Jack knows that loving Robby---daring to confess his love for Robby--isn't enough to save him. Jack's been around too long, has seen too much, to think love is enough. If it were, there'd have been loved ones after loved ones with happier endings in the ED. Pills not taken. Weapons not discharged. Families intact.
But Jack also knows he can show up. He can help. Robby never has to ask, would never ask, (doesn't even see his own needs), but now that Jack's really paying attention, he does whatever he can to ease Robby's burdens, so all Robby has to focus on is the excruciating work of healing.
Robby's got a bunch of potted plants that are unattended and wilting. Jack lets himself into Robby's condo one afternoon while Robby's working and waters them. While he's there, he takes out the trash. The next week--because he's decided he's going to keep it up--he decides to throw in a load of laundry from Robby's overflowing laundry basket. Then decides he might as well do that every week, too.
It's easy enough to arrange a grocery delivery timed for Jack's visits, which also coincide with Robby's therapy days. Healthy, low-prep food. Fruit. Fresh soups. Just a few things that Jack thinks Robby will eat, and really, anything has to be better than the granola bars and take-out Robby typically subsists on. Jack stashes disposable plates and bowls and silverware on Robby's kitchen counter, so Robby doesn't have to worry about dishes.
He makes Robby's bed, turning down the corner of Robby's bedspread and leaving a water bottle on his nightstand. None of it feels like enough, but it's something.
Jack's visits go unmentioned for months, the routine second nature by the time Robby pulls him aside at handoff one night in mid-November. "I'll be home from therapy by five on Thursday. You can stay if you want. Eat some of the food you're overbuying for me."
Cheeks flushing at the acknowledgment of what's gone unacknowledged until now, and chest warming at the invite, Jack nods. He heads to Robby's that afternoon, makes sure there's food for two, and he stays.
Camboy!Jack, who is using it to pay his way through medical school.
It wasn't his first choice, but his parents cut him off when he came out, and he refused to join the army like his Dad kept pressuring him, too.
He's good at it, though, and there's this one viewer who might be his favorite. He's the sweetest in the comments, tips the highest, and always pays for private chats even if Jack is too tired to do more than jerk off.
Robby is chief of emergency medicine at PTMC.
He works too much, has very little free time, and every relationship he's ever had ends before it even begins.
So, on nights when he can't sleep or is is wired tight — he goes online.
Live cams are new to him, a little odd but he enjoys the interaction.
Finding JockRabbit was just a stroke of luck (pun intended)
Does he feel pervy watching this kid who can't be any older than 21 making doe eyes at the camera with his dick in his hand? Kind of.
But those eyes? Curls? That mouth?
Robby's never come harder than when JockRabbit winks at camera and thanks him for the tip.
So twice a week, Robby settles into his favorite pastime. Watches JockRabbit get off for an hour, then pays for a private show until the boy is sleepy and saying good night.
Then cleans off and goes to sleep.
Its a steady routine.
A little fucked up
But a routine none the less
One morning, Dana wrangles him before he slips into a trauma to remind him of the new set of med students.
"They’re a little late today, but they'll be here soon."
"Great. Lemme know when they are." He gives her a thumbs up then dives right in.
He's elbows deep in a trauma, ordering the room at large what to do.
An eager shadow slides next to him, hovering as he explains how to intubate.
"Then pull." He leans back, letting the patient head drop, "Thats how you intubate."
"That was amazing."
Robby's heart stops. His blood runs cold.
Standing beside him in a pair of black scrubs, gloved hands clasped together, hazel eyes bright with wonder is the star of everyone of Robby's filthy fantasies.
"Uh-"
"Hi, Jack Abbot. MS-3. Nurse Evans sent me in here. I'm excited to be working with you, Dr. Robinavitch."
He's even more beautiful in person.
"Robby." He snaps.
Jack's eyes widen, "Uh-"
Robby clears his throat, "Sorry, Robby. You can call me Dr. Robby "
Jack's weary expression shifts into glee, he holds his gloved hand out and grins, "Pleasure to meet you Dr. Robby."
I’ve not put the @ for obvious reasons but like… Noah is right. I don’t wanna yuck anyone’s yum, if you like Kingdon just stop reading here and don’t come for me in my comments or reblogs.
Noah doesn’t have a “stick up his butt” he’s pointing out the OBVIOUS pitfalls (no pun intended) and plotholes in this ship. It just doesn’t work as anything other than friends.
It’s also interesting to me that you’ve painted it as if he’s completely hating on Kingdon when he’s simply saying he doesn’t understand it. He goes out of his way to say that he’s not trying to say you can’t ship it. Just that he doesn’t.
I hope Noah Wyle knows how much we appreciate that he never listened to that idiot who told him to "fix" his teeth. I hope he knows how much we love his teefies.
Robby really wasn't expecting to wake up one morning to find Jack Fucking Abbot doing nude yoga in his backyard.
He'd moved to the area a few short years ago after finally selling his Bubbe's house. It wasn't an easy decision, but the house was too big for just him, and with his tenure being renewed he figured spending money on a new place wasn't a bad idea.
It's not a large neighborhood. He'd lived in Squirrel Hill his whole life (except those years in New Orleans and MSF), so being in an area with more trees than people was nice.
His next door neighbor shares his yard, but there's enough space for it to feel like he has some real privacy.
It's a nice place.
He even considers inviting some of his colleagues over for a barbeque. Maybe get to know some of his residents.
Maybe even the newest attending, Jack Abbot — the guy is a bit of a mystery. A hot, dreamy mystery that Robby feels guilty thinking about when he remembers the wedding ring on his left hand.
He keeps the barbeque idea in his mind as he settles into his new home. Buys new furniture, paints the walls, spends his rare free time deciding between building a deck or keeping the low patio.
It's this decision that has him sitting in his back yard, a coffee in hand, phone held up to his face as he watches YouTube videos of backyard setups.
It's early, too early, but his internal alarm goes off every day at six am whether he wants it to or not. The sun is rising, breaking over the tree line. It's cool enough that he kept a blanket around his shoulders.
He's so focused on what the handyman in the video is doing with his weatherproofing that he doesn't notice his neighbor joining him outside.
The handyman is attractive, greying hair, stubbled jaw, his shirt damp with sweat and sticking to his well-muscled chest. He's good with his hands, voice steady as he explains what brands of primer he uses.
The video ends with the handyman winking at the camera, reminding people to like and subscribe.
Robby is about to click the next video, thumbnail of the same man holding up potted plants, when he sees movement in the corner of his eye.
He blinks up, squinting against the sun, trying to focus and—
"What the fuck." He gasps, then slaps a hand over his mouth.
Across the yard, arms stretching towards the sky, head tilted back with his eyes closed, is none other than Jack Abbot.
He's twisting his torso, spreading his arms out before pulling them back in. A tinny voice can be heard guiding him through yoga poses.
His curls, auburn and greying, catch the light, pale skin lit up showing off a spanning canvas of freckles.
Freckles that cover Every. Single. Inch.
And Robby knows this because Jack is bare fucking naked.
He knows he's staring, his tongue dry as his mouth hangs open, fingers numb where they grip his phone.
Jack bends forward, keeping his flesh and blood foot planted as he lifts his amputated leg in the air.
He twists and turns his torso before lowering himself onto his mat. Robby watches him, his blanket curling tighter over his shoulders. His body is on fire, shame like flames on the sides of his face. He should 100% go inside, stop staring at his coworker doing naked yoga.
Maybe stick his head in his microwave.
Instead he keeps watching. Jack has an unfair level of control over his body. He moves fluidly, holding himself in complex positions.
He incorporates a few exercise movements, his muscles flexing in a tantalizing manner.
He's soft through it all, hanging out in the open. Robby would probably be embarrassed to have his dick flopping around like that, but Jack seems to accept it with grace.
The video he's watching must come to an end, because suddenly he's grabbing a pair of crutches and standing up straight.
Robby has a single moment of panic when Jack turns in his direction before he tugs his blanket over his face and takes off inside.
Coffee cup and phone left on his cheap plastic recliner.
Did Jack see him?
Did he know Robby lived next door?
Should Robby say something?
Oy vey, how is he going to look him in the eye after this?
Luckily, Robby doesn't have to think about it for a few days. Their schedules never align, patients keeping them apart when they do overlap.
It's not until two weeks after the incident that he's confronted with it.
Robby is home, reading a book in his living room, his second beer sitting half drunk on his coffee table.
He's deep in his story when someone knocks on his door. He thinks about ignoring it, but maybe it's something important, or a delivery brought to the wrong house.
He flips his porch light on, peeking through his window, but all he can see is an elbow and the line of the person's back.
With a sigh he opens the door, "I'm sorry, you might— Abbot?"
Is he drunk?
Jack smiles at him, shifting awkwardly, "Uh, hey. Did you know we're neighbors?"
Robby just stares at him.
Jack licks his lips, "Right, well, I saw your Jeep the other day and thought it looked familiar. When I noticed it after work I figured I'd come say hi. Ask if you'd wanna watch the game with me?"
Robby blinks, "Game?"
Jack tilts his head, "Pens? Do you watch—"
"Oh," Robby rubs his neck, "right, uh, yeah, sure. Come in."
Jack does, shoulder brushing past him. Robby's stomach is at his feet.
"I have some beer, uh, I haven't gone grocery shopping but maybe we could order—" he stops.
Jack's standing behind his couch, his fingers rubbing the blanket thrown over the back.
It's the same blanket Robby hid behind the other day.
He might die. Right here. Stress-induced aneurism.
"—a pizza."
"Actually." Jack spins around to face him, "I'm not really here to watch the game."
His death certificate will say Cause of Death: Acute mortification that led to myocardial rupture.
"Uh—"
Jack clears his throat, "I'm not wrong — you saw me doing yoga the other day?"
Profound vasovagal syncope with secondary cerebral ischemia.
"Yeah."
Jack slowly nods, "I wanna apologize—"
Robby flounders, throwing his hands up, "No, don't — I didn't — I didn't really see anything, I swear."
The look Jack gives him tells him he doesn't believe that at all.
Robby groans, pinching his brow, "It's okay. Seriously." He tries to laugh but it comes out a little unstable, "Your wife is a lucky woman."
Jack frowns.
What the fuck is wrong with him. Robby squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to bang his head against the wall. He just admitted he definitely saw more than he claimed, and he just complimented him.
They'll label his case a sudden onset of stupidity.
"I'm a widow."
Robby had the flu a few years back, he'd barely been able to get out of bed. He'd spent three whole days watching YouTube and sleeping. In that time he learned all about sinkholes.
Now would be the perfect time for one to open up and swallow him whole.
"I am so sorry. I didn't mean—"
Jack stops him, "It's okay. I'll take the compliment for her." His eyes shine, mouth quirking into a smirk.
jack telling robby that his therapist said they’re codependent & robby immediately goes sad puppy eyes & says “do you need some space? am i too much?” jack just rolls his eyes & pulls robby into his arms & grumbles “i never said that’s a bad thing”
"I've dealt with my demons," Jack had told Robby. It had been a complete, utter bald-faced lie, and Robby's wholly unimpressed face - even in the midst of his own crisis - had called him on it.
"It's a process," he'd amended. A very generous description of how poorly Jack was actually dealing with his own demons - of how he was incapable of sitting still even for a minute at a time, of how he needed to have something to do with his hands, always, of how he needed to be on the move, of how he didn't dare face the stillness of his empty kitchen and the stillness of his empty couch and the still, dead silent, placid, disgusting serenity of his bedroom, lest he actually go clinically insane.
In the stillness, he could hear bullets and wounded cries of young men. In the stillness, the heat of Iraq was far too close on his skin, regardless of the season in Pittsburgh.
In the stillness, her laughter followed him from room to room. Her voice sought him out, called him out, told him to fucking grow up and move on and stop being such a sad fucking sack of shit, he had promised her he wouldn't be like this after she died, he had promised-
So no, Jack hadn't exactly dealt with his demons. But he was the very picture and poster boy of mental health compared to Robby - that fucker had spent his final pre-sabbatical shift all but handing out verbal suicide notes, begging for help, begging for someone to save him from his stillness. So Jack took matters into his own hands and promptly slashed both tires on that donorcycle death trap suicide machine.
And now, with Robby knocked out cold on some zolpidem and quetiapine, wrapped up tight in a blanket with the AC blasting freezing air into Jack's bedroom, the stillness isn't all that bad.
It isn't so empty. Robby's here, head on Jack's shoulder, face almost pressed into his neck.
It isn't so quiet. Robby's mumbling a little in sleep every now and then, but he doesn't sound distressed, so Jack leaves him be. (His words from earlier are still bouncing around inside Jack's head as well, like a ferocious little bouncing ball. Quiet and tear-filled, simply asking "Can I stay with you? In there?" Jack hadn't answered with words, had simply tugged him along into bed and into his arms.)
This stillness isn't all that bad. It has purpose. It has heart. It has Robby.
( From somewhere in the other room, he can hear her. "Fucking finally, you jackass." )
Carter and Benton relationship consists of Carter just being his happy go lucky self chatting with everyone and being Cute and Benton comes up behind him glowering like Satan himself and wraps an arm around Carter from behind and pulls him flush against him and the person Carter is talking to is like 'my bad' and walks away and Carter just turns around with the biggest smile and goes "Hey baby!" and Benton goes "Hn. Hi."
Anyway protective and jealous boyfriend Benton and oblivious and talks to everyone while being deeply in love and loyal Carter
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