Work Text:
Dennis sits at the side of Robby’s bed. It’s new — the hospice team brought it in earlier this week — and there isn’t properly room for both of them. Robby had been resistant to it, saying that he didn’t want to die in a hospital bed. But he also couldn’t sit up on his own anymore, and the bed let Robby sit up when he had visitors. One shred of dignity traded for another; he’d die in a hospital bed, but he could sit up to read and speak to his friends when they came by.
“Den. I want” A rattling breath, a cough. “Stars?” A weak hand, pointing.
This is the only redeeming quality of the bed, at least according to Robby. They can wheel it out into the back yard and see the sky.
“Of course. Let me grab a blanket.” So Dennis goes through the process of unlocking the wheels, making sure the saline bag is refilled, making sure he’s got a water bottle and some cloth and a blanket. When he’s completed his checks, he pilots the bed from their bedroom (Whitaker had enlisted Santos’s help swapping furniture around so that he and Robby could still sleep in the same room, Robby in his new bed and Dennis in the twin from the guest room) to the backyard.
The crickets are loud tonight, reminding him of home. Reminding him of when Dennis’s mom, then dad in quick succession, passed a few years back. Reminding him of how Robby had held him through it with the same tenderness he offered every grieving patient. There’s the sound of an ambulance in the distance, and a shiver passes down his spine.
They’ve only been out there a few minutes before Dennis realizes it’s probably going to be tonight. He’s developed a sense for these things through long experience — he knows when a patient is ready. Knows how the air grows heavy and sharp all at once. Knows how death smells.
The bed is only rated for 250 pounds (they had chosen it for its increased mobility) but he doesn’t care. If this is their last night, he can deal with a broken bed tomorrow. Looking down at his partner, Dennis asks, “Robby, dear, you mind scooching over?” He gets a tired grin and a hand patting the bed. It’s as complete an invitation as he’ll get tonight, so he climbs in. It’s narrow — again, the maneuverability had been important — so he’s forced to curl alongside the older man. He’s careful not to pinch anything, keeping a close eye on Robby’s face for reactions. All he sees is a smile, full of love, eyes scanning the sky.
“Robby. I – I have some things I want to say to you.” The older man’s head turns toward the younger man, a questioning look on his face.
“I love you.” The lump in his throat forms immediately. He’s counseled people on this a thousand times, but there’s something different in doing it himself. “I love you, and I always have. I love your drive, and your loyalty, and how good of a friend you are. I love how good of a doctor you are. I love watching you be a parent to Jake and a mentor to the dozens of med students and residents you’ve helped shape. I love you. I hope you know that.”
As Dennis speaks, Robby’s eyes turn away from the stars and lock with his partner’s. The younger man feels a hand slip into his. And he realizes that after tonight, he’ll never feel those hands in his or warm on his shoulders or see them perform a procedure. And the tears start. How many lives those hands have saved.
“Thank you. Thank you for so much. Thank you for taking a chance with me. Thank you for helping me see the doctor you already saw. Thank you for being there with me through all of it. Thank you for sharing your life with me. Thank you for staying. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He buries his face in the older man’s thinning hair as he mouths the words again and again.
“I forgive you. I’d say there isn’t anything to forgive, but I know you wouldn’t believe me even though it’s true. I forgive you for the late nights and the early mornings. I forgive you for always kissing me with coffee-breath. I forgive you for convincing me to stay in cold-as-hell Pennsylvania.”
There is a searching, pained look in Robby’s eyes, and he knows he has to address it or the older man will die thinking of it. “I forgive you for dying first, Robby. I do. I know there’s a part of you that wishes it were reversed, because you can’t stop thinking about me in pain. And I won't lie to you — I’m going to be in pain. Wailing, gnashing of teeth, the whole nine yards. But I forgive you for it. Because I love you. You hear me? I forgive you.”
They both know there’s just one more. The moment drags, the two of them looking into each other’s eyes. It’s as if, if he doesn’t complete the ritual, there will be more time. But they both know that’s not the case.
So Dennis takes the plunge. “I hope you can forgive me.” Nothing more to this — they talked about the things he worried about when Robby was early in his diagnosis, enough to assure the younger man that there weren’t any major regrets.
Through tears and a cough, Robby makes sure his words are clear: “Always. Wouldn’t change anything.”
The two lay in the too-small hospital bed in their back yard, listening to the sounds of the city in summer. And they fell asleep.