Gabi • 33 years old • fem • ace • french • in my GO 😇😈 and the Pitt fixation era • otherwise fond of horror, paranormal and frogs! Find me @wrbz on bluesky and @crazysmeg on insta.
His dad had liked it when he got into reading his old gun catalogue magazines.
Just maybe not for the reasons Dennis was getting into them.
Shiny, glossy, high quality pictures of men looking seriously down the barrel of the camera- their arms thick and rippling with muscle in a way that almost suggested a bit of pudge from how dense they were. Sometimes if Dennis was lucky, the centerfold would be some kind of military guy cleaning his firearm with his sleeves rolled up. Strong hands curling around the grip of the gun that made Dennis’s stomach warm.
Dennis locked himself in the bathroom- it was the only place in the house with a lock on it- hold his shirt between his teeth and let himself get lost in his fantasies.
Those fantasies were very quickly becoming problems because he’d essentially Pavlov-ed himself to get hard around Dr. Abbot.
He couldn’t help it- spicy, woodsy cologne always cut with the salt of sweat or- god fucking forbid- leather polish if he’d recently shined his shoes. He had the kind of arms and big hands he spent hours wishing would wrap around his hips while he got fucked into.
He tried to find some reason to leave as soon as possible once their current patient was stabilized, once he didn’t have the work at hand to distract him from the things he was feeling in his body.
He knew Dr. Abbot knew.
He saw Dennis scamper away, could feel his steady, quiet stare whenever Dennis stuttered some excuse to leave. Nightshift was a nightmare, it was like Dr. Abbot was following him around in that relaxed parade rest that showed off his broad shoulders.
He has to be fucking with him. He has to be, you can’t lean over someone that many times in one shift just to check charting.
One night Jack whistled, fucking whistled, and when Dennis looked he gave a “come here” motion with his fingers before walking down the hall. Like he knew Dennis would follow.
(He did, but damn he’s not a dog for crying out loud.)
“Whitaker, have I done something to upset you?”
It wasn’t what Dennis had been expecting from the man. Mature, open and communicative in a way that was shocking to the grizzled ex-military guy in front of him.
“Oh, no Sir, I-I’m sorry, I just-"
“-you just keep running from me, s’all. I’m an old mutt, kid, can’t run after folks like I used too.” Ugh, said with that crooked little grin that showed off his canines. Dennis was going to faint.
“Sorry Sir, I promise I’ll stick close.” Dennis managed to get out.
“Good. I like having you close.” And for a second- a second- Jack’s voice dipped into something a little deeper, a little smoother that made Dennis stand in attention before giving Dennis’s arm a very brotherly clap.
And now he was everywhere. Dennis tagged along after him while working, always on his heel, never too far. He wasn’t touchy, not like Robby, but when Dennis perfectly executed something difficult, Jack’s nod of approval fell like a physical thing that wrapped itself around Dennis’s shoulders.
The tension burst when Jack had a party at his place. “It was built to host, I was doing it a disservice.” Jack had told Dennis, giving him a half-smile and a shrug of his shoulders.
Oh, this was bad. Dennis tried not to stare as he took in the house, the well-polished boots placed perfectly by the front door among a clutter of sneakers. (Dennis only placed his in line with Jack’s so that he could find them later, okay?)
Seeing Jack’s natural environment with a beer in his hand to keep him from saying something he’d overanalyze later.
The guests slowly trickled out over the night; slowly but surely pairs of shoes were claimed and the pile dwindled until it was just Dennis’s ratty sneakers. As Dennis dragged his feet to go Jack followed at his own pace. When he saw Dennis’s shoes lined up next to his own he chuckled.
“Good to know not everyone in your generation is a degenerate.” He teased, earning a snort from Dennis.
“Yeah, my dad would whoop my ass if I got my outside shoes on his good hardwood floors. Force of habit.”
“You did strike me as a daddy’s boy.”
There it was again- deeper, softer, making Dennis’s breath stutter a little as he abandoned his original goal of getting his shoes and leaving before making a fool of himself.
“What else do I strike you as?” Dennis replied, soft but steady, out of his mouth before he could think twice about it.
Jack’s eyes honed in on Dennis’s lips-the words loosening something in Jack’s shoulders as he stepped closer.
“You strike me as someone who does good with being told what to do. Who likes being pushed to perform well.” He murmured, only a foot away from Dennis now. Dennis felt his breathing pick up as he got closer. “Someone who’d benefit from a firm hand- it’s only natural for boys your age, hm?”
Dennis could only nod weakly. It was hard to think around the smell of campfire smoke and cologne and sweat and Jack-
“Words, Dennis.”
“Yessir.”
The words were breathy and chased the heels of Jack’s command.
The next bit was a blur just from the headiness of being kissed by a man like that. Jack kissed like he was starved, one hand cradling Dennis’s head and the other hooked around one of the belt loops in Dennis’s Levi’s.
Dennis’s whines and groans were lost in Jack’s mouth as they stumbled to the couch like teenagers, Jack settling on the couch with a grunt and tugging Dennis onto his lap shortly after.
The movement of their hips just felt like second nature, like the obvious thing to do- the two groaning in unison as Dennis ground his bulge into Jack’s.
“I fuckin’ knew it, kid. God, look at that farmboy sturdiness, huh? You ride often in Nebraska?” Jack purred, eyes trailing down Dennis’s front as he lifted the hem of Dennis’s shirt. “Keep up the work and you might catch up to me at this rate.”
God, it was so smarmy and Dennis wished it didn’t just make him moan.
With deft fingers Jack popped Dennis’s belt and button loop with one hand. Dennis gasped and arched his back at the feeling of Jack’s calloused hands on his cock already dribbling pre into his hand.
“D-Dr. Abbot-“
“Uh-uh, kid, what do you call me?” Jack corrected, squeezing Dennis’s cock in his fist until he was squirming.
“Sir, sir please-“ Dennis rambled, planting his hands on the sofa behind Jack to keep himself upright as Jack pumped his hand over Dennis’s dick. with the precum slicking his palm.
“There you go, sweetheart, that’s what you’ve been dying to say, yeah? When you look at me with those fuckin’ bedroom eyes? Pretty boy, look at you..”
Dennis fell apart right there- Jack’s fist caught most of his cum as Dennis yelped and bowed forward until his temple rested on Jack’s jaw, until his nose was pressed into the collar of Jack’s shirt and he could pick up that cologne and summer sweat and- and-
“Easy, theeere we are, attaboy Dennis.” Jack’s chest rumbled when he talked, solid and strong like a rock for Dennis to crash against.
When Dennis had some of his wits about him he tried to fumble with the belt to Jack’s cargos but Jack’s hand was quick to intervene.
“I’m not gonna get hard from some heavy petting, Den. Old Mutt, remember.” Jack murmured, prompting Dennis to lean back up and frown.
“But you-“
“-don’t worry about it.”
“Next time I’m going to take care of you.”
“Bold claims there, cowboy. You already thinking about next time?”
“I… Yeah.” Dennis felt his bravado fade slightly at Jack’s question. Was there a next time? Was this just a one time thing to get Dennis to calm down? Like he could scent the anxiety coming off him Jack squeezed Dennis’s hip, ground him again.
“Next time, then. When I’m not already tired just from watching you cum.” Jack promised, getting a chuckle from Dennis.
“Fine. Next time, then.”
“Good boy. Go grab me a washcloth from the kitchen.
i know i've written this before, but as i am preparing for several beach/water vacations this summer: rabbot beach day.
jack in the tiniest shorts he can get away with (not just because he likes to feel sexy and have robby stare, but because he runs hot and too much clothing bothers his skin and when in rome, you take your clothes off at the beach, you know? and he tries to get as tan as possible whenever possible.)
robby having to be bullied into taking his shirt off. receiving a scandalized groan from jack when robby freely admits he was planning to leave his shirt on and stay under the beach umbrella the entire time. staying on the beach chair with his detective novel and his sunglasses on and maybe a popsicle, maybe a little virgin fruity drink with am umbrella in it, some excuse for jack to stare at his lips.
jack is a fish. sometimes the stares on his prosthetic (a special one for swimming) make him squirmy, sometimes they make him angry, sometimes he decides he is not going to let them get to him today, that nothing is going to put a damper on his day at the beach with his man. he swims until his arms are too tired to go another inch, and makes sure to wait until robby's watching before rising from the waves like a mermaid.
doesn't matter that robby's wearing sunglasses, jack has known and loved him for thirty years, he knows what it looks like when robby's trying to pretend he's not staring at jack dripping water.
once jack tires himself out, covered in sand and his curls even curlier than normal from the water, flushed from exercise and a bit of sunburn on his cheeks (oh, and most of the reason jack begged and bullied robby into taking his shirt off was so he could rub sunscreen into robby's skin) he plops down onto the blanket beside him, out of breath but grinning wildly.
robby looks at him over his sunglasses, prescription reading sunglasses, something jack teases him endlessly about. "you gonna get in the water?" jack husks, kinda hoping robby will pick him up and toss him in.
"you gonna sit still for a minute and just listen to the waves?" robby counters, shuffling off the beach chair to lay beside him on the towel, on his side, staring into jack's eyes. pretending like it isn't a crowded beach with all kinds of other people around. pretending like they're the only people in the world.
"i guess i could be convinced," jack mumbles, ready to take a nap, grateful for the umbrella as he turns onto his stomach to hide his eyes in the crook of his arm.
robby takes the opportunity to slap his ass in the tiny swim shorts, of course, and stands up to get them some snacks. jack will nap, robby and jack will share a bag of overpriced popcorn and gossip about the people passing them by, about the couple arguing next to them about who forgot the sunscreen and who made them late.
jack will kiss the ice cream taste out of robby's mouth, later, when they go for a walk holding hands on the beach, stopping at an ice cream truck, which robby pretends not to want because that's for kids, but jack buys him one just to make him smile. "you deserve it, sweetheart," he'll say, entirely sincere, kissing robby's cheek with a hand on his back.
they'll pack up together and bitch about sand in places they didn't know sand could gather, they'll get home and fall asleep immediately at seven PM in each other's arms (because there is science behind why the beach tires you out, yes, but also they're old men in love who are chronically tired and eager for a sleepy cuddle.)
the next day, robby will trace jack's new swim shorts tan line with his tongue, line his hipbones and the v of his crotch with hickeys right where the water was kissing him, mumbling praise about his perfect mermaid, about how jealous robby was of his shorts in that moment, about how lucky robby is, how much he loved seeing jack's happy smile after swimming, the one that could end wars and save lives as it has many times before...
but right now, they just close their eyes together and listen to the waves, where there's peace, where their heads can't be louder than the sound of the ocean.
The following little ficlet I wrote has been fully inspired by one of @roobydoos beautiful pieces of art.
All of which I want to eat btw because they're so gorgeous and scribbly. Thank you for all the work you do.
Please take a look at the wonderful art (here)
and also look at all the other bits if you haven't come across their blog yet! Positively scrumptious all around!!!
Now, I've been wanting to make Jack suffer for a good minute, so be wary of robby-typical active suicidal ideation as you venture forth!
rabbot | 2.4k | heavy-ish angst | eventual comfort | Jack finally gets to break down | but only after suffering from almost losing Robby
His last text had been about nothing at all.
Now that was half-normal. Robby texted about nothing all the time. Little observations, complaints about charting, the occasional photo of something he'd passed on the way home that he thought to be funny.
Nothing texts were Robby's entire thing and Jack had gotten more than accustomed to reading them the same way he'd read a chart at work.
Not for what they said, but for everything laying underneath.
Last Tuesday it had been a photo of a pigeon for example. It'd been sitting on a fire hydrant outside the hospital, looking profoundly disappointed in everything and was sent around 11pm on Jack's day off with no caption whatsoever.
No caption was needed for him to understand what Robby meant to say: 'Going home now, probably taking the long way home. In need of some air. But I'm okay.'
So as a response, he sent a singular question mark and got three laughing emojis back.
More than enough.
The week before that, a blurry photo of the river taken from his bike. No caption on that one either but… it meant something very different. It had been Robby's day off, sent to Jack just before the night shift attendings bed time was coming up.
'I needed to see something that wasn't the hospital' was the message here.
This time he'd sent back
nice view 10:56am
and got the reply of
not bad 11:01am
End of conversation, which translated to 'I'm alright, don't worry' in whatever language they'd crafted between them over the years.
And Jack had only half-worried, which, with Robby, was about as good as it ever got.
Today though, was the bad day following two worse ones.
Jack had been late to handover, held back by traffic that he would certainly see again in form of the people responsible for it on a gurney when he finally arrived.
Being late to handover though, meant not seeing Robby.
It meant not being able to gauge how he was holding up. How he was doing. What he wasn't showing.
So Jack texted,
Take it easy tonight. Take a bath or sumthin. Eat. 7:36pm
got a reply
haha. yeah okay 8:17pm
And then? Nothing.
Jack had noticed around 6, when he'd sent something back and watched it sit there, unread. He told himself that Robby was most likely either showering, preparing something to eat to have a chill night or asleep; entirely deserved as the man ran himself into the ground during his day shifts and then usually acted surprised every time his body decided to stage a revolt.
Jack told himself that at 11 too, when his call to ease his unsettled mind went right to voicemail. And then again at 1.
By 4am he'd stopped telling himself things and started just… watching his phone whenever he had the time to in between patients.
Waiting for a reply left him restless and very much lacking the concentration he needed for his work. His brain was busy running a million differentials he didn't even want to name.
The kind that made him reach for his phone every twenty minutes just to be disappointed that there was nothing coming back.
Robby. 6:58am
He'd sent that at the end of his shift, as if it would do something.
It didn't.
Come afternoon, Jack had a very controlled, very reasonable handle on the situation. Which was exactly why he had not gotten a single second of sleep and was now standing outside Robby's building with his key already in his hand. His jaw was tense and he could barely remember the drive over if he was being honest.
But he was fine. He was being fully rational.
He certainly hadn't spent close to twenty hours waiting for a reply from someone who was usually chronically texting him random shit most waking non-working hours. And Jack Abbot who had spent the better part of his adult life learning to decipher those messages and trust his gut with them, start to ignore that now.
That was all this was. Pattern Recognition. Clinical instinct.
He was fine.
The apartment was dark when he stepped inside after opening the door as calmly as he could. No light was turned on and the only audio came from the shitty radio in Robby's living room, whose sound Jack had grown oddly accustomed to by now.
The most telling sign were the closed blinds though. Jack clocked them immediately and felt that information settle somewhere right behind his sternum, pressing onto his lungs. Having learned it the same way he learned to read another person's baseline; incrementally and without either of them acknowledging the knowledge was happening.
Blinds down meant Robby had pulled inward so much that even the light felt too much.
Blinds down was not good, but it wasn't the worst either.
Jack moved through the apartment quietly. Out of pure habit. The kind of quietness he had learned in places where waking someone up wrong could lead to things worse than just a solid yelling.
Expecting him in the bedroom, sleeping away all the bad in the world, Jack was almost shocked to find him laying on the couch. On the top of several thinner blankets, still dressed in what looked like yesterday's clothes and… not hurt.
The thing that unraveled something in him so fast his hand shot out to the doorframe without him deciding to do it. Just- Needing to hold onto something for a second.
Okay.
Robby was okay.
He was still here, with him. Sleeping what seemed like peaceful-
The side table.
Jack crossed the room in a heartbeat, couldn't have stopped himself if he had dared to try. A glass of water was sitting on the little wooden side table sticking out over the arm of the couch, which… was fine, normal even. But there was also a pill bottle laying on its side, label facing away, and Jack's brain war already running the math before his hands had even picked it up and turned it over.
Robby's name. A prescription date.
He turned it over, tried to count the remaining pills and- he couldn't tell, couldn't tell how many—
His brain lurched toward it, that clinical instinct that hadn't once failed him in all those years of trauma work and here he was and just. Couldn't. He couldn't make the goddamn numbers of sleeping pills mean anything because his hands were shaking in a way they hadn't ever since-
A long time.
That thought was buried hard and fast before it could even finish forming and begin pulling him somewhere far away from this room, the couch and the specific problem laying right before him.
He had learned that trick a long time ago too. You stayed where your feet were. Or your foot. You deal with what's in front of you. No matter what.
What was in front of him was Robby, not moving. Blinds down. Pill bottle laying on its side, barely carrying any pills.
Robby.
Once again, Jack moved before he made the conscious decision to, a knee on either side of him, one hand going to steady himself, fingers stretched around a thin pen light, while the other grabbed the others jaw instinctively.
"Hey." It came out much rougher than intended. "Hey. Open your eyes, come on. Look at me-"
Robby made a sound. A sound that was indistinct and undefinable but alive.
"Robby." Jack's thumb pressed into the hinge of his jaw, tilting his face up so that he could click on the pen light, checking his best friends pupils. Equal. Reactive. Okay. That's okay.
Unfortunately, the relief didn't land quite the way it should have because he still didn't know, still couldn't tell what had happened and not knowing was currently eating him alive.
"What did you take."
Not a question, because Jack wasn't asking him. He was demanding. Demanding an answer that would make him understand why those beautiful brown eyes that opened so slowly were looking glossy. Why they were barely focusing on him even though he'd turned the pen light away to be kind to Robby's retina.
His chest started to tighten like a tripwire pulled taught. Harsh and unwelcome.
"Jack?"
"What did you take."
"Nothing-" Weak hands came up, pushing at his arms, trying to get his wrists away, but their strength was laughable. Laughable enough to force Jack to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
"Nothing- Jackie- I just- I took my meds and slept-"
Jackie.
Jack knew exactly when Robby used that word and why. That specific register of it too, shaky and full of pressed air that only surfaced when he was scared. When he was trying to stop Jack from doing something. When he knew how bad he'd fucked up and needed time to process how to come clean.
Time Jack was not willing to give him, staring down at him with a mixture of fear and frustration. As if the other would slip right through his fingers if he didn't hold on tightly.
Then he forced himself back, settling back into Robby's lap and pulled his hands back. Shaking hands that didn't seem to still even when he clenched them into fists; so he spread them out on his thighs instead, ignoring how the edge of his prosthesis uncomfortably buried into his liner.
With his fingertips pressing into his flesh to keep them busy, he took a deep breath, breathing out through his nose. Slow and deliberate to ease his body from the fear and providing what the other needed. A strong, calm front to come clean to.
Robby looked at him for a long moment; something moving behind those tired and still slightly glassy brown eyes that could easily be read as guilt. Guilt and a common version of shame that was found within his gaze too often for comfort.
"I didn't take anything," he finally said, just to continue with a quieter tone. "Just- thought about it."
Although he'd been still before, Jack froze into a statue, calmly looking at the way Robby's lower lip was quivering and he kept looking further and further to the side. Away from Jack. Away from it all.
"I had them in my hand." Robby's jaw was tight, the words a lot more pressed than usual. "And then I just- I put them back. I don't know why I didn't- I was so tired. So tired of it all-" For a moment, Jack thought it would happen but Robby stopped and stuttered out a semi-controlled exhale.
"I put them back."
For a good moment, the room was quiet again, meaning that the only thing audible was Robby's shallow, quickening breaths and Jack's heartbeat hammering in his ears. It was only through that specific observation, that Jack became aware of the fact that he'd been holding his breath through Robby's search for words.
He let it go and turned his head to look at the bottle he'd thrown onto the side table and then back at Robby who still wasn't looking at him. Who was doing that thing he always did when he had said something so true that he felt in need of bracing for the response. Almost as if he was waiting to find out what it cost him this time.
Jack lifted one hand and put it over the back of one of Robby's, searching for that physical connection, trying to calm the other down. Provide the strength he needed.
Something that had been wound very, very tight for the past twenty hours suddenly just… gave.
He folded forward. Neither graceful nor controlled; nothing like the way he usually moved through the world, with his heart in his throat but his hands steady because they had to be.
Right now, he just folded, forehead dropping to Robby's shoulder, his arms wrapping around the man as best as they could, pulling himself in hard enough that Robby made a small surprised sound against his ear.
Alive. Warm. Breathing.
Here.
"You fucking asshole-" Jack cursed into his shoulder, his voice a wrecked mess that he hadn't heard from himself in a long time and yet couldn't bring himself to care about. "Twenty hours, Robby. Twenty hours of not-" Stopping mid-sentence, he swallowed hard, his hands fisting the back of Robby's shirt. "You couldn't answer the phone. Couldn't send me a single-"
Even if it had taken a moment, Robby's arms had finally come up around him. Slow and careful, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to do it. Like he was still waiting to find out what the move would cost him long term.
"I know," Robby muttered back, shame and guilt ever-present. "I know, I'm-"
"Don't." The word came out muffled but Jack didn't move. Couldn't quite yet. Even just thinking about moving made him only want to hold on tighter. "Don't fucking apologize. I just-"
His throat tightened.
Jack'd had plans for these types of conversation. Several actually, mulling them over again and again, whenever one of these moments appeared. Calm and Practical. How he needed to talk about what happened and what would come next.
After all Jack was supposed to be the steady one, the way he had always been the rock Robby needed him to be.
But none of those plans had accounted for the reality of those pills and Robby. None of those plan had accounted for Jack.
"I love you," he said." You hear me, brother? I love you and I need you to be here and you can't- You can't just go quiet on me like that and leave me not knowing if-"
Again he stopped, because he didn't trust himself to continue. If he continued, he would say more things he hadn't anticipated to say.
Luckily, that wasn't necessary as Robby's arms grew tighter around him.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Jack kept his face buried in Robby's shoulder, ignoring the way his eyes were stinging as he let himself breathe the other in. Alive. Present. Here. And slowly… incrementally, that thing in his chest started to loosen its grip.
"I've got you," Jack finally broke the silence. Quieter now. More like himself again. "Okay? Whatever it is you need. I've got you, brother."
Robby only pressed his face into Jack's hair, instead of an answer.
For now… there wasn't the need for one.
For now, Jack was okay just holding him tight and never letting him go again.
The first thing that startled Robby was just how long it took him to realise what he'd done. He'd strode across to meet the incoming ambulance, heard what info the EMTs had to pass on, walked the gurney into Trauma One, supervised Cassie and Nazely's assessment and stabilisation of the patient—gunshot wound to the abdomen, lower right quadrant; congratulations, you've just won the hopefully-once-in-a-lifetime chance to have Yolanda Garcia rummage around in your insides—and only then did it hit him.
He'd been out in the ambulance bay on the phone with Jack when he'd heard the wail of an approaching ambulance. Their discussion of whether to try the fancy new pizzeria with the odd toppings around the corner from Jack's place, or just to stick with the tried-and-true option for watching the game tonight, would have to wait. "Gotta go," Robby had said, distracted as he tried to estimate how far out the rig was, "see you later, I love you."
Robby stood there in the trauma bay and the full horror of the realisation slowly dawned on him. He'd told Jack he loved him. He'd told Jack he loved him, and then he'd hung up on him.
"Fuck," Robby said.
He snapped off the nitrile gloves he was wearing, binned them, and pulled his phone from his pocket between his thumb and his forefinger, as if he was handling some kind of medical waste. Nothing. No missed calls, no voice mails, no texts except for a scam one trying to get him to pay an imaginary FasTrak toll in California. Nothing at all from Jack, and Robby couldn't decide if that was better or worse.
Hand-off to Shen and Ellis was its usual clockwork, and on the drive over to Jack's place Robby went through various stages of bargaining with the universe. Maybe Jack hadn't heard him. Reception in the ambulance bay could be spotty. Calls sometimes dropped. Or maybe Jack would laugh it off, treat it as just the kind of brain fart you sometimes got near the end of a long but humdrum shift—like how a little kid in elementary school might absent-mindedly call their teacher 'mom' in front of the whole class.
A little voice in Robby's head, one that sounded suspiciously like his therapist, said what are you bargaining here for, exactly? Which was one of many reasons why therapy was doing a number on his temporomandibular joint, because clearly Jack had been getting along just fine with Robby not saying anything, even though Robby had surely been painfully, mortifyingly obvious, and wasn't the whole point of the therapy sessions for him to learn how not to leak his feelings all over everything and everyone?
And really, Robby thought as he parked in front of Jack's building and sat there rubbing at the hinge of his jaw, would we even call what Robby felt for Jack love? Or if he did, well, there were lots of different kinds of love. It didn't have to be that kind. Did it? Robby strained to recall all those ancient Greek words for love he'd studied in a long ago philosophy gen ed course. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, one two three. Who was to say that Robby hadn't meant brotherly love? Philia. That could have been what he meant.
It's still bargaining if you're splitting hairs and looking for get-out clauses, his little internal therapist pointed out.
"Fuck," Robby said.
In the elevator ride up to Jack's condo, Robby wondered if there was scope for him to invent some sudden emergency. If he could just text Jack and say, Sorry, can't make it tonight, my condo's flooded or Cafeteria food gave me food poisoning, see you in 24-48 hours. But part of him felt like: well, hell, face the music. Play stupid phone games, accept stupid phone prizes.
See you later, I love you.
"Fuck," Robby said, with emphasis.
Right after he knocked on Jack's door, Robby realised he'd been so distracted by what he'd said that he'd totally forgotten what he'd promised to do in the first place. As soon as Jack appeared, in shorts and a ratty old t-shirt, Robby blurted out, "I didn't bring any pizza."
Jack looked at him, slow and steady, and then said, "We're working on our conversational segues, huh?"
"You heard it, right?" Robby said as Jack stepped back to let him in.
"Heard it, yeah," Jack said, closing the door and used one of his crutches to point in the direction of the living room. Robby obeyed, glum. The pre-game show should have started by now, but Jack's TV was switched off. A glass of whiskey sat on the coffee table. Robby had the distinct impression that he wasn't going to be watching the game that night. "Heard it, thought about it. Processed," with that precise, Dr-Abbot-y enunciation that could be terrifying when turned on a wayward med student and that now made Robby wince.
"I'm sorry," Robby said, hoping Jack would also hear the sincerity in his tone. "It was a lapse, it doesn't have to mean anything, I can keep a handle on it."
"Oh my god," Jack said, in tones of disbelief as resonant as if Robby had just confessed to liking low-fat popcorn, or thinking that the Pirates had a chance of winning the World Series this year.
"I can go," Robby offered. "If you don't want—"
"Sit," Jack said, and pointed at his couch. Robby sat. Jack picked up his glass and knocked back the last of the whiskey in one big gulp. Robby winced. That boded."Okay."
"'Okay' what?"
Jack squinted at him. "You think you're getting to steer this conversation right now? Because that happened earlier, and look where that got us."
"Jesus," Robby said.
"Let's leave him out of this," Jack said and, setting his crutches down, moved to straddle Robby's lap.
"Um," Robby said.
"You didn't need to woo me with fancy pizza," Jack said, "because brother, surely you know a sure thing when you see it. But I will say—"
Robby was long familiar with that particular tone. He rolled his eyes, preemptively.
"—as first declarations of like, undying passions or whatever, you could do with a little more finesse."
"Undying passion?" Robby echoed.
Jack stared impassively at him and raised both his eyebrows. "Well?"
Robby took a deep breath and fought not to close his eyes. Surely he could be brave enough to say this to Jack face-to-face? "I love you. I'm in love with you. I don't know when it first started but I do know that I can't imagine myself now without that fact of loving you. I'm not… I'm not good at words, I don't sing love songs well, but for you, I wish I could."
Jack leaned forward, rested one hand gently on Robby's chest, right over his heart. The expression on Jack's face now terrified Robby; made him want to keep being brave.
"I said it because it's what I'm always feeling. When I say hello to you, I mean I love you. When I say good night, I mean that I love you. When I—"
Their first kiss was a slow thing, a tremendous thing, with as much weight and heft to it as Jack had in Robby's lap. Robby's hands came up to settle on Jack's hips, and his head swam like he was the one who'd drunk the whiskey, instead of just having licked the taste of it from Jack's mouth.
"How about now?" Jack murmured, voice gone raspy. "Do you mean it now?"
"Yes," Robby said, and he'd never wanted Jack to believe him so much about something as he did right now. "Jack, I—"
"I love you, too," Jack said, and he was smiling like he'd just discovered the map to some undiscovered country, and the only thing that startled Robby now was how long it had taken them to speak.
Further context: Durham city council (Reform UK) cut funding and support for Pride. The Durham Miner's Association and other trade unions raised enough money for Durham Pride 2026 to go ahead - a direct call back to when Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners (LGSM) raised money for mining communities when Margaret Thatcher seized union funding during the miner strikes of 1984-85.
At the 1985 Labour party meet, the motion to support LGBT rights as a party was passed due to a block vote from mining unions.
Stephen Guy, the chair of the Durham Miners’ Association, said that when it became apparent Durham Pride was under threat, he took it upon himself to “encourage the trade union movement to step up and do the right thing, and stand shoulder to shoulder with the LGBT+ community […] They not only raised funds for us, but came to our communities, uplifted our spirits when they were down, and showed their solidarity.”
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