Chapter Text
Some days, one hour of therapy left Jack more exhausted than twelve in the Pitt.
His therapist was amazing, don’t get him wrong, but having to look Derek in the eye and describe what he was and wasn’t doing to work on himself—or worse, directly talking about his feelings—left Jack feeling like he’d run a marathon.
Maybe Jack should try running a marathon, then he could tell Derek about that instead of the ups and downs of his emotional wellbeing. But a running blade would cost an arm and a leg. So to speak.
He’d have to make that joke next session. Derek’s responding eye-roll would be so worth it.
Derek’s office was a shared space with three other practitioners, none of whom Jack had met beyond a friendly nod on the rare occasion they crossed paths in the waiting room, but Jack knew their names from the plaques on each door.
Dr Eleanor Weaver, Dr Kwame Maedza, and Dr Mary Wen.
He also knew the faces of the other patients who attended the timeslots around his, so Jack was mildly surprised by a new face when he slipped out of Derek’s office into the waiting room. A teenager sat hunched over in one of the uncomfortable, plastic-wrapped waiting room chairs.
Jack realized with a sinking feeling that he recognized that teenager.
Before he could make his escape, the kid looked up and met his eyes. Jack had a brief moment to hope he wouldn’t be recognized—after all, he’d only interacted with the kid a handful of times when he happened to be visiting Robby at the hospital—but when had Jack ever been that lucky.
“Oh, Dr…” Jake trailed off uncertainly.
“Abbot. Or Jack. Its Jake, right?” Jack asked, knowing full well it was.
“Yeah. What’re you…” Jake’s eyes flicked to the door behind Jack and widened slightly.
Great. No use denying it then. Not that Jack should try to hide it, wasn’t he supposed to be normalizing therapy for the younger generations, or something? Setting a good example? Yeah, let’s go with that. He was contributing to society by awkwardly chatting with Robby’s pseudo-stepson at the therapist’s office.
“Yeah,” Jack said, eloquently, “Which one are you here for?” It better not be Derek. One of them would have to switch, and Jack sure as hell was not about to try to find a new Derek.
“Dr Wen.”
Jack nodded slowly, trying to formulate an escape plan. Jake’s knee jiggled nervously.
“I should probably—” Jack started, but Jake interrupted him.
“Are you gonna…”
Jake sure seemed to have a bad habit of starting sentences without knowing how to finish them. Jack raised his eyebrows.
“Are you gonna tell Robby? That I was here?”
Ah shit. This felt like one of those med school ethics problems.
Underage patient asks to keep medical information private from their guardian. Do you:
- a. Keep the information private as the patient requested.
- b. Seek more information on why the patient feels uncomfortable telling their guardian
- c. Inform the patient that you are required by law to share information with their guardian.
- d. Both a and b
- e. Both b and c
- f. None of the above.
Of course, as Jake was not Jack’s patient, nor was Robby Jake’s legal guardian, none of that applied. Jack was simply an unrelated party who stumbled across the information, so there was no script as to what he was supposed to do here. But then the complicating factor remained that Jack was in a not-quite-romantic relationship with Jake’s not-quite-stepfather. The idea of hiding something from Robby…Jack felt a twist of guilt at the thought. Whatever the fuck he and Robby were to each other, secrets shouldn’t be a part of it.
“Look,” Jake spoke up when Jack remained silent, looking up at Jack with wide, anxious eyes, “You barely know me, right? Maybe you could just pretend you never saw me? Or didn’t recognize me? Please, just…Please don’t tell him.”
Jack sighed. It was therapy. It wasn’t like he caught Jake doing something dangerous; this was exactly where he was supposed to be. Jack couldn’t exactly do anything that might discourage him from returning.
Hopefully Robby would understand. Hopefully.
Jack shrugged. “Fine. I saw nothing.”
Jake visibly relaxed. “Thanks.”
Jack shrugged again and said, “None of my business,” before heading out.
It was none of his business.
When Jack started with Derek, they’d met every week. Jack had thrown every hissy fit in the book trying to decrease their sessions, but Derek wasn’t having any of it.
It was about two years before Derek let him drop down to every other week.
Two weeks after he first saw Jake, Jack bounced out of Derek’s office feeling distinctly smug. He’d gotten Derek to crack a smile twice, and Derek had even given him a ‘seems like you’re making good strides lately’ at the end there. Fuck yeah, Jack was amazing at therapy.
Jack was still riding that high when he stepped out the main door onto the street. The area must have once been a residential neighborhood. If not for the sign in the front yard listing the psychologists and psychiatrists who operated there, the building could have easily passed for a family home.
As Jack stepped off the porch and made his way onto the sidewalk, he spotted a familiar hunched figure sitting on the curb, his back to Jack.
Damn.
Jack could keep walking. As the kid had made abundantly clear, this was none of Jack’s business. Jake had a mother, he had a therapist, he had Robby, he had all the support Jack would recommend for a traumatized teenager. Some middle-aged rando who happened to sleep next to a man who wasn’t even the kid’s father? Jack would not consider that guy part of the care-plan.
Unfortunately, Jack was the only somewhat responsible adult in the vicinity. After all, there wasn’t much Jake’s therapist could do if Jake chose not to go inside. With a world-weary sigh and significant complaining from his joints, Jack lowered himself to sit next to Jake.
Jake jumped slightly when Jack made his presence known but didn’t move away.
“So,” Jack started, “Not a big fan of therapy then?”
“What’s it to you?”
Jack shrugged. Jake wasn’t looking at him, so he couldn’t be sure if he’d seen it or not. Jesus. What would Robby do in this situation? He’d probably have the perfect thing to say, maybe some literary reference or metaphor that was just accessible enough to be meaningful. Or maybe he’d go for the rousing pep talk. Rally the troops. Get them believing in something again. Robby was good at that. Jack was not.
“It’s just kinda bullshit, isn’t it?” Jake asked.
Holy shit, did that just work? Just sitting there, not knowing what to say? Now that Jack thought about it, maybe that’s what Derek was always doing in those long silences: trying to come up with the next sentence.
Maybe Jack should be focusing on what Derek would do, not Robby. Derek would draw out more information, trick Jack into expounding on his feelings. That was good, that didn’t require Robby-esque optimism. Jack could do that.
Jack asked, “Therapy is bullshit?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, “Like, I’ve been meeting Dr Wen—Mary, I guess—for weeks now and every time its just…she only wants to talk about how I’m doing. How I feel. She has all these questions, but its like…what’s even the point? She’s never going to get it. No one is.”
Jack snorted. “Yeah, no. I hate to break it to you, no therapist is ever going to understand exactly what you’re dealing with.”
“Exactly! So there’s no point.”
“Nah, you don’t want a therapist who’s been through the same shit you have.”
Jake looked at him in surprise. “Why not? Wouldn’t that make it easier to talk about? Wouldn’t have to figure out how to describe it, she’d just know.”
“That’s what support groups are for, not therapy. Or friends, I suppose, if you’ve got any of those.”
It wasn’t meant to be a dig, but Jake shot him a glare.
“Therapy’s not for that,” Jack tried to explain, “It’s for…you know. Figuring out your own brain.”
“So what do I need a therapist for? I can do that on my own time.”
“If it were that easy, no one would go around shooting each other.”
Jake flinched. Fuck. Jack sucked at this. Maybe he should just go inside and drag Derek out here to talk some sense into this kid.
“Look,” Jack tried again, “If you give it a fair try with Dr Wen and it really isn’t working, tell your mom you want to try someone else. Sometimes you have to shop around a bit to find the right therapist.”
“Then I’d be starting from scratch.”
Jack shrugged. “So what? That’s life, you keep starting over and trying again until the day you die.”
“Wow. You’re really depressing.”
Jack laughed sharply. “So my therapist keeps telling me.”
“What are you in therapy for?”
Jack almost started grumbling about kids these days feeling entitled to everyone’s life story, but he stopped himself. Jake had asked it so earnestly. Like it was natural. Like that was a thing you could just ask someone. It had also been a long time since anyone had the guts to ask Jack something like that. Longer still since the answer hadn’t been obvious to anyone who knew him.
During Jack’s pause, Jake seemed to register the implications of the question. “Oh, uh, sorry, I didn’t—”
“No, it’s fine,” Jack said. It wasn’t, but at the moment convincing Jake to go back into that stupid office was more important that Jack’s comfortability. “It’s a lotta things, I won’t bore you with my life story, but the heavy hitters are, uh…I lost someone. Then I was in the army. So grief and PTSD, I guess.”
Jack watched two dogs across the street sniff each other warily while their owners struck up a friendly chat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jake watching him.
“And the therapy helps?” Jake asked, quietly.
Jack nodded, softly. It felt like a lie. Nothing could help, not really. It didn’t bring Elise back. It didn’t fix his leg. The therapy just kept Jack alive long enough to find something else worth living for. Short of ridding the world of violence, therapy was the best thing he could recommend to this kid.
“I’m pretty late for my appointment now.”
“That’s the great thing about therapists,” Jack said, “They can’t get on your case about anything if you give them an emotional reason behind it. Say some shit like ‘I needed to emotionally prepare myself for this session in order to open up to you.’ She’ll eat that up.”
That strategy had only worked on Derek once, but Dr Wen would probably cut Jake more slack than Derek had ever given Jack. Because Jake seemed more like Robby. Open. Vulnerable. Always trying.
“Got any other hot tips?” Jake asked.
“Uh…don’t do drugs, stay in school, maybe text Robby if you get the chance, and whatever you do, don’t join the army.”
He’d been doing so well. Okay, maybe not that well, but for a moment there, Jack really thought he’d connected with the kid, convinced him to go back and give the therapy thing the old college try. At the mention of Robby, however, Jake stiffened and jerked to his feet.
“You haven’t told him anything, have you?” Jake asked, a quiet desperation in his voice.
“No,” Jack assured him, “I don’t do bullshit. Its none of my business, like I said.”
Jack groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, joints complaining again. He needed to leave this on a better note than that. Bringing up Robby was a mistake, of course it was, but maybe Jack could still find some good in this.
“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but if you ever did want someone to talk to who wasn’t your mom, or your therapist, or Robby…I’m around, yeah?”
“Whatever,” Jake snapped, “I’m late.”
With that, the young man turned on his heel and stalked off into the building.
Fucking kids. Probably a good thing Jack had never reproduced. Jack mimed shooting himself in the head, to no one in particular.
Two days later, Jake walked into the ER. This wasn’t unusual before Pittfest, but as far as Jack knew, Jake hadn’t stepped foot in the building since that night.
Nor had he spoken to Robby.
Which made Jake stepping through the door—at 9 in the evening, no less, two hours after Robby’s shift ended—somewhat concerning.
Jack peeled away from his conversation with Ellis mid-sentence to beeline for Jake.
“Jake, are you okay? Is it your leg?” Jack asked, already scanning the young man with his eyes. He didn’t look hurt or sick, but appearances could be deceiving. And Jack knew better than anyone that sometimes even healed injuries could hurt like a son of a bitch.
“No, yeah, I’m fine.” Jake eyed Ellis uncertainly, who was still hovering beside Jack. Of course she was, Jack hadn’t finished giving her marching orders.
“Uh, Jake, Dr Ellis. Ellis, Jake,” Jack said, for the sake of not being rude, but decided not to specify who Jake was. Ellis could draw whatever conclusions she wanted; it was none of Jack’s business. “Robby’s off duty, but he’ll be back in the morning.”
Jake made another face at the mention of Robby. “No, I know, I’m not…just, could I talk to you?”
To Jack? Sure, Jack had offered, but he’d never in a million years expected that Jake would want to talk to him, of all people. The guy who just happened to go to the same office for therapy. And yet, here they were. If Jake wanted to talk, Jack was happy to oblige.
“Sure, kid, uh…” Jack turned back to Ellis. “Parker, you know what you’re doing, get out there and do it. Don’t worry about the guy in 7 yet, I’ll come join you for that when I’m back.”
Ellis nodded. “Sure thing, coach.”
When she moved away, Jack turned back to Jake. “Alright, let’s get some fresh air.”
Jack led him out into the ambulance bay. It probably didn’t have great associations in Jake’s mind, but the only other place Jack could think of was the roof, and there was no way in hell he was taking Robby’s pseudo-son up to that goddamn roof.
So the ambulance bay it was.
“What’s up?” Jack asked.
Jake shifted his feet uncertainly. God, he looked young. Too young to have seen action.
“It isn’t working.”
“Therapy?”
“Yeah. I feel like every day I wake up and feel worse, and there’s no one in the world who understands.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah, that’s the trick. You kinda just have to trust that eventually it’ll start to get better.”
“It’s not going to get better.”
A stab went through Jack’s chest. Fuck. Between Robby and this kid, Jack was going to have a heart attack. He wasn’t the right person to be here, having this conversation. What was he supposed to say? Yeah, it doesn’t really get better. You’ll never be the person you were before. You’re something else now. Something that might be worse.
How the hell was Jack supposed to tell the truth without making it sound hopeless?
Thankfully, Jack’s limited mental health crisis training kicked in. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”
“I mean, life’s always going to suck, right? Leah’s dead. She’s never not going to have died, and I’m never going to be anyone but the guy who got her killed.”
“It’s not your—” Jack started to say, but Jake snapped at him.
“If one more fucking person tells me it isn’t my fault I’m going to fucking scream! If I didn’t date her, she would be alive right now. That’s a fucking fact, right? So fuck you, and fuck therapy, and fuck this whole fucking world.”
Jake had tears in his eyes now. Jack should have called Robby the second he spotted this kid outside Derek’s office. He should’ve called Robby and then Robby would be the one to deescalate this. He’d know the perfect thing to say.
“No one, none of you, get it!” Jake continued his rant. “No one understands. People just look at me like I’m fucking fragile, and they tell me it isn’t my fault, when I know that that’s a lie. And then I go to therapy, and all the therapist wants to talk about are my feelings, and what I’m doing, and have me fill out fucking worksheets like I’m seven, when all I want to talk about is Leah. Because I loved her and she should be alive and she’s dead. Who am I supposed to talk to about that, huh? No one understands what it’s like.”
“There are other things,” Jack said, grasping at straws now, “In addition to therapy. There are mentorship programs, there are support groups, if you want to talk to someone who been through something similar—”
“Similar, right,” Jake snapped, bitterly, “because they don’t make support groups for what I am. There’d only be one person there.”
Jack tried to keep his voice level. “There are support groups for survivors of shootings, and there are support groups for young adults coping with loss, and—”
“But no one in either of those groups will ever fully understand—"
A flash of irritation had Jack interrupting before he could stop himself. “Oh, yeah, for sure, no one could possibly understand you, you’re so fucking unique. No one could understand what it’s like to take a hunk of shrapnel to the leg—” Jack fisted a hand in the side of his pant leg and yanked it up to show his prosthetic. “—Or to be responsible for a partner’s death.” He waved his left hand in front of his face, the dark band of his ring glinting in the florescent lights of the ambulance bay.
As soon as the words were out, Jack wanted to kick himself. What kind of a monster looks at a traumatized kid clearly begging for help, and tries to play the fucking ‘poor me’ Olympics? Boo fucking hoo, Abbot, you’ve had a sad life, that definitely excuses taking it out on a 17-year-old. If Jack’s wife were alive, she’d smack him in the arm.
Jake stared at Jack with wide eyes.
Jack let go of his pant leg, letting it fall back down to cover his missing ankle.
“Fuck, kid,” Jack said, “I’m sorry. I’m not the right guy for this, I just—”
“Your wife died?”
Jack paused. He didn’t talk about it. He’d barely even been able to tell Robby about it, and that was a very new phenomenon. Elise was…Elise was something that he just couldn’t talk about openly. Certainly not out here, in the ambulance bay, where a colleague could walk by at any moment.
“Or-or husband. Partner?” Jake said, hurriedly.
“Wife.”
“Shit. I’m sorry. How’d she…”
This damn kid was going to be the death of him. Back in Jack’s day, you didn’t just ask things like that. You didn’t ask why someone was in therapy and you definitely didn’t ask how their wife died. But then, perhaps it was a good sign that the younger generations were more open about talking through their feelings. And perhaps this was Jack’s chance to build a bridge. To give the kid some kind of hope.
Jack defaulted to the clinical way he’d been taught to speak of such things. “She died by suicide.”
‘Died by’ and not ‘committed.’ Because ‘committed’ implies blame, and Elise was not the one Jack would blame in that situation. Never her.
“I’m sorry,” Jake said again, watching Jack with trepidation. Like Jack was going to snap if Jake pushed him too far. Fuck’s sake, against Jack’s will he understood exactly how Jake was feeling right then.
Jack rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of glass, kid, I’ve survived a good twenty years since, you aren’t going to break me by asking a couple questions.”
If it was possible, Jake’s eyes seemed to widen even further.
“So,” Jack said, trying to wrangle back some kind of control over this conversation, “Moral of the story, there’s people out there who do get it. You gotta go to the stupid support groups if you want to find them. And keep going to therapy. Shop around, find a therapist who works for you. Go to fucking therapy.”
Jake blinked at him, apparently still processing the revelations of this conversation.
“I gotta get back to work,” Jack said. He wasn’t quite sure how to end this interaction, so he ventured, “Good luck, kid. It does get better.”
Then Jack turned to head back into the emergency department.
“Dr Abbot?”
He turned back to look at Jake.
“If I…I mean, if I needed help figuring out one of those support groups…”
“I’m sure your mom or Robby would be happy to help.”
“But if I didn’t want to talk to them,” Jake said, his eyes as wide and hopeful as a baby deer, “If I wanted to talk to someone who understood, who had been to one of those things before?”
Fuck Jack’s life.
This was a truly terrible idea.