Chapter Text
Ask a healthcare worker in your life about the “feeling.” Y’know, the one. The one you feel before someone dies, before a code comes into the ER, before the tones drop on a critical call, before you have to do CPR in the waiting room, before you have to do CPR in front of the Christmas tree because grandma had a heart attack after Christmas dinner. (Yes, that’s real. Happy Birthday, Jesus.) They know the feeling. The dread that builds in your chest throughout the day, how you wake up, and something just isn’t right. It’s anxiety, your subconscious trying to warn you that all of the circumstances are going to add up to the big one.
That’s how you woke up this morning.
Robby wasn’t in bed like he usually was. He was in the kitchen, packing some snacks into his backpack that he planned on taking with him on his sabbatical. Jack was on the other side of the bed, seemingly having moved away from you some time during your slumber. It was peaceful, waking up to see him in your bed, not being woken up by him crawling into it.
You pull yourself up, tossing the blankets haphazardly to the side as you stretch. You yawn, standing with a small pat to Jack’s salt and pepper curls. It’s when that feeling begins to build. You try stretching again, maybe it was your body trying to crack a joint that hadn’t fully woken up yet, but it makes no difference. You let out a breath, a huff in irritation and disbelief, and pad into the kitchen.
Robby was there, shirtless, a coffee mug steaming next to him as he scrounged through his backpack, reorganizing.
“Morning,” you mutter softly, wrapping your arms around his midsection and resting your head between his shoulder blades.
“Good morning, Miss Y/N,” he says in a hushed but chirpy tone. “I’m headed out early this morning. Gonna do a little joyriding before coming in.”
“Oh, yeah?” You hum, resting your chin on his shoulder blade to look up at his side profile. “Wearing a helmet, I hope.”
Robby pauses, then remembers to chuckle and look back down at his bag. “Yeah, yeah.” He nods. It seemed less than truthful, coming from him. It added to that suspicious tightness in your chest.
“...Good.” You pull away, patting his back and taking a few steps away. “Showering with me?”
“Nah, I already did. Though I wouldn’t say no to some entertainment.” He smirks softly, eyes scanning your body as you turn back to face him.
“Nice try. Paying customers only.” You smile and turn back, walking out.
You make it down the hallway, placing your hand on the bathroom doorway, and a sharp jab hits you in your lower stomach. It catches you off guard, leaning on the door frame with your full body as you place a hand on your lower stomach. You curse quietly, wincing, but it begins to fade as quickly as it came.
“What the fuck…” You mutter to yourself, as if it mildly inconvenienced you. Though, between the uneasy tightness in your chest and the weird sharpness in your gut, it makes you think.
The shower doesn’t do anything to ease your anxiety, but you’d long forgotten about that weird pain. You step out of the shower, dry yourself, do your skin care, but every once in a while, you look at yourself in the mirror critically. Lines were beginning to form in the creases of your eyes, your eye bags were darker than ever, and for some reason, you had tiny whiteheads growing on your nose and chin that you couldn’t help but pop.
Thinking about Robby’s sabbatical had you stressed beyond belief. It wasn’t the concept of it; it was the way he spoke about it. Aloof, but holding something deeper. He talked about that motorcycle like it was his firstborn. Like fixing it up fixed a part of him. He’d been careless with his things lately, like when you were going through your shared closet and he said you could have one of the jackets that had been untouchable just a few months earlier. You remember laughing at the joke, then met his eyes, your face dropping when you realized he wasn’t joking.
You jump at the sound of the bathroom door being knocked on. You huff, opening it and adjusting your towel.
Robby stood there, ready to go, his helmet in hand and two backpacks over one shoulder. You purse your lips when you see them.
“I’m out,” He says, adjusting the bags. “I’ll see you at work.”
“M’kay,” You smile softly, standing on your toes to kiss him.
He pulls away first, cutting it short. You lower yourself back down, your lips pursed like you were uncomfortable. There it was again, creeping up your throat.
“Bye,” You smile, still uncomfortable. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” He smiles, almost mirroring what you’d imagine your expression was. He walks away, headed towards the front door.
Your legs move before you think to tell them to. “Michael,” You call out, standing in the doorway of the living room. He stands at the front door, hand on the knob, and turns to you.
“...You don’t… have to go, yknow,” Your voice trembles, uncharacteristically small. “We could… wait a month? And all go on vacation together…” You readjust your towel again, your hands fiddling with the rough hem. “You don’t have to just leave. Without a plan.”
“...I’m going, Y/N.” He says, his voice low, masking a deep-rooted anger. “It’s not like I’m moving out. I’ll still text and call.”
“That’s– that’s not it, Mike, I…” You swallow, looking down at your feet, then back up at him. “I don’t have a good feeling about it. I know it’s your… midlife-crisis-soul-quest trip, but… something about it feels like it’s more than that.”
You take a few steps forward, but he doesn’t move an inch. “You can talk to me, Michael. I’m not a therapist, I’m your girlfriend. Have been for a very long time. I want to know that you’re okay, that you’re not gonna do something you regret.”
Robby’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, a seemingly pained, pursed lip smile on his face. “You’re overthinking it, Y/N. I’ll see you at work.” And he promptly leaves.
You stand there, hands falling to your sides even though your towel loosens. Your whole body was screaming this isn’t right, something isn’t right. You swallow the lump down and walk back to the bathroom, glancing up at the small window above the toilet.
An idea, albeit a stupid one, comes to mind.
You hoist yourself up onto the closed toilet seat lid, looking out at the driveway. And there’s that stupid man, backing up on his motorcycle without his helmet on. You growl to yourself in frustration as he drives away on that instant-death machine in full confidence, not a sliver of protective gear on his body.
Jackass.