Chapter Text
Robby was dying.
It started about two-thirds of the way through their shift, after they spent an hour coding a little girl who’d been hit by a drunk driver in a crosswalk on the way home from school. She was nine, but she looked younger, impossibly small and delicate on the gurney when they wheeled her in, crumpled and bleeding and breathing with stilted shudders that conjured an image in Robby’s brain of a wounded bird on the sidewalk covered in downy tufts of fledgling feathers. Baking in the sun, just waiting for death.
They couldn’t save her. And these things happened—every day in fact, but Robby was… affected. More than he should be.
There was a brief moment of silent reflection they could scarcely afford, and then everyone scattered. Back to work. Back to the other patients who deserved their focus. Every bed was full, and still new traumas kept being wheeled in, a never-ending onslaught of bloody wounds and broken bones. The halls were quickly becoming clogged with the less critical patients, the ones who were unfortunately conscious and cognizant enough to fight with their loved ones and complain—about the noise, and the wait, and the cost, and the food, and the state of the American healthcare system—and Robby couldn’t blame them, seriously, but he also needed them to shut the fuck up before he started screaming.
It was Whitaker who eventually pulled him aside, wrapped a gentle hand around Robby’s bicep as he looked up at him with those big, earnest, blue eyes, and said, “You solid, Cap?” All the breath whooshed out of Robby’s lungs at once.
Something broke open inside him. He could physically feel it rupture. Like a glowstick in his gut, bent too far until the plastic casing snapped, spilling toxic chemicals into his bloodstream.
Suddenly, all the noises around them—the beeping monitors, the squeaky-wheeled crash carts, and the endless fucking complaining—were amplified in Robby’s ears. A wave of nausea roiled in his stomach, followed by a lightning strike of pain that fizzled through him from sacrum to sternum. His mouth filled with saliva. A fat bead of sweat trickled unpleasantly down his spine.
He brushed Whitaker’s hand off his arm and grunted out something he hoped sounded enough like bathroom to justify the way he fled down the hall as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him. Robby didn’t stop at the bathroom. Instead, he pushed open the door to the stairwell and began to climb.
The roof. He had to make it to the roof. If Robby was going to die today, he was going to do it alone, in the fresh air, with the lights of Pittsburgh flickering through the early stages of hazy twilight. Another wave of acute pain had him doubled over, sagging against the metal banister with a groan that echoed off the painted concrete walls. But he couldn’t stop moving. He had to—he had to—
By the time Robby reached the final flight of stairs, he was crawling on all fours. His vision was narrowing, his peripherals fading into fuzzy darkness. But that was fine. He only had to look forward right now, anyway. He just had to get to the roof, and then he was allowed to die.
Somehow, incredibly, he fucking made it to the top.
He butted his forehead against the heavy metal door, expecting it to swing open, but it didn’t give. He was locked out. And now his forehead hurt too. Since when did they lock this door? Was Gloria somehow responsible? Fucking bullshit. Robby growled in frustration. He didn’t want to die kneeling on the non-slip rubber tread of the stairs. That wasn’t the plan.
And then he remembered, oh yeah, the door has a push-bar.
With all the strength he could muster, he threw his upper body off the floor to reach the bar. The door swung open with a loud clack of metal, spilling Robby face-first onto the concrete. Over the dull pain blooming on the bridge of his nose, Robby could feel the September breeze rustling his hair, cooling the sweat dripping steadily down the back of his neck.
Thank God.
He picked his heavy skull off the ground and crawled forward, ignoring the new surge of pain that erupted in his belly. Whatever this was, it’d surely be over soon. When Robby made it close enough to the edge of the roof that he could see the very tops of the buildings in the skyline, he sprawled onto his back, finally letting his body go limp.
He stared at the sky and thought about Jake.
A random memory popped into his head—a day when the boy was nine years old, the same age as that tiny little girl who’d died on Robby’s table today. He and Janey took Jake mini-golfing, and the kid kept whacking the ball so hard that it flew off the course, into bushes, into other people’s games, into the murky, blue-dyed water. After the first few times, it had to have been on purpose. The ball was yellow, with a faded black smiley face on it. And Jake just kept whacking it as hard as he could, roaring with laughter every time, and Robby would have to go search for it, treading carefully through the flowerbeds and dipping his hand into cool, disgustingly stagnant pools of water to retrieve the smiling ball.
It was a good memory.
A good note to leave on.
Problem was, the minutes kept passing. And Robby was sweaty, and shivering, and wracked with pain, but… he wasn’t dying. Not quickly enough, at least. He could roll his body under the guard rails and put himself out of his misery, but then everyone would think… Jack would think…
He’d made Robby promise. “If you jump, I’m jumping after you,” the man had told him gravely, his expression stern and serious, like he wasn’t quoting fucking Titanic. Robby couldn’t risk it.
He had to make sure Jack knew this wasn’t his choice. His body had just… decided to give up, for some reason. Just turned in its resignation papers in the middle of a shift, no two weeks’ notice or anything. It was actually kinda funny, if you thought about it. Robby huffed a delirious laugh that morphed into a grunt of pain as another lightning bolt of agony shot through him. They were coming with increasing frequency.
Fuck. Before he could think about it too hard, he was scrambling for the cell phone in his pocket and swiping on Jack’s contact.
“This better be fucking good,” Jack answered on the first ring. Robby could tell from the gravel in his voice that he’d just woken up.
“Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep,” is what was supposed to come out of Robby’s mouth, but instead, he heard himself let out a high, pathetic whine into the phone.
“Robby? Fuck, what’s—are you hurt?” Jack sounded so worried. Robby felt guilty for calling him. For waking him up. For derailing the plan. Robby was supposed to die on this roof alone, without bothering anybody about it.
“I’m—not doing so hot,” he managed to grit out as another shockwave of pain jolted through him. His body shifted instinctively onto its side, folding into the fetal position. “Shit, Jack. Can you…”
“Where are you?”
“Roof.”
“Stay there. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Jack said decisively. Robby wanted to joke about how he couldn’t possibly move if he wanted to, but the line abruptly went dead. He was dying, and his best friend just hung up on him. Incredible.
After what he could only assume was approximately ten minutes, Robby heard the familiar sound of Jack’s uneven gait jogging up the stairs. The metal door flew open with a crash.
“What the fuck, man?” Jack said angrily when he saw Robby curled up on the ground.
“Jack, I’m—something’s wrong,” Robby whimpered. Understatement of the century. “I feel…” He let out a choked sob.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Jack quickly pivoted, his tone softening. Let me look at you.” Robby felt a wave of relief wash over him as Jack drew closer. Maybe he didn’t want to die alone after all. Jack dropped to his knees on the concrete next to him, reaching out to palpate Robby’s chest, his belly. Then, the man froze. “Aw, shit.”
Oh, cool, Jack had figured out why he was dying. Robby was a little curious about that, honestly.
“What is it?”
“You’re in heat.” The words took a full five seconds of silence to sink into Robby’s brain.
“No.”
“Yes.”
No. Not only was that impossible, it was also… no. Jack was a good doctor, but he wasn’t infallible. He was wrong sometimes. And this happened to be one of the times he was so ludicrously wrong that Robby would’ve made fun of him for years, probably, if this wasn’t his last day on Earth.
“Absolutely not. I’m fifty-five years old, Jack. I haven’t had a heat in—” He did some quick mental math. “—nine years. And it’s never felt like this. I’m dying.” He clung to the front of Jack’s shirt and stared into those familiar hazel eyes, trying desperately to communicate with his best friend that this was the last conversation they were ever going to have.
“Yeah, I hear those resurgent heats are a bitch. You got an alpha to call?” This stubborn motherfucker.
“It’s not heat. What else could it be?”
“Heat.”
“What else?”
“Do you want me to say it in a funny voice? Mike—you’re in heat. Trust me. I’ve known you for thirty years. I know what you smell like.”
A thick blanket of dread settled over Robby. This was worse than death. The thought of… dealing with that. Here. Now. Somehow, Robby had to get home and… do what? He sure as hell didn’t have any knotting toys anymore.
At the very thought of a silicone knot, his body was wracked with another excruciating bolt of electricity that he finally recognized as heat cramps, just… multiplied by ten. Jesus Christ. He knew resurgent heats were reported to be painful, but he hadn’t imagined anything close to this.
Why was he born an omega? Why couldn’t he be a beta like Jack, who’d never had to worry about suppressants, or scent patches, or scheduling heat leave, or not knowing which of his colleagues might secretly view his biology as weakness?
And after nine years, nine years of finally being free from it all, Robby was being dragged back into the worst heat of his life, because what? He had a stressful day?
And Whitaker was kind, a deeply unhelpful part of his hindbrain chirped.
No. Nope.
“I can’t, Jack,” he croaked. “I can’t do this right now.” Jack smiled down at him, his eyes pitying.
“Yeah, well, it’s happening. And you’re not doing it alone—not at this age. So, is there an alpha I should be telling to haul ass over here before your nervous system fries?” Jack had to know there wasn’t. Robby wasn’t that good at keeping secrets from him.
“Last time was… Janey…” And they both knew that sure as hell wasn’t happening. Jack scrubbed at his temples with the pads of his thumbs.
“Shit. Okay, let me call Kiara.”
“Kiara?”
“Not to fuck you, dumbass, to reach out to the network for an emergency heat partner,” Jack explained slowly, like Robby was an idiot. “We’ll have someone here for you within the hour.”
“No, Jack, I can’t—not with a stranger, please.” Robby was begging now. Robby hated begging. But if they locked him in a scent-proof room with some random thirty-year-old alpha named Kyle who wore nitrile gloves and said things like ‘I’m going to insert my knot into your vaginal canal now, please let me know if the pain becomes unbearable,” Robby was going to beg for something else. Like a bullet in the brain.
“It wouldn’t be my first choice either, brother, but we don’t have a ton of options here,” Jack reminded him gently. “A solo heat in your fifties could literally kill you. And in case you’ve forgotten—if you die, I’m coming after you. So, for my sake, just—”
The rest of Jack’s sentence was interrupted by the door crashing open once again. And there was Whitaker, flushed red and gasping for breath, sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead like he’d just finished running a marathon.
“Robby—he’s—he’s in—heat,” Whitaker wheezed, eyes darting between Jack and Robby in alarm.
“Well, how’s that for a second opinion?” Jack said smugly. Robby glared at him. “Kid, could you really smell him all the way from the ER?” Jack sounded deeply concerned, and for good fucking reason.
With all of the… everything, it hadn’t dawned on Robby that even at fifty-five years old, he was still an unmated omega going into heat in a dangerously public place. This day just kept getting better and better.
Whitaker took a step towards them, and then he froze, glancing down at his feet with wide eyes like he hadn’t intended to move them. He stood stock-still, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides.
“I… I could smell him on the stairs. Followed his scent,” the kid explained. Robby noticed Whitaker sucking in shallow breaths through his open mouth. “And it’s only a matter of time before every alpha in this hospital does the same. It’s… strong, Dr. Abbot. We have to get him to a scent-proof room, now,” he told Jack authoritatively. Whitaker wasn’t even looking at Robby anymore. And he was talking about him like he wasn’t even there.
“Roger. And you need to get the fuck off this roof immediately, Whitaker. Make sure there’s a room prepped for us downstairs, and grab Kiara—tell her it’s an emergency. We’ll give you a five-minute head start, then I’ll bring him down.”
Now they were both talking about him like he wasn’t there. Robby opened his mouth to ask if he had any say in the matter, but all that came out was another humiliatingly high-pitched whine. What the fuck?
“Five minutes is too long,” Whitaker argued, sounding stricken. “Someone else could come up here—”
“And if they do, I’ll kill them with my bare hands before I let them lay a hand on him, kid,” Jack promised.
And he would. Robby knew he would. But that would result in… a lot of paperwork. And potentially some prison time, depending on a judge's legal interpretation of ‘reasonable and necessary force.’ At least he knew Jack had a good lawyer.
“Now, go,” Jack said forcefully. Whitaker turned on his heel and sprinted down the stairs without a backward glance. Jack shifted his attention to Robby again.
“Alright, Mikey. Think you can hold it together for me for another couple of minutes?” Robby wanted to scoff and tell Jack to quit treating him like a child, but another pained whimper bubbled out of his throat instead. Apparently, that was the only form of communication he was currently capable of. “Yeah, me neither,” Jack agreed. “But I’ll carry your heavy ass down to the ER if I have to. It’ll be just like that time you blacked out at O'Brien’s, and I had to drag you six blocks and up four flights of stairs to that shitty apartment on Queen. Do you remember that?”
Robby did not, in fact, remember that.
“Yeah, probably not,” Jack mused, chuckling warmly. “Well, I did it. And I’ll do it again. I’ll do it every day for the rest of our lives, if you need me to.”
Fucking sap. Jesus, Robby wished he could make fun of him right now.
And you wonder why the med students always assume we’re married.
So you carried me up a couple stairs—do you remember the time I had to win back your leg in a poker game?
I’m experiencing a full-blown hormonal meltdown here, and you’re still the most melodramatic dick on this roof.
“God, it’s incredible,” Jack laughed. “I can say whatever I want right now, and you can’t even tell me to shut the fuck up.”
Robby summoned every ounce of determination he had, forcing his mouth to form around the words.
“Jack… Shut… the fuck—up.”