By the Roots

I want to love more than death can harm. And I want to tell you this often: That despite being so human and so terrified, here, standing on this unfinished staircase to nowhere and everywhere, surrounding by the cold and starless night – we can live. And we will.

– Ocean Vuong

꩜

You love him despite the burden of Atlas resting on his shoulders,
And he loves you despite the death still clinging to your lips, and the blood drying at its corners. What a pair you make.

– L.H.Z

Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked at the painting hung up on the wall, one he'd seen every week for the last five years; it was a landscape, a mountain range somewhere in the Rocky's he assumed, but it drew the eye in a way he couldn't quite describe, he wasn't one for the arts. But the lines and brush strokes seemed to weave into each other like the entire painting was a single organism working for the common goal of depicting the earthy oranges and browns and yellows of autumn.

Maybe his therapist picked an autumn themed painting for the waiting room with purpose, of trees shedding dead leaves, readying themselves for a harsh winter just to grow once more in the light of spring; something about how the death of something certainly did not mean the end. Or maybe because it was the first mediocre painting he saw at Goodwill. He supposed that whatever meaning was derived from it was dependent on whoever was looking at it but nevertheless, the thought of something deeper crossed his mind; most things in the world had purpose, a rhyme or reason for why they happened.

Perhaps that mindset was another reason why he was still coming to therapy once a week, definitely something he'd dig into with Ben at some point or another but not today. Today he would simply pester himself with trying to fit a square peg in a circular hole, of wanting things to have a purpose, of wanting suffering not to be random.

A sigh passed through his lips as he shifted his gaze from the painting and to the sound of a door being opened. Ben greeted him with a soft smile. "Jack, come on in."

At least this had a clear purpose, at least this helped.

꩜

The cries of the newborn baby rang throughout the hospital room and Eli felt nothing but contentment and relief, his heart soaring into his throat as his little girl, fresh to the world, was being handed to him. His throat felt as if it was closing in with anxiety, overwhelmed in the moment with fondness as her cries seceded, Eli walking her around and gently rocking her.

She was so pink and odd looking but in the cutest way Eli could imagine. A million thoughts swarmed his head; he would do anything for her, to keep her safe, to keep her happy, to make this world spin to her rhythm. Eli didn't think he could love anything as much as he loved her, his little girl, his Gretchen.

A sudden wash of tears blurred his vision as he placed a finger against her small chest, feeling her heartbeat, and her small, defenseless hands grabbed his finger, his right index finger, an instrument of death. Eli sat down and suddenly his back was scorched by the sun of rural Kandahar, near the coastal border of Pakistan; he sat atop a modest, gutted out building, watching the area around his squad like a hawk through his scope.

In the report for their mission, they were told of no hostiles present but Eli certainly didn't trust the information vanguard squads like his were given; they were fucking canon fodder. A sigh escaped him and out of his peripheral he saw the glean of sun bouncing off a mirror. He whipped his rifle in the direction of his periphery and examined the surroundings, he found, what appeared to be, an abandoned Jeep but movement through it off for a second. Another scope flickered in the light and the barrel of an army class Barrett was the last thing he saw before a searing pinprick pain ripped through his shoulder, forcing his back to slam against the roof, all the air stolen from his lungs in a second.

Eli snapped back to the sound of a fussing baby, gunshots a distant ringing in his ears. Guilt welled in his throat like his own body was attempting to choke him, knowing that he got off easy with his shoulder, knowing that he deserved far worse but for her, he would be better than good. Redemption did not lie in wait for him, but maybe creating something better than you could ever be was the next best thing.

As Described / Elijah Ainsworth

Shawn Hatosy / Dr. Jack Abbot

🩺 Explicit sexual content, unresolved mental health issues (lots of trauma-related dreams, PTSD symptoms), some internalized homophobia, descriptions of graphic violence, mentions of childhood abuse

🩺 That intro was embarrassingly short but whatever, it leads directly into chapter 1. Anyway, welcome to "By the Roots", my Pitt fic cause I've been unreasonably obsessing over the show and specifically Dr Abbot. Just to preface, this will be in Jack's POV as I want to explore him as a character, so so much but some of it will switch POV but it is predominantly Jack-centric

This is also going to not be toxic yaoi for the first time ever from me. Eli and Jack certainly won't be the healthiest but I'm adamant on the whole "middle aged men who have had incredibly similar experiences find solace in each other and learn how to love again" thing because I find it endearing and refreshing in my own writing :)

Hope you guys enjoy, I'm super excited to write this.