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They say you die twice.
The first time, when you leave the physical world for whatever follows it. Robby has seen enough of that moment to last a lifetime: the strange, distant look that people get in their milky eyes, the soft gasp of a departure, the slow relaxing of muscle and fascia until the body goes slack. He has felt, at times, that he sees more than others seem to in those moments. The slight widening of the eyes, the constriction between the eyebrows, the acrid taste of the air and the electric crackling on his skin.
When he’d tried to bring that up to McKay, he’d approached it sideways. Carefully, as if he was tiptoeing toward her, he’d kept his tone light as he asked if she ever thought that dying folks looked… well… afraid. In those final moments.
And God, the way that she’d looked at him. Like he’d suddenly grown three heads. She’d touched his arm, so gentle that it burned him. He’d started to backpedal immediately, which only made it worse. She’d asked if he wanted to step into the break room for a minute and he’d slipped away from her so fast that he’d practically left skid marks on the linoleum.
Robby can understand, of course, that the way he thinks about death sounds like someone who is, themselves, afraid of death. His fears have always taken on the flavor of obsession, thoughts that eddy endlessly around in his head until they no longer feel like fear at all. All that swirling transforms them into something else, a feeling more akin to pain than fear. And death has been an obsession for as long as he can remember, has become more like a comfort to suffer under in how familiar it is.
The staff probably whispers about him behind his back about it, not because McKay is a gossip — far from it — but because she’d probably expressed her concern to Dana, who is. That’s alright. It’s natural for a team to talk about their managers, to gossip and complain and bond through shared frustration.
Even if it’s whispering in hushed tones about his suicidal ideations, he’ll take it. The team is functioning naturally; they don’t need to know him and the rumors don’t need to be correct. They are the lifeblood of a place and they keep the veins circulating, the heart pumping.
For as long as he can remember, he’s wanted to be talked about. He doesn’t crave fame, but he is man enough to admit that he has an ego that required stroking. It had led him to medical school, then to the emergency department, and then to becoming senior attending physician. His photo on the wall, his name shouted across the emergency room, his expertise falling out of the mouths of those he’d taught.
Legacy. That’s what Adamson had called it. Your students are your legacy.
But they keep you alive. Adamson hasn’t died a second time, because Robby refuses to keep his name out of his mouth. And as long as his name is still in the world, he is, too. Right? Isn’t that what they say?
Perhaps the truth is that Robby wants to live forever. Perhaps he is so afraid of death that he wants to die suddenly and violently and memorably, so that he is not just the senior attending that taught other doctors — but instead, he is the mentor gone too soon, that no one can quite forget.
Perhaps he wants to be alive so desperately that it has transformed itself into what Jack keeps calling a death wish.
Jack. God. Talk about someone he aches to be remembered by. The idea of leaving and Jack eventually saying his name for the last time… it’s nearly enough to keep a man living. Out of spite or devotion, it’s hard to say.
“You know, you’re not exactly helping to quell the rumor mill down there,” the devil says, having been spoken of and now appearing. Robby turns to look at Jack, leaning on the railing and smirking down at Robby, where he’s sitting on the edge of the roof.
“I’m not fighting a losing battle,” Robby tells him. “The ER runs on rumors, you know that.”
“Sure.” Jack ducks under and joins him, heaving down beside him with a sigh. “If that’s your story.”
“And I’m sticking to it.”
Jack chuckles. “Stubborn asshole. I’m trying to help you.”
“Don’t need help.” Robby glances sidelong at him. “You’re here early.”
“I was bored.”
“You need a hobby,” Robby says, then immediately corrects himself. “One that doesn’t get you killed.”
Jack hums, looks down at where his and Robby’s feet are dangling stories above the city. “You’re one to talk.”
“I don’t have hobbies,” Robby scoffs.
Jack’s laugh tugs a smile onto Robby’s face, small but willing. They look at each other, a familiar warmth and ease pooling between them. Jack nudges Robby’s shoulder with his own.
“What’s on your mind, man?” Jack asks, voice soft now. “You know I try to stay out of what the foot soldiers are gossiping about. Hard to do that when I’ve got McKay of all people expressing concern about you—”
“I wish she hadn’t said anything.”
“If that was true, you wouldn’t have talked to Cassie.” Jack levels a steady look at him. “You had to know she’d say something to someone.”
“I didn’t think it’d be you,” Robby grouses.
Jack frowns at him, a displeased thing in the periphery of Robby’s vision. His proximity is too soft a thing, as is his worry. His care. Robby sighs, leans forward onto his thighs and buries his face in his hands.
They sit in silence for a stretch of moments, shoulders still in contact.
Perhaps he really is afraid of dying.
He’d only dared to tell McKay because she’d mentioned going to a psychic the year before. And somehow, he’d still ended up as the one who sounded unhinged.
“Should I be concerned?” Jack finally asks, so soft.
Robby sighs, drags his fingers down his cheeks. Shakes his head.
Softer, somehow: “I don’t want you going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Robby murmurs. “What the hell would this place do without me, anyway?”
Jack looks over at him for a long moment, inhaling deeply. “That’s not the right question.”
“Hm?”
“What would I– You know damn well that if you were gone, I’d…” Jack inhales sharply, looks away.
Robby sends his gaze to the horizon, trying to identify the tallest, furthest building from them. It draws his focus, his mind, away from the unfinished thought lingering between them now, unsaid. But he cannot quite escape it and he doesn’t know what building he’s looking at.
He doesn’t move a muscle, still as stone, as he says, “Come on. You’d forget all about me.”
Jack’s head snaps to him. When their eyes meet, Jack’s widen a little, his eyebrows constrict. Something feels different between them, a shock in the air that shivers over Robby’s skin.
Fear.
Robby fights the urge to reach for him, the way that he has so many times in the cover of darkness, in beds laying themselves bare for one another. All these years, all their moments of closeness. What has it gotten them? Gotten him? He wants Jack, he pushes Jack away, he doesn’t know what he has ever wanted from the man beside him except to have him there, beside him.
They belong to one another, don’t they? His name in Jack’s mouth, Jack’s in his.
Jack touches him.
He wraps his hand around Robby’s forearm, grip loose but reassuring. “Never,” Jack says, voice tight, “say that to me again.”
“Jack–”
“I mean it, Robby. That’s not fucking true. You know that’s not true.”
Robby nods, slow. He starts to stand, sighing. “I’m not going anywhere, anyway.”
Jack doesn’t let go of his arm, stares up at him with that same pinch of fear in his expression. Robby swallows hard at the sight of him, pleading nearly, as he holds onto him, head tipped up into the glow of the roof’s floodlights.
“Michael,” Jack says softly, holding on.
Robby puts his hand over Jack’s, touches his fingers to the hollows of his wrist, not quite ready to leave. “Jack,” he whispers.