what ifff stalker!jack and maybe not creeped out at all!robby
jack's been breaking into robby's house for a while now. at first it was just infatuation. robby's pretty and he wants to see what's in his house that's all. just getting to know him more by learning everything about him through invading his home no big deal. but then he quickly learns this man does not take care of himself at all. so sometimes he leaves treats/snacks, maybe does some laundry, fixes some things that need repairs.
robby at first is kinda like huh don't remember buying this snack oh well i'm pretty hungry right now. ooh this smells nice i thought i just put it in the hamper last night. the snacks turn into meals and robby's too tired most of the time to question why he had food in the fridge in the first place.
jack breaks in one time and hears moans coming from the bedroom. robby's fingering himself, has a bottle of lube and dildo next to him. robby's whimpering, face pressed against the mattress panting. removes his fingers, lubes up the dildo and gently presses it into himself. jack is in awe. he settles for just rubbing himself over his pants because he can't risk making more sound. robby is so beautiful. all jack can think is how well he's taking it. he wants to touch robby. he wants to be the one who makes robby feel good. he decides to buy him a dildo for next time.
he buys one slightly larger than the one robby used that night. he leaves it on robby's nightstand. robby's getting ready for bed. he goes into his bedroom to get his sleep clothes when he sees it. at first he was puzzled, he was certain he didn't own this dildo. he only ever had one dildo. his ol' reliable. but the longer he stared at it, his cock stirred in his pants. he wanted to try it out. jack was pleased to see robby enjoyed the toy as much as jack hoped.
this goes on for a while, of course the food and laundry too but jack notices that robby's taking care of himself too now. he opens the fridge to leave some food but he sees robby's meal prepped for himself this week. sees he's cleaned up parts of his house. jack still leaves toys for robby to try out. robby likes them all. he's kind of put two and two together at this point but he doesn't want to spook this person who's been in the shadows for so long. but he wants to meet him.
robby planned it. he's in his bedroom, sees there's a new toy on his nightstand but he doesn't reach for it. he gets on the bed and pulls out the blindfold he's had in pocket and puts it on. he quietly asks if there's anyone watching him. he wants to know who this person is but he also understands if they don't want robby to know his identity. robby hopes they can compromise with the blindfold. robby wants to feel this person. to know they're real. he understands it's kinda crazy to be attracted to someone who's essentially a stalker but he couldn't help but feel cared for by them.
jack of course is there. contemplating. he wants to touch robby but can he trust robby enough to not take the blindfold off? somehow he's willing to risk it. before he changes his mind, he starts slowly approaching the bed. robby gasps, hearing the light footsteps near the bed. he backs up toward the bed frame a little bit but halts his movements once he feels the mattress dip a bit.
jack moves closer towards robby. he slowly brings his hand to robby's. lightly grazing it and then puts their hands together. jack then traces his fingers up his arm, to his neck and cups robby's face. robby's blushing and shyly asks, can i touch you too?
jack grabs his hand and lets robby feel him. he lets robby feel his torso, his arms, and let's him cup his face too. robby quietly asks, can i kiss you? jack answers by pulling him in. the kiss is sweet at first but robby slowly moves closer to jack and moves into his lap, straddling him. jack was already half hard with robby feeling him up earlier but noticing robby is feeling the same as him gets jack even more worked up. they're making out and grinding on each other. robby's the first to pull away asking jack to use the toy on him. jack obliges of course and really takes his time with robby. he doesn't know when he'll get this opportunity again.
well… here are the initial sketches I did for the collab with @permanent-fire-hazard ♥️ I let her choose which one she felt more inspired by to write about and then we went from there
rabbot angst hours for those who are interested <3
It started out simple.
July 9th
Hey brother. Hope you're having a nice time off on your spirit quest. Take care of yourself.
delivered 7:17am
He stupidly expected a response. Maybe a thank you, small talk, even a thumbs up reaction that he's made fun of him for before. It's a habit of his when he needs to acknowledge a text quickly that Jack teased made him look as old as he really was.
Regardless, he kept going.
July 12th
Turns out a bet from a hell of a long time ago was found by Ahmad this morning. Guess who the lucky winner was? You've got $275 waiting for you in his office til you get back.
Hope things are going well.
delivered 7:08pm
He had no wish to get in his head about it. Robby was out in the beautiful, captivating scenery of some site in Canada with a fucked up name. He wouldn't want to be connected to the outside world either.
Maybe his service didn't work out there. Who knows. Jack is completely chill about it.
July 16th
Dude, did you see the fucking Pirates game?! We got our asses destroyed and you weren't even here for me to rub it in your face.
I know it's tearing you up. You'll come to accept that we suck eventually, I know it. 😂
delivered 4:47pm
Something about people always coming to him to ask about Robby made Jack feel a certain way he really couldn't describe. Like it's clear to everybody else how close they are except for the two of them in question. Even Dana approached him about it.
"You haven't talked to him at all yet?"
"I mean, I shot him a text a few days after he left, but he never responded. Thought he might be in a way after how shitty the fourth was. I know he'd talk to you though."
"Hmm."
"So?"
"He's good. Yeah....yeah he's good. Getting lots of sun."
But he didn't know that for a fact. Hardly even for an assumption.
July 18th
Just checking in. Haven't heard from you. nobody has Please take it easy.
delivered 7:18pm
The please felt important. It was the beginning of a shift he could already tell was going to be long and his best friend wasn't here for hand off. And he missed him. He really really did. Far more than he anticipated.
But again, Jack was completely zen.
July 21st
Remember your favorite IPA that randomly left the ABC a couple months ago? It's finally back - just stopped by and saw it yesterday. Can't wait to crack a few with you on your first weekend back in Pitt.
delivered 6:09pm
He paused. Then pressed send on the next message he had typed out.
Speaking of which, get home safe. Miss you brother.
delivered 6:11pm
It was a normal shift the next day. It really was. He had no looming feeling in his chest or his gut. Most cases went pretty smooth. Everyone seemed to be in decent spirits.
But right as he pulled his truck in his driveway. He got the call.
"Hello?"
"Is this Jonathan Abbot?"
"...Yes, it is. Who is this?"
"Good morning sir, I'm the head charge nurse for the ER at Fort Macleod Health Centre in Alberta. I'm sorry it took us so long to contact you. Getting patient files from another country is not very easy."
"What is this about?"
"Sorry.", she clears her throat, "We have you on file for the top, actually only, emergency contact for Michael Robinavitch. Is that correct?"
The sneaking suspicion he had the moment he accepted the call finally settled like an anvil in his stomach. His brain immediately started pumping out adrenaline, making his heart race, no matter how calm he looked on the outside.
"Mr. Abbot?"
"Yes, yes, sorry, that is correct."
"Are you currently in a private and safe area sir?"
Fuck. Fuck no. Please. Please god no.
"...Y-yeah."
"Then I'm so very sorry to report, but our local police found the body of Mr. Robinavitch in his hotel room yesterday morning. The front desk clerk was conc-"
But it all drowned out. Her words were static in his ears. He was going to cry, or vomit, or scream, or rip the steering wheel off of his car. Or all at once. He didn't even bother to respond after her calling his name again knocked him out of his stupor momentarily. He just hung up, and stared. Stared a thousand yards to the front door that would never be walked through again by that man he loved so dearly but never fucking said it.
He can't. Work. He can't. He won't-. And Dana. And the students. And-
He can't do this. He can't breathe. He needs to get out of this car that seems to be shrinking in on him by the second.
July 23rd
Fuck you. Why would you do this. I told you that you couldn't make me look stupid. You looked in my eyes and I saw you take in every word I said and you still fucking left me. You left. Man I thought we were supposed to be in this together. To pull each other out from the waves. I told you that you needed to talk to someone and you never fucking did. You never fucking listened. You let yourself suffer and you destroyed yourself every shift and I had to watch you do it and I was so fucking ignorant and I let you walk out of that trauma room and I just let you leave that hospital knowing there was chance you'd never come back.
delivered 2:36pm
It was all a chain of words blurred out by tears. He hasn't told anyone. He just called out of work and sat in his room and sat in his suffocating misery and let the truth of the situation fester in his brain for hours before he could put this abhorrence into something tangible.
But now he felt horrible. He felt rude and nasty for saying things like that to him. But he wasn't really. He wouldn't ever read it.
I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I didn't do enough. I'm sorry that I never pushed you harder to take care of yourself and get help. I'm sorry I didn't dig into your darkness enough. I'm sorry that there was so much of it in you that you couldn't handle it anymore. I'm sorry for anything that gave you the impression that you couldn't come to me about anything and everything. I'm sorry life was so fucking hard on you.
I hope you're resting. I hope you're finally happy and at peace. You deserve it so fucking much man. More than anybody I know.
delivered 2:47pm
And then lastly. All he could ever possibly need to say to him.
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.
written for @swoon-june 2026 // prompt: "nostalgia" (day 3)
the pitt. michael robinavitch/jack abbot. 700 words. rated t.
— — —
"Hey, you mind if I steal you away for a second opinion on something? Got a guy in South 20 that needs a little extra TLC."
"Sure thing,” Robby says, folding up his reading glasses and tucking them in the pocket of his scrubs. He places a chart onto the rack in front of the clerks, and as he rounds the hub, Jack falls into step beside him. "I've got a couple minutes anyway, while the portable X-ray's backed up. Who's in 20?"
"Oh, some poor guy in his early 50s, been complaining of loneliness, occasional heart palpitations, and, uh... a very insistent erection."
Robby shoots him an unamused look. "You need reinforcements for a priapism? Seriously?"
"It's a special case," Jack insists, pushing the door to the exam room open and ushering his husband inside. "You'll see."
Robby hums quietly, doubtful, but forces a neutral smile as he tugs the curtain back. "Hi there, I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch, but you can—" He glances around the empty room, just as Jack shuts the door, turns the lights off, and closes the curtain behind them. Robby whips around. "Uh, I think you might've misplaced your patient."
"You sure about that? Because I swear there's someone in this room that matches the exact description I gave you,” Jack says, smiling sweetly, and it takes everything in him not to laugh at the look of dawning realization he receives in response, the endeared eye-roll. He closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and pulling him in; Robby goes easily, just like he always does, tipping his head down, meeting his lips halfway, moaning softly into his mouth as Jack presses against him. "Not quite priapism, but, y'know — it is our duty as medical professionals to get ahead of a problem when we can, before it gets too serious."
"Jack," Robby murmurs, the name caught between a whine and a half-hearted protest.
"C’mon, baby. We used to do this kind of thing all the time, back in residency. And this whole mess today—the system going down, the old-school paper charts, all this bullshit we're dealing with—it's bringing me back to the good ol' days." He peppers a few soft, open-mouthed kisses up Robby's jaw, nipping lightly at his ear as he pitches his voice a little lower to add, "Been thinking a lot about how you used to drag me into the stairwell, or one of the bathroom stalls, or that on-call room a couple floors up—”
"Okay, okay," Robby interjects, blush traveling from the apples of his cheeks to the neckline of his scrubs as he clearly fills in the blanks with his own memories. "Jesus, I can't believe you're still as much of a menace as you were back then."
"I can." Jack holds a hand up, flashing his ring. "It's what you love about me."
Robby doesn't argue with that, even if he does carefully extract himself from his husband's hold. His gaze flits to the window on the door, watching the staff gather around the hub, a chaotic flurry of clipboards and orders and results being passed around. By the time he glances back, Jack already knows he's won this one.
"Alright, but if we're doing this, it's not gonna be in here. Not enough privacy. How about you, uh— meet me in the supply closet in five?" Robby tells him, subtly trying to adjust himself in his Carhartts. "But I swear, if anyone finds us—"
Jack cuts him off with a laugh. "Relax, man. There’s no service, remember? We’re untraceable. They can’t call us, can’t text us…”
"They can still come looking."
He shrugs. "Let 'em."
Robby shakes his head incredulously, but it doesn’t tamp down the fondness in his expression. He dips back into Jack's space for just a second, just long enough to give him one last kiss, sweet and steady, before he tears himself away, stepping towards the door.
"Five minutes," Robby reminds him, throwing a soft, slightly eager smile over his shoulder as he slips out of the room, and for a moment, he looks about thirty years younger, like the dorky resident that Jack first fell in love with. The sight is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest.
If you're into it, how about the moment Robby feels/sees Jack's pussy potion kick in? Maybe they're already getting hot and heavy, maybe Robby's already fucking Jack's ass, stroking his cock, when things suddenly change? And he's so turned on he just immediately slips out of Jack's ass and into his pussy on the next pump without even asking/thinking and just hammers in hard? (Jack is cool with it tho of course😌).
-🧼
(maybe a sprinkle of desperate!robby as he fucks into jack's pussy hard, apologizing like "oh fuck, oh sorry" but he just can't stop himself😫🥵)
"Fuck, fuck, sorry," Robby's gasping, slipping out of Jack's ass and into his pussy, ramming in hard, to the hilt immediately. "Can't help myself." Watching it change before his eyes was too sexy to bear. He needed to slide inside and claim his rightful place, to feel that tight, wet sheath around his cock.
"Don't apologize, you feel so good," Jack gasps, pulling him close, head spinning from getting one whole fucked to the next in under a minute. Robby groans into his shoulder, hips working by themselves. He was stroking Jack's cock until a minute ago, but now he focuses on rubbing Jack's clit, which is quickly fattening up under Robby's attentions.
"So fucking good," Jack slurs, eyes rolling back, caught up in it. Robby can't speak, too overwhelmed, cheeks hot and mouth open, so he just moans.
Middle aged Rabbot just started courting when Robby shows Jack a photo of himself in med school for the first time. Jack is understandably hot under the collar for him, and makes a comment about knotting in his pants if they’d met then.
Robby, kind, intelligent, insecure, Robby. Hears that and immediately the floods of years worth of comments about how he’s too big and hairy for an omega come back to him. He looks at the photo and realizes how pretty he used to be. Jack is even more handsome than his med school days, he’s grown into his alpha traits easily.
There’s nothing Robby can do about his height, and it’ll take months to fix the bad eating and exercise habits he’s gained after years of putting all his energy into the hospital. But he can shave.
Cue alpha Jack not knowing what to say when he sees Robby’s bare chin for the first time. Obviously, he’s still beautiful, it’d be impossible for him not to be. But Jack isn’t sure how to gently express that while he wants Robby to feel free to do what he wants with his own body, he misses his soft, fluffy omega.
He doesn’t dare think about what may await him when he gets Robby naked.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Really?" Jack asked, mild surprise evident in his voice.
Robby sighed wearily, nodding softly.
"I haven't been able to… finish in a while." He admitted, gnawing on his bottom lip.
Jack's eyebrows lifted in shock, "really?" A sudden intrigue evident in his voice.
Robby shrank even further down into the back of the couch, embarrassment washing over him. With a high-pitched groan he covered his face with his hands.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you this…" He said, his voice muffled by his hands.
Robby has been having some problem getting himself to come, Jack helps him out a little... as a friend of course.
Been rewatching the Pitt and can’t seem to get this scene out of my mind. My heart aches at the way Jack cleans up his prosthetics after a hard day… and my mind automatically goes to Robby, him being a person whose love language is acts of service and all — during the days where Jack hardly had the strength to take care of himself, Robby’s probably taking care of Jack’s prosthetics for him without even mentioning 🥹😭 …it got me thinking 🥰 so here’s a ficlet based on my brain worm. Plz enjoy!!
—
Robby has always been someone who expresses his love through actions.
When they first started spending nights at each other’s, Jack often found himself wondering just how on earth Robby was the way he was — he had so much love to give, and he offered it with such an ease that made it seem like loving and taking care of Jack came to him as naturally as breathing.
Robby’s condo came with a coat closet right next to the front door, and within a week after moving some of his stuff to Robby’s — during which Robby insisted on helping despite them living only fifteen minutes apart — Jack found himself staring at a renovated closet section customized for his crutches and prosthetics. Robby even had a separate space dedicated just for his athletic prothesis, and a drawer underneath for his extra sock liners and supplies. The way everything was organized allowed Jack to switch from his prosthetic to crutches with such convenience that it even exceeded the setup at his own place.
Jack was caught off-guard and left in awe as he struggled to get words out, his throat tight with emotion. He’d never had anyone do something like this for him, someone to put such care to and have such understanding about maximizing his comfort, providing things that Jack didn’t even know he needed.
When he found Robby and circled his arms around him, Jack held on with so much gratitude and affection and all the emotions in between left unsaid, conveying them through the most tender kisses. Robby just smiled softly and acted like it was nothing. Even later, when they were lying in bed, face to face, coming down from the high Jack curated to repay Robby the way he knew best, he found himself staring into those big brown eyes that held so much fondness and devotion and felt so incredibly loved.
Jack was so full and warm that he thought he might burst, affection brimming over and spilling from every inch of him.
—
After a double shift in the ER, it was almost expected that his shoes and the legs of his cargo pants would come home bearing the grime and stains of a hard night spent saving lives. And on especially intense nights, those marks would expand and seep through the cotton fabrics and land on the surface of his prosthetic leg. As a result, Jack had gotten used to spending sometime cleaning his prosthetic and wiping his shoes after arriving home, going through the familiar steps absentmindedly, his thoughts carried away, reflecting.
But Jack had lost two kids that one specific day — both under five years old, and he barely had enough will power to drag himself back to Robby’s condo, it being closer to the hospital than his own place. The last image he had of those kids followed him relentlessly—small, fragile bodies lying still, ET tube protruding out from their mouths long after it failed to keep them breathing. He felt like a soldier carrying the weight of the fallen home, even though he no longer had bodies left to bear.
He was so desperately drained that it took every bit of him to reach the front door. As soon as he detached his prosthetic from his stub, Jack grabbed his crutches and stumbled into the living room, leaving behind his prosthetic leg in the pile of his shoes and scrubs — his shedded sorrows.
I’ll take care of those when I wake up. He thought as he collapsed onto the sofa in one exhausted motion, ignoring the dull ache spreading up his leg after the tension had been released. Clinging to the possibility of an attempt at finding respite within the subconscious mind, Jack drifted off.
What he didn’t expect was waking up to the smell of a home-cooked meal and soft jazz bellowing from the record player. As he slowly gathered his senses from a dose of restless sleep —nearly three hours, he registered as he squinted at the face of his watch — Jack recalled the state of himself before he passed out on the sofa. He winced slightly, fragments of memory surfacing piece by piece.
The noise. The reality.
Blood on the floor. Machines beeping, people running.
And oh, the kids. The tiny body bags, too light for anything to feel real at all.
As the events of the day came back to him, he found it harder to breathe. His eyes frantically searched the room and found what he was looking for — Robby across the space in the kitchen, spatula in hand, swaying and humming lightly to himself. As if sensing Jack’s gaze, Robby turned his head, wearing the most endearing smile, eyes glinting behind his glasses.
Hanging onto the light of those pupils he so longed for, Jack breathed out, air finally finding its way back to him.
“Hard day?” Robby greeted, and Jack hadn’t realized how starved he'd been for the sound of Robby’s voice until it reached his ears. It sounded like home.
Robby was there, at home with him.
“How about some pasta, and you can tell me all about it while we cuddle and drink some wine?”
As he processed those words, Bruce Springsteen echoing in the background, Jack realized he was helplessly falling in love all over again.
—
It was after a meal together, followed by lots of comforting hugs and kisses and a bit of tears, when Jack finally reached the final part of recounting his day.
He didn’t know how much time had passed with them sitting like that, in each other’s arms, Robby’s hand gently brushing through his curls, his way of offering silent support and encouragement for Jack to keep going. His gentle giant.
“And I came home, and got my leg off, and went straight…” As if recalling something, Jack pushed himself up, his head turning towards the foyer.
“Shit, I totally forgot —”
Between the hearty meal and emotional conversation drifting into the deep waters, Jack had completely forgotten about his prosthetic he left lying on the entryway floor.
He went to grab his crutches, before quickly landing a peck on Robby’s lips apologetically.
“Be right back.”
Jack prepped himself up, heading to the front door to take care of the scattered mess he left behind. But to his surprise, there was nothing to greet him.
Instead, the prosthetic leg that was supposed to be on the floor was now tucked away neatly in its place in the closet, all traces of that hard day gone and replaced by the shiny reflection of clean carbon fiber. His wet shoes were dry, and clean, and his liner sock — folded nicely in the drawer — had been washed.
Robby. Jack realized. Robby had taken it upon himself when he arrived home, cleaning Jack’s prosthetic and putting everything into their places while Jack slept.
Nobody had ever done something close to that for him before.
People always assumed that it was a personal matter and treaded gingerly around him. Even on rare occasions where Jack had asked his late wife to help him with the care routine, him suffering too much from phantom pains to do it himself, she had approached each step with such careful tentativeness, checking with Jack along the way, as if the prosthetic leg she held in her hands was something foreign, fragile and reverent. She did the best she could with so much love, care and understanding, and Jack wouldn’t have asked for it any other way.
But Robby? Robby just did it.
He hadn't handled the prosthetic like an artifact or an object worthy of extensive care, nor did he see it as foreign or some delicate representation of distant grief. Robby treated the whole process with the same unthinking familiarity like it was among the most ordinary rituals of caring for and loving someone — instinctively and matter-of-factly, as though it had never occurred to him to do otherwise.
Robby did everything without mentioning anything. Like it was as unremarkable as folding a shirt or putting a book back on the shelf — not because it was insignificant, but because it was Jack’s. And anything that belonged to Jack simply belonged in Robby’s care.
Because in Robby’s mind, Jack was his. In all of his entirety.
Overwhelmed with emotions, Jack turned back to look over his shoulder, finding Robby’s eyes. He had been staring at him this whole time, gaze so soft that Jack’s heart swelled and grew impossibly full.
“I…Robby…What —” Jack tried, not able to find the right words that would carry the weight of his emotions.
Where was his knack for words when he needed them?
“Michael —” He breathed.
“I love you too.” Robby said, finding Jack’s words for him, his expression saturated with love.
“Now get yourself back here so I can kiss you some more.”
Back on my Robby has both touch aversion and touch starvation bullshit.
As if it weren't bad enough that he has that contradictory set of issues.
the one exception to the aversion has to be the exact person whose touch would undo him completely.
I needed to write about it, so... have this snippet of Robby and his very normal, completely fine evening of watching a basketball game with his best friend in which he barely watches half of the damn game.
rabbot | 1.3k | angst if u squint | but also comfort | tiny splash of subspace at the end as a treat for both Michael and Me
The game was on the third quarter now, but Robby had stopped actively paying attention to it somewhere around the second.
It wasn't his fault though. The Knicks were down by eleven and Jack had been giving a shitload of commentary that had very little to do with basketball and a lot more to do with his personal beef with specific players that Robby knew dated back years.
It was background noise in the best way possible. That kind Robby's brain didn't have to do anything with and could instead just… turn off.
Unfortunately though, that plan hadn't panned out the way he intended, because for some damn reason, something was different today, compared to the many times he had constructed this situation.
Instead of being able to just exist in the proximity that was so much more than just a ball game, Michael was aware the entire time.
Aware of the fact that Jack's arm was laying along the back of the couch.
Now… that wasn't unheard of and far from the first time it had happened, but today, during his shift, he had overheard a singular piece of a conversation that simply wouldn't let him rest.
'Oh, well that's not surprising. Dr. Robby doesn't really like being touched.'
Which… was true. To some degree, but instead of just appreciating the fact that his boundaries were being respected and communicated, Robby's mind immediately shot to the fact that he wanted nothing more than being touched. Nothing. More.
Yet never would allow himself that.
The arm was not around him and that was the thing. It was just… there. Draped over the cushions lining the back of the couch; Like Jack needed somewhere to put it, the back of the couch was both convenient and comfy and Robby just happened to be there.
Entirely without ulterior motive. Just like every time.
Now Michael had become aware of it in the way one became aware of a sound that'd been going for a while. Not immediately as it started, but after some internal threshold had gotten surpassed and ones brain decided that it was time to register it now.
The warmth of that arm sitting almost-but-not-quite on his shoulders-
The fact that if he shifted back even just a minimal amount-
But Michael didn't shift back.
Instead he thought about why not.
He thought about Santos who'd grabbed his elbow some two weeks ago to get his attention. How Robby had shifted away without taking his attention off her, responded and then spent the next ten minutes utterly aware of his own elbow as if it was an open wound in need of navigating around.
He thought about how touch lands wrong on him usually. Acting as too much information. Too much intimacy for what it pretended to be. People touching him to get his attention or a point across and his body logged every single instance of it with a faint, persistent static he'd learned to just- live with.
Maybe he didn't like touch after all.
Jack's arm hadn't moved and there was no static to report.
However, this time that was the part he kept returning to, circling it without landing on the conclusion. That silence, where a clear discomfort about the incoming touch would be.
But… He was fine.
More than fine actually.
Michael was sitting there in that specific warmth of Jack not-quite-touching him and some traitorous part of him had been quietly cataloguing the exact distance between Jack's arm and his shoulders. Wanting. Wanting in a way that had nothing to do with anything reasonable for that distance to close.
Michael wanted it the way he wanted things he never let himself have. Badly and without any logic tied to it, and underneath everything else, like a damn frequency his body's been broadcasting for so long he'd forgotten it was there in the first place.
The problem - and he saw this very clearly - was that if this were anyone else on that couch, he wouldn't want it. He'd be managing it. Smiling, staying still, waiting for it to be over.
But the wanting and the aversion seemingly ran on the same track, the same wire, which meant the only touch that didn't make him want to crawl out of his skin, was the exact touch he couldn't ever afford letting himself need.
Because Jack would notice.
Of course he fucking would.
Jack who had known him for long enough to read him even when Robby was actively working on being unreadable in his expressions and actions.
Jack, who could see through every facade of his and butt his way head first through any stubbornness he put on.
If he shifted back in the slightest and Jack's arm were to settle around his shoulders, then something in Robby's face would change and betray him.
Which Jack would clock immediately.
Which would then turn into a moment of Michael baring himself in a way he hadn't even allowed himself to look at for a long time.
So he sat precisely the way he did. He held his beer in his hand and he watched the Knicks.
When the Knicks score, Jack's arm lifts off the couch, accompanying his huff of disapproval.
"Clean shot," Robby says, his voice a little wobbly from the stiffness in his neck. He said it because it was a clean shot and because he needed to be saying something out loud after all this time. Certainly not because the absence of the arm behind him had landed in his soul like a damn sinking anchor.
"It wasn't a clean-" Jack turned to stare at him with a fully betrayed look in his eyes; then his hand dropped right onto Robby's head and tipped it forward the way one were to dunk someone in a cake. "Robby!"
When he was satisfied with the punishment of straining Robby's neck, Jack looked forward again at the TV. His hand however, didn't move back to the top of the couch. Instead it just… stayed.
Shifting slightly from the top of his head down to the back of Michael's neck, Jack's fingers settled at his nape with something that could only be the absolute thoughtlessness of familiarity. Like they had simply found the exact place they'd wanted to go and stopped there.
Robby didn't say anything.
He wasn't sure if he could if he wanted to in the first place.
His body was frozen in place as he was more than just aware than moving a single muscle would lead to that hand leaving his skin, moving somewhere far away from him again.
The Knicks scored again and distantly, Jack said something about it. The commentary continues as the game went on, but Michael heard none of it.
He sat in the warm, unbearable and completely ordinary fact that Jack's hand was draped across the back of his neck and had to admit that it changed something within him.
Something in his chest had gotten very quiet, settled down for the first time of what felt ages, held in place by a touch that he'd craved for even longer.
The thick fingers wrapping around the base of his skull didn't rest but instead let their tips run through the short hairs in Michael's nape.
If the Knicks lost by fourteen, several minutes later, Michael didn't see it.
How was he supposed to, with how heavy and deep his breaths had gotten, grounding him in the moment.
How was he supposed to notice with how hazy and blurry his vision had turned, giving him no chance to even guess what had been going down on that screen.
How was he supposed to notice anything, when there was this warm buzz spreading from his nape and seeping into every limb, making it impossible to focus.
If Jack had stopped watching the game several minutes ago, then Michael hadn't noticed it at all.
cw. suicidal ideation, these are my projecting on Robby hours, don’t ask questions, not edited
When drowning, the inhale is what kills. The involuntary seizure of the lungs, the betrayal of the body, desperate, a primal gasp for air. Infant-like. A sort of rebirth. The cool water of the river — amniotic fluid. And the body, adrift in it, yearning.
Robby imagines it so often, he thinks, sometimes, he can taste it, wakes up from dreams with river water in his mouth, rolling sediment on his tongue, wondering what it would be like to be held in his Mother’s arms again. Wondering if the cold touch of the river would be enough to soothe that raw ache inside of him.
Robby never did like heights, but he takes his bike and rides the length of ninth street. Crosses the bridge on his way to the PTMC. Does it everyday that it becomes routine. Ignores the river and how it calls to him.
And at night, on the way back, gravel kicking beneath his tires on the unpaved side of the road, he pulls over.
Every night, he stops. Climbs over the ledge. Sits down.
The city lights like stars in the black, unforgiving void of the water below him. And Robby imagines — closes his eyes, really imagines — what it would be like to commit.
The forward sway, the release, the free fall into the nothingness. His body breaking beneath the impact. Split in two. Robby thinks sometimes, maybe, he had a twin, and that, these jagged edges that don’t quite fit the puzzle of him, belong to them instead — that maybe in the womb they got so tangled up in each other separation became impossible, and resentment, instinctual.
And when the forward tilt of his body feels less imagined more real, Robby will grip the edge of the bridge — buttercup yellow peeling beneath his fingers, the metal rumbling while cars speed by, headlights flashing, illuminating everything but him, never him — and breathe.
Deep inhales that stick in his throat, that catch in the soft lining of his esophagus, his lungs spasming with the effort of holding it, and his vision going the smooth black of the river, until finally, he exhales.
Shuddering, wet sobs that force their way out of him. Salt water on his cheeks, and on his tongue. The taste of the river, corrupted in its reproduction. Flowing from him, through him. The weight of it a wave crashing over and over until, eventually, it ebbs.
And Robby, pulls himself up then, climbs carefully back over the railing, rides the length of the ninth street back home, and crawls into bed. Picks up his phone. Scrolls the short distance of his contact list. Imagines the aftermath, the bloated weight of his body being dragged out, the sirens, the police — anyone to notify? Next of kin, maybe? Not likely.
Robby never did get the two kids or the wife or the pond, just an emergency contact, not yet removed. He hovers his fingers over the call button now, and thinks about pressing it. Doesn’t. Sets his phone aside instead, inhales deep, thinks of drowning. Of hazel eyes the color of river water.
Jacque and Mikha'el if they weren't in the middle of a siege:
(I whined out loud like a DOG when Jack had to hold himself back from making any noise when Robby was rubbing up against his back AND at the detail of Jack making sure not to break skin because no one can afford infection under the circumstances AND AND AND at Jack throwing away the lash at the end. Chapter arc that was very important TO ME. Kudos.)
Aaaaah I'm so pleased you enjoyed it! We all gotta agree it would have been a complete and total waste of a medieval Catholic warrior-monk if there weren't at least a little self-flagellation over gay lust. And I've seen too many gifsets of Shawn Hatosy's back at this point not to... think about it. A lot.
Also, how else would I have hit the rabbot beat of Robby putting his hand on Jack's back and unintentionally hurting him because he's unaware that Jack's injured? I had to do it. What kind of fanfic writer would I be if I didn't devote my energies to lovingly recreating canon moments in 1292? While also trying to make it hornier and angstier?
