby wouldn’t have felt the same kind of anger, betrayal, and disappointment at Frank’s confession had it come from his mouth and not Santos’. Robby wants to believe it could have been better, in a different world, a kinder one -- but he isn’t so sure of himself. But it’s been months now. Robby’s angry hurt -- with Frank and with himself -- has faded. And guilt has laid a thick, heavy blanket over it all.
“Frank,” Robby says.
“I was just tired,” Frank says. He won’t meet Robby’s eyes. “Last night—I was just tired. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Robby’s been tired before. Exhausted. He knows the way it seeps into your bones, the way it makes moving through the day feel like slogging through molasses. He knows the quiet pain of not knowing where to go or what to do. And he understands wanting the comfort of somewhere safe.
He just never thought his place would still be where Frank went.
“Can you leave now, so that I can go to sleep?” Frank asks.
Frank spreads his arms and gestures to himself, like he’s proving something by letting Robby look at him. As if Robby ever stopped looking since walking through Frank’s door.
“I’m fine, yeah?” Frank says.
“I’d like to make sure of it. Will you please let me look you over?” Robby asks, eyeing the bruises on Frank’s neck. “A cursory look. Quick. Then, I promise I’ll get out of your hair.”
He’s ready for Frank to push back, to argue again, but instead Frank just folds. He sighs, almost disbelieving at Robby’s refusal to back down, but then he just shrugs, dropping his arms back to his sides. The last little bit of fire burning out of him entirely.
“Fine, whatever,” Frank says, and gestures to his neck. “Have at.”
Robby takes a breath and then carefully, slowly lets it out. Right now, Frank is all exhaustion and frayed edges; a dog finally rolling over and showing its belly in submission. It’s a win, Robby knows, but it doesn’t feel much like one.
It would be better to do this under the bright lights of the kitchen, or with Frank sitting down on the couch for a better angle, but Robby doesn’t want to move Frank from where he stands, doesn’t want to push his luck. There’s a very real possibility that any movement or delay will simply result in Frank rescinding his consent and kicking Robby out. Similarly, in an ideal world, Robby would be wearing gloves. He’d have instruments or cleaning supplies or literally anything other than his two hands and Frank’s reluctant admission. But he’ll make it work. He’s made worse work, even though it doesn’t feel like it.
“Thank you,” Robby says, because it’s warranted. Because he is thankful, and Frank deserves to hear it.
But as he moves closer to Frank, however slow and careful, Frank coils tighter. Robby watches the way his muscles tense, the way his shoulders start to square back up. By the time Robby is right next to him, close enough to touch, he can tell that Frank is holding himself so still, so tense, that he’s shaking with the effort. Or maybe he’s just shivering anyway, maybe holding himself still has nothing to do with it.
“I’m going to touch your throat,” Robby tells him. “I want you to tell me if you experience any discomfort.”
Frank huffs out a disbelieving laugh, but then nods. Clearly resigned to his fate.
At least both of them are experienced in this, even if Frank’s experience isn’t strictly from the other side of the exam table. But Robby keeps his touch as light and as gentle as he can. He brushes his fingers over the bruises painting Frank’s throat, trailing the different paths of them and feeling for any abnormalities and waiting for any outsized reactions. After a little while, Frank lets out a shaky breath, and Robby pauses, unsure if he caused any discomfort before realizing Frank simply hadn’t been breathing. He’d been holding his breath in anticipation. After a moment, Robby realizes that he’s been holding his own breath, too, afraid to break the silence that hangs between them. So, Robby takes an uneasy breath and continues with his exam as quickly as he can while covering all of his concerns. Luckily, there isn’t anything glaring.
“OK,” Robby says, finally pulling his hands back when finished. “Nothing that shouldn’t heal on its own. Ice and rest. Anything else? Head injuries, lacerations…?”
He can see the cut on Frank’s lip, the occasional scrape across his skin. Frank looks at him for a moment, clearly debating what to say, before he pushes up the sleeves on his sweatshirt and shows Robby his wrists, his hands.
Robby saw a glimpse of them earlier, but there are matching finger-shaped bruises around both of Frank’s wrists. Bruised knuckles, scraped fingers. Like -- like he’d been trying to scramble away from something, from someone. And then had been held down. Or held against something. It would explain the abrasion on his cheek, like it had been rubbed raw against a surface.
Frank’s injuries paint a picture Robby is finding increasingly horrifying. The shape of it had been there before, a black pit of possibility in his stomach, but the reality of it is starting to take a very firm and inhospitable shape.
“Frank,” Robby says carefully. Cautiously.
“Jesus Christ,” Frank says. “Don’t fucking look at me like that. I’m fine. Are you good to go, now?”
No, Robby is not good to go. He doesn’t think he’s physically capable of leaving Frank here like this. He wants to bundle Frank up and take him back to his house. He wants to take back all of what happened last night and keep Frank from leaving in the first place. He wants to take it all back and he knows he can’t. The weight of it is a heavy, bitter thing.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Robby asks.
It’s a question with an answer he doesn’t want to know. Unfortunately, he’s been practicing medicine for long enough to know it in his bones, his heart. The thought makes him feel sick.
Frank barks out another laugh. Nothing about it sounds nice or mirthful. He looks away from Robby, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Frank.”
“If you make me take off my fucking clothes—I swear to god,” Frank says.
There’s a note of resignation in Frank’s voice that makes Robby’s skin go cold. Like he knows that Robby will push and push and push until Frank will go belly up again in surrender. And suddenly, Robby knows that there’s no world in which he would make Frank do anything right now, much less turn over his agency. The very idea makes Robby feel sick to his stomach. He wants to help Frank, to be there for him when he needs it -- not to make everything worse.
It’s a stalemate. Robby -- doesn’t know what to do. Where to go from here. He’s just as lost as he was earlier, when he first spotted those bruises on Frank’s neck and felt blindsided, wrongfooted.
“I just want to go to sleep. It’s been a long night,” Frank says. “I’m fine, alright?”
Robby takes a breath. “OK. If you say you’re fine, you’re fine,” Robby concedes.
After all, Frank is a doctor. He knows the concerns to look out for, the glaring problems that might lead to complications. Of any kind. Of anything that might arise.
“But,” Robby says. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frank breathes. “I can’t believe you.”
Robby feels the need to put his foot down. To draw a line in the sand.
“I can stay here with you, or I can take you back to mine,” Robby tells him. “But I shouldn’t have let you leave in the first place, I—”
“God. I really can’t believe you.” Frank laughs, incredulous. “This isn’t about you. You get that, right?”
Robby sets his teeth and clenches his jaw. He knows, knows that reacting in anger right now wouldn’t be good, even if it would be so, so easy. It’s what Frank wants out of him, probably -- or at least what he expects out of Robby. It would be cruel to give into his expectations, especially right now.
“I know,” Robby says. “This is about you and your safety, and I don’t feel safe leaving you here alone. You can be mad at me all you want, but—”
“Come on. You don’t give a shit about my safety,” Frank snarls. “You just want to stop feeling guilty about me all the fucking time. Well good news: you didn’t do shit to me, this was all someone else. So, you can go home and feel good about yourself, knowing that you wouldn’t ever fucking r—”
Frank cuts himself off. His voice cracks. His eyes go wet. A little hitch of his breath and a raw, “Fuck,” is all the warning that Robby gets.
Robby’s just fast enough to catch Frank before he crumples in on himself. This time Frank doesn’t flinch away, he just folds forward into Robby’s chest and makes a horrible, broken sound against Robby’s collarbone.
In all the years they’ve known each other, Robby’s never seen Frank cry. Not really. Not like this. He’s seen Frank exhausted, seen him totally beat. He’s seen him at loose ends with his marriage and seen him panicked and in the throes of strung-out desperation. He’s never seen Frank crumble like this, like he’s something fragile, clutching at Robby’s shirt and burrowing into his chest like he just can’t support himself any longer.
But he doesn’t have to. Robby holds him up. Wraps his arms around Frank and feels the way he shakes, the way that sobs wrack his body.
“Fuck,” Frank breathes out again, this time against the wet fabric of Robby’s shirt. Through it, Robby can feel his breath, the way it stutters.
It takes a moment to realize that Robby’s hands, without any real input from his brain, are rubbing soothing circles over Frank’s back. Over his spine. His ribs. He’s so warm, underneath his sweatshirt. And even though he’s not all that much smaller than Robby himself, right now Frank feels small in his arms. Young.
“It’s OK,” Robby says, even though he struggles to believe it himself. “You’re OK. You’re safe.”
In his arms, Frank breathes wetly. His fingers clench tight against Robby’s shirt.
After a little while, a period of time that feels like far too long and like barely a blink of an eye, Frank stops crying. His breaths start to come more easily, less haggard and rough. But still he doesn’t pull away. He leans into Robby’s arms, pressed up against his chest. Silent, save for the sound of his breathing. Still, save for the rise and fall of his chest against the palm of Robby’s hand. But they can’t stand here forever, Robby knows. It would be better if he could get Frank to sit down, to rest. There’s no way he’s done much of that since Robby last saw him.
“How do you feel about moving to the couch?” Robby asks.
It’s a gamble. He doesn’t know where Frank was attacked, if it was inside or outside, and the last thing he wants to do is mirror anything from last night in Frank’s head. Frank wasn’t sitting on Robby’s couch when Robby came home last night, but he slept there, at least for a little bit. He doesn’t know what that means. If it means anything at all.
Frank nods, the movement jerky but decisive.
He pulls away, then, out from the embrace of Robby’s arms. Robby lets him go easily, even though there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to stop holding Frank close. Selfishly, Robby misses Frank’s warmth against him the moment it’s gone, and the thought makes something twist horribly in the pit of his stomach.
Robby follows Frank to the couch, the same way he’d follow a patient standing and walking to the bathroom for the first time after surgery, like he’s shepherding Frank there, like he’s ready to catch him if he were to fall.
He doesn’t fall. He just sits down gingerly on one side of the couch, like his whole body aches, and then gives Robby a withering look when Robby hovers, unsure of where to go, where to put his body.
“You can sit,” Frank says. “I’m not going to bite.” Like it’s a joke. Neither one of them laughs.
At least he’s not trying to kick Robby out. Maybe he’s just given up.
Robby nods. “I’m going to get you an ice pack. For your neck.”
Frank just shrugs.
On the way to the kitchen, Robby picks up the discarded blanket, tossing it over his shoulder to return to Frank in case it’s something he wants. He’s unsure if it had been about the comfort, or just for the sake of having a shield, something to hide the bruises from Robby’s prying eyes, but bringing it back seems worthwhile anyway. And at least rescuing it from the floor is better than nothing.
There are no icepacks in Frank’s freezer. It’s half empty, but Robby grabs a back of frozen okra and a dish towel and returns to the living room.
Frank hasn’t moved.
Robby hands him the frozen okra, wrapped in the dishtowel, and then the blanket. Frank takes both, and Robby sits down next to him on the couch, on the opposite corner -- a respectful amount of distance between the two of them. So much that it feels like a valley, a gulf. Robby hates it, hates no longer being able to hold Frank against him, but it’s not like he can change that. He wrote that privilege off a long time ago. If he ever had it at all.
Silence falls between them, uneasy and awkward. Robby can hear the shifting of the frozen okra as Frank settles it against his neck, the creak of the couch below them as he shifts, and the occasional snuffle as Frank takes in a deep breath through a stuffy nose.
“Before you ask,” Frank says eventually, voice almost robotic in its frankness. He very firmly does not look at Robby. “I’ve already made an appointment at a clinic.” Robby watches him swallow. “I know I need PEP. I’ll get it.”
Robby swallows around the lump in his throat at the thought. He knows the procedure like the back of his hand, and yet he still had hoped there would be no need for it. That perhaps whatever Frank suffered from last night hadn’t necessitated… that. Frank’s admission is as much of a confirmation as anything, and having it all spelled out like that, without any plausible deniability, it makes Robby feel sick.
It makes him feel stupid, too. Angry at himself.
He wasn’t going to ask. He had hoped Frank wouldn’t need it. He should have asked, should have been more of a doctor, instead of simply feeling selfish, scared. Guilty.
“If you’d like company…” Robby offers.
“I’m fine,” Frank says, quick as anything.
Robby tries not to feel offended. A day ago, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine going to any sort of appointment with Frank. Now, he’s champing at the bit for an invitation, knowing he will never get one.
“The offer stands,” Robby tells him. “For a ride. Company. A credit card. Whatever you want.”
Frank laughs, but at least the sound is easier, now. Less mean, less self-deprecating. If anything, he might be laughing at Robby himself, which is preferable to any of the alternatives.
“What I want is for this whole fucking charade to be over,” Frank says, tired. He shifts downward on the couch, slouching, and moves the bag of okra on his neck to the other side. “I just want to just go to sleep.”
“Would you be able to?” Robby asks.
“No,” Frank says. “Definitely not.”
It’s not even eleven in the morning, but Robby doubts the time of day is Frank’s problem. Robby knows the struggle of closing your eyes and only seeing what’s haunting you, the only thing you don’t want to see -- he can only imagine what Frank finds there behind his closed eyelids, given how fresh the memory is, how crisp and technicolor.
It will likely be a while until Frank can sleep well again.
“Do you still want me to leave?” Robby asks, unable to stop himself. He wants to know, even if he isn’t sure he’d be able to follow through if Frank really did want him gone. And he knows that makes him cruel, selfish, but he’s not sure how to make himself feel any other way.
Frank just shrugs.
“I don’t give a shit what you do,” he says. He continues to not look at Robby, but at least the words don't sound like an outright lie.
Still, Robby isn’t sure that’s the full truth, but he knows that pushing will get him nowhere.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” Robby asks.
Frank barks out a laugh and turns to look at him, a little bit of familiar fire in his eyes as he stares Robby down, eyebrows raised. It’s answer enough, and not a great one, but even still it’s heartening to see a little bit of Frank’s spark back. A little bit of himself shining through the haze.
“Do you have any food in the house?” Robby asks.
“There’s probably some stuff in the fridge,” Frank answers.
Robby nods. “Great. Sit tight.”
Frank laughs again.
“Not going anywhere.”
--
Cooking food, especially breakfast, in someone else’s house isn’t something Robby’s all that accustomed to. Back in the day, maybe -- but these days, his typical forays into someone else’s home don’t come with mornings after; usually Robby leaves before the sun comes up, before breakfast even comes into play. The only person whose kitchen he regularly cooks in is Jack’s, and at this point, that’s just second nature. There are weeks, sometimes even months, where Robby has lived at Jack’s more than at his own home. But that’s different. So, navigating around Frank’s kitchen, identifying acceptable pots and pans and utensils, leaves Robby feeling a little dizzy, a little wrongfooted. But there’s a novelty to it, too, he realizes, as he gathers up the necessities and identifies ingredients in Frank’s fridge and cabinets, enough that he pulls together the makings for a breakfast.
It’s also a little glimpse into parts of Frank that Robby might never know otherwise -- little things, like how he keeps his peanut butter in the fridge, the way he stores his cutlery, the fact that he likes his orange juice with extra pulp. The knowledge feels special. Secret.
Robby settles on eggs, some bread that isn’t yet moldy, frozen sausage, and all of the ingredients for pancakes.
It’s too much, he knows. But Frank deserves a good meal. A real breakfast, something made with care. And something with enough parts that he can pick at, in case none of it interests him at all.
It throws together quick enough. The pancakes are easy, something Robby used to make all the time when he was younger and less exhausted all the time, and scrambled eggs are always simple. The sausage warms up in a skillet next to the eggs, and then all Robby has to do is spread some jam on the toast and then he’s done. He rounds it all off with two glasses of Frank’s extra pulpy orange juice.
It’s satisfying, watching it all come together.
When Robby walks into the living room, plates balanced in one hand and glasses of juice in the other, he finds Frank slouched down on the couch with the back of his head resting against the back of the couch. His chin is tilted up, eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable, or pleasant for his back, but Robby doubts that’s on his mind right now.
When Frank speaks, he speaks only to the ceiling. Eyes trained carefully on the white plaster.
“I lied,” Frank says.
Robby sets the plates and glasses down on the coffee table and tries to ignore the way his stomach clenches in anticipation of whatever Frank is going to say.
“Mm?”
“Earlier. About the drugs. I mean, I didn’t—I didn’t touch anything. I wasn’t lying about that. But I wanted to. I really fucking wanted to,” Frank says.
He doesn’t look away from the ceiling. Like it’s easier to talk to Robby this way, without having to meet his eyes. It probably is.
Carefully, Robby sits down next to him. He doesn’t feel the same ire as he did earlier at the mention of the drugs; instead, he just feels sad. He knows this dance. He’s seen it hundreds of times.
“It’s OK to feel that way,” Robby tells him. “You went through a trauma. It’s understandable if your brain desires the simplicity of falling back into familiar rhythms.”
“I didn’t want to get high,” Frank says.
It doesn’t feel like a complete statement, so Robby waits, heart in his throat.
Robby watches Frank swallow. The jerky bob of his Adam's apple. The way his eyes fall closed.
Silence hangs heavily between them. Thick. A horrible pause between words. Robby can’t tear his eyes off Frank, the way his chest rises with each breath, the way his eyelashes flutter against his skin, the way his lip twitches with everything unsaid.
“I just wanted it all to stop,” Frank finally says. “It’s all I wanted. And I wanted it so fucking bad.”
Robby’s heart breaks.
Robby doesn’t know what the right thing to do at this moment is, if Frank even wants to be touched, but all the same, he reaches out to take Frank’s hand in his own, moving steady, but slow, so Frank has all the time in the world to pull away. Frank doesn’t. Instead, he laces his fingers in between Robby’s and grips Robby’s hand so tight that it hurts. Instantly, Robby squeezes back even tighter, meeting him where he stands. Holding onto Frank like a lifeline. Or maybe throwing Frank a lifeline of his own.
After a moment, Frank lets out a long, shaky breath. One that he’s probably been holding in since last night. It sounds like it hurts. It sounds like release.
Carefully, Robby asks, “Do you still want that right now?”
He keeps his words gentle, even though they both are fully aware of all the implications hiding behind them; there’s no use pretending otherwise. He has to ask. Both as a friend, but also as a doctor.
“No,” Frank says. No hesitation, but the one word is so heavy with fatigue. Tired, but sincere.
Robby lets his own shoulders relax minutely and mirrors Frank, exhaling a breath of his own.
“OK,” Robby says. “It’s OK.”
It isn’t, not really, but it will be. Robby will make sure it is, even if he has to make the universe bend to his will to make it happen.
Frank sighs again, then shifts, finally turning his head to look at Robby. His eyes are big, sorrowful.
“You aren’t mad?”
“No,” Robby says. “Not at you.”
Eyes trained on him, Frank scrutinizes Robby’s face for a long moment, like he’s looking for something, before he finally nods. A jerky little movement. Robby isn’t sure what Frank was hoping to find amongst Robby’s beard and wrinkles, but he looks content enough with whatever answer he found there that his expression eases.
Then, Frank pushes himself up, out of his slump, and shifts the bag of frozen okra to the other side of his neck. Then, he looks down at the coffee table. When his eyes fall on the plates stacked high with Robby’s guilty breakfast, his expression does something funny, twisting up in a way that makes Robby’s heart wrench.
“If you’re not hungry, I can make something else,” Robby says quickly.
There isn’t much else in Frank’s apartment, but Robby will figure something out. He can order something. Have it here in less than half an hour.
“No, it’s—” Frank stops. He swallows audibly and takes a breath. “It’s just—it’s been a really long time since I had a home-cooked breakfast.”
“Oh,” Robby says.
He knows that Frank used to love making the kids breakfast. He used to talk about it, about the fun shapes he’d make the pancakes. Like Mickey Mouse. Or a rabbit with wonky ears and chocolate chip eyes.
“Pancakes,” Frank says quietly, more to himself than to Robby. “I fucking love pancakes.”
His eyes are slightly wet, bright with unshed tears. Robby can’t look at them for too long, so he looks down to Frank’s mouth, where his lips are turning up into the faintest hint of a smile.
“I couldn’t find any syrup,” Robby says instead of anything else. “I’m sorry.”
Robby is sorry for so many things. Too many to count. Some his own doing, some that he has no control over, like the violence of a stranger, the cruelty of the universe. But right now, he’s really, really heart-wrenchingly sorry he doesn’t have any maple syrup to give to Frank.
“Oh,” Frank says. “I have some. Cabinet to the left of the fridge. Probably all the way in the back.”
He’s still staring at the plate of breakfast food like it’s a work of art.
Robby squeezes Frank's hand once more, lets go, and then gets up to fetch the syrup. It's right where Frank said it would be, pushed into the back of a cabinet, behind cans of chicken noodle soup and crushed tomatoes. Robby is delighted to find that it's the real kind, too, not some corn syrup monstrosity. He brings the container back to the living room, and he’s even more pleased to find that Frank is already picking at the eggs on his plate.
Robby sits back down next to Frank.
“Do you want to stay here?” Robby asks, watching as Frank slathers his pancakes in far too much syrup.
Frank doesn’t look up from the pancakes.
“Where else would I go?”
That answer’s easy. Easier than anything has been for the last twelve hours.
“My place,” Robby says simply.
He has a couch. And a bed. Frank could sleep wherever he wanted, wherever he felt most comfortable, and Robby would make do. He’d make sure Frank felt safe. That he had everything he needed. That he didn’t have to go home alone.
Frank spears a soggy bite of pancake and looks over at Robby. Studying him again, like there’s something to be found on Robby’s face.
Then, he looks away, back at the plate, and puts the bite of syrup-laden dough in his mouth. He chews with an expression of quiet delight.
“OK,” Frank says. “Yeah. I'd—I’d like that.”