State of Exception
Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Jack Abbot Jack and Robby meet during residency in New Orleans. There is a lot of time between then and PittFest, but it takes a uniquely bad breaking point for them to reveal what they mean to each other.
content: sexual content, major and minor injuries, discussions of suicide, drinking, depictions of depression, ptsd, and grief. this work is 18+ only. do not post to other sites.
AO3 link if you so prefer wc: 11.4k
Jack unlocks the door to Robby’s condo at 8 AM on the morning after Pittfest. He’s immediately assaulted by music blaring from the speakers in the living room.
They’re massive things— shit you’d find in the back of a speakeasy circa 1980— and Robby’s had them as long as he’s known him. He’s lucky this place is damn near soundproof.
Once he’s triple-checked that the front door is locked, Jack shuts off the sound system and makes his way to Robby’s bedroom. The man is lying on his side with his arm under the pillow, and Jack almost thinks he’s asleep until he comes around the other side of the bed and finds his eyes wide open.
“Sleep yet?” Jack asks, quietly setting his bag down next to the bed.
“A bit,” Robby replies, which Jack translates to mean a few minutes here and there between overthinking to the tune of old rock music.
He makes quick work of stripping off his scrub top, cargo pants, and prosthetic, then climbs into bed next to Robby and under the covers. They’re facing each other, gazes set on the other but not piercing. Jack thinks it would be awkward if they hadn’t been in this situation many times before.
—
Jack lost his leg in 2007 during his third and final tour in Afghanistan as a medic. Robby was his second emergency contact, next to a cousin back home that he was once close with.
Jack doesn’t remember much from his time at Walter Reed, but he knows that Robby was there for all of it. He got nearly a month off work, sat vigil at his bedside for two revision surgeries, and spent every day at inpatient rehab with him.
He would sit next to a shellshocked and angry Jack and talk about anything from baseball to new emergency medicine studies, not that he absorbed any of it.
Jack mostly remembers Robby’s voice during those early days. He remembers the frustration of learning to use crutches and trying to manage the pain in a foot that was no longer there, but it’s always overshadowed by a constant monologue.
He remembers that he liked to stare at the lines of Robby’s face while the man read off of the ancient, brick-sized laptop that his fancy new attending job gave him. He found that the way Robby’s brows raised when he was amused was almost as effective as 800mg of ibuprofen, not that he would ever examine the meaning of that.
When he was discharged, he went home with Robby to his apartment in Pittsburgh. All of his belongings were still in storage in New Orleans, but his cousin had her hands full with two under two. He didn’t ask any questions when Robby told his case manager that Jack was coming home with him, just mindlessly nodded along because he couldn’t imagine that there were any other options.
All Jack knows is that he got out of the car after a four-hour drive from Maryland, tired and in pain, and Robby had a bed set up with a support pillow for his stump. He let Robby direct him into the bedroom and give him his nighttime meds at 6pm, and promptly passed out.
He woke up 12 hours later, confused, before he remembered where he was. He crutched into the bathroom connected to the bedroom and found it startlingly accessible— fitted out with shower handles and a foldable shower chair shoved behind the door— but also well lived-in.
He tried to be angry at Robby for tricking out his only bathroom just for him, but it wouldn’t stick. It’s just that it was rather embarrassing, having someone take care of him like this after being on his own for so long. He supposed it would be more embarrassing to crack his head open in the shower.
He found a spare toothbrush in Robby’s bathroom to freshen up before deciding to explore the place. He hadn’t been to any of Robby’s apartments since they were residents in New Orleans, living in roach-infested one-bedrooms. It was a modest place for an ER attending doctor: only one bedroom and a small kitchen, but a decent-sized living room with a new entertainment center and those godforsaken speakers.
Robby was asleep on a couch on the opposite side of the room, and it was obvious he hadn’t splurged on that either. It was gray and worn and far too short for all 6’3 of him, so his calves stuck out over the edge in a way that had to be uncomfortable.
Jack detoured from the kitchen and went into the living room instead, hitting the arm of the couch with a crutch to wake Robby up.
“Sleep in the fuckin’ bed next time, for Christ's sake, you’re gonna fuck up your back like that,” Jack said with a scowl.
Robby was barely awake, blinking at Jack while he got his bearings. Finally, he said, “It’s alright, I don’t mind.”
Jack damn near rolled his eyes, “You might not now, but your neck is going to soon. Now, get up and show me how you make coffee in this place.”
Jack spent most of that day on Robby’s couch, watching him clean and cook and scroll through the DVR for a show he thought he’d like. When it was time for bed, Jack wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Get your ass up, I can’t let you sleep on this thing.” He insisted, leaning on his crutches in front of the couch until Robby conceded and stood. “Good lord, where’d you even find that thing? Couldn’t find a sofa with more lumps?”
They brushed their teeth side by side in Robby’s sole bathroom, and neither said a word about the modifications. Jack stripped to his boxers and got into bed without any fanfare, but Robby changed into sleep pants and a ratty t-shirt. Jack closed his eyes and ignored the temptation to look.
They laid in bed on their backs and pretended like it wasn’t as intimate as it was, starting to drift off until a helicopter flew over the building. Jack hadn’t started having flashbacks yet; those came when the shock of losing his leg wore off a few months later, but the panic was still there.
His breathing picked up, he didn’t have the skills to prevent the hyperventilating, and he was about to go full-blown anxiety attack until Robby reached over. He gently took Jack’s arm, uncurling the man’s fingers so he could place his palm flat over his heart.
“C’mon, breathe with me,” Robby said, and exaggerated his breathing until Jack relaxed and the moment passed. Even then, neither made to move away, and so that’s how they fell asleep.
—
In Robby’s condo (now much nicer than the bachelor pad from his thirties) on the day after Pittfest, the man is struggling. His jaw is clenched and he’s breathing deep, most likely intentionally to stop from hyperventilating. Jack suspects that he hasn’t let himself break yet— not since that moment in the peds room.
It’s almost a mirror image of 18 or so years before, except this time, Jack doesn’t hesitate to drag Robby into his arms. He lets the other man settle his head on his chest, ear to heart, and match his breathing until he relaxes into the touch. Robby’s weight on his chest soothes him, too, not too heavy and just enough grounding.
He has one hand in Robby’s hair, scratching gentle lines on his crown in the way the other man does for him on a bad night. His other arm is halfway across the larger man’s back, not exactly holding him in place but definitely ensuring he won’t roll away.
Despite the fact that there’s no judgment, never has been for them, Robby doesn’t cry. He presses his face into the crook of Jack’s neck and digs his fingers into the man’s ribs. Grounding, Jack thinks, or possibly desperate. His eyes stay dry until the exhaustion becomes overwhelming, and so that’s how sleep finds them.
Jack wakes up before Robby, sweating from the mid-afternoon sun. They’ve separated in their sleep, which isn’t unexpected with the heat, so Jack’s able to sneak out of bed without waking him up. He doesn’t bother to put on his prosthetic, just uses the furniture to hop until he can grab a spare set of crutches from the closet.
Then, he makes his way to the (still annoyingly accessible) bathroom for a shower and takes his time to melt underneath the hot water, much different from his quick rinse in the immediate aftermath of Pittfest. He washes his hair twice and lets his skin turn red under the spray until he becomes concerned for Robby’s water bill.
Jack stays at Robby’s enough, usually falling asleep on the (now very comfortable) couch on his day off, to have a toothbrush and some spare curl cream in his bathroom cabinet.
Robby’s still asleep when he’s done, so he goes to the kitchen in search of a real meal. Robby’s usually good about keeping fresh food in the house— he’s one of those weirdos who finds cooking relaxing— which means there’s enough in the fridge to whip up an omelette for himself.
It’s not anywhere near normal breakfast time— the sun is blinding through the windows as if to warn it’s going to set soon— but it’s Jack’s morning, and so breakfast food is in order.
He takes his time whisking the eggs and cheese and spinach and cuts up the last of the mushrooms— Robby doesn’t like them but always keeps them around for Jack. He doesn’t start the coffee pot until the last minute because he knows what will happen when he does.
Sure enough, Robby is shuffling out of his bedroom with a yawn not five minutes after the machine starts to brew. He doesn’t pause at Jack at his kitchen table, ignoring him entirely in favor of pouring coffee and his horribly sweet creamer in a mug.
“Morning,” Jack greets when Robby sits down, still rubbing his eyes groggily. It shouldn’t be cute, a grown man in too-short pajama pants and hair sticking up all over the place, but Jack still has to suppress a smile.
“You didn’t make me one?” Is the first thing Robby says, staring at Jack’s omelette instead of his face. It’s fine; Jack isn’t concerned with pleasantries when he’s just woken up either.
“Let a guy eat first,” Jack jokes, finishing the last bites on his plate. “I didn’t know if you’d want pancakes or an omelette. Or both.”
Robby shrugs, meeting his eyes with a strained smile. “Dealer’s choice.”
He starts by making Robby an omelette, extra cheesy even though it upsets his stomach, and then cooks blueberry pancakes to share. It’s not hard on crutches, with the way Robby always sets up his space to make everything accessible.
When he finally calls Robby to bring the steaming plates to the kitchen table, he has to ask the man three times before he hears. He’s been staring at the wall since Jack left the table, unseeing but most definitely overthinking.
Robby shakes his head in that sort of slow, twisted way he does when he’s trying to shake off a tragedy in the ED when he stands, murmuring his thanks to Jack while setting the table. He doesn’t take his time eating the feast, methodically shoveling it all into his mouth.
Jack doesn’t like the apathy. There’s a pit in his chest, a sense of uneasiness whenever Robby isn’t a steadfast, calming presence. He doesn’t want to panic, though; Robby probably hadn’t eaten since Pittfest, and so there’s no way he could feel human right now. At least he’s eating now.
They do the dishes side by side. Jack washes, and then Robby dries and puts them back in the cabinets and drawers. Jack leads them to the couch afterwards, kicking his legs out on the long side of the sectional and turning on a football game.
They must sit there for hours, mindlessly watching reruns while the sky turns from gold to pink to pitch black. Eventually, Jack feels Robby shift to pull his phone out of his pocket.
Jack guesses he hasn’t checked it since he got home— he probably has a mountain of texts to return and emails to read. He gives the man a while, lets him get his work organized, and waits to look over until the next commercial break.
Robby’s brows are scrunched together tight, and he’s running one hand slowly through his beard, tapping slowly on his phone with just one thumb.
“Everything alright?” Jack asks, trying to appear curious rather than concerned, even though the man can see right through him.
“I gotta go in tomorrow.” He replies, voice rough.
“I thought Presby was covering for the next few days?” Jack counters.
Robby shakes his head, slow and tired. “I’ve got about 10 meetings and Gloria’s already on my ass about the M&M.”
Morbidity and mortality meetings are something of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, they’re vital for teaching residents the sort of complications that can occur in the ED and how to mitigate them in the future.
On the other hand, they’re a monthly reminder of Robby’s failures. They highlight things that he didn’t instill in his students well enough, or the corners he was forced to cut in an underfunded department.
Jack knows he’s found ways to get through the meetings— had to, if he wanted to be chief— but this might be beyond the scope of his coping mechanisms. So, he asks with faux-easiness, “How ‘bout I make the presentation for the MCI? I was the primary, anyway, so it would make the most sense.”
That makes Robby look up from his phone, glancing over to Jack to assess his offer. Jack stares back, firm, until he relents.
“You know what, that is— I’d appreciate it.” Robby sets down his phone with a deep sigh, leaning his head back on the couch and rubbing his eyes.
“There was a Pittfest victim in the ICU. He had a rebleeder this morning, didn’t pull through.” He huffs out another sigh, “I was trying to read Walsh’s notes, but I can’t see shit on this phone.”
Jack can see the exhaustion from a mile away— it’s not like Robby to sweat the small stuff (his laptop is ten feet away, for fuck’s sake). So, he grabs his crutches from the edge of the couch and stands, looking back expectantly at Robby,
“C’mon, time for bed.”
“We just woke up.” Robby protests, but he still starts to emerge from the cushions with a groan.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin your sleep schedule.” Jack counters. He leads them into the bedroom, and they take turns completing their night routines as if it’s muscle memory.
Technically, Robby has a second bedroom.
There’s a perfectly good queen-sized mattress and even an en-suite. Their excuse is that it’s Jake’s room.
It’s moot now that Jake’s old enough to stay home alone, no longer pawned off to Robby for a weekend when his mom’s out of town. But it’s what Robby declared when he first moved into the place, so Jack’s never stepped foot in the room.
Jack gets in bed first, lying back on the pillow with an arm behind his head and just… watches. He watches Robby putter around the room, setting out clothes for the morning and plugging in his devices and such.
He should be ashamed for appreciating his friend in this way, for admiring Robby’s broad shoulders and full beard and the way his eyes still crinkle, deeper with age. As they’ve gotten older, though, Jack finds that he cares less and less about hiding how he feels.
—
Jack and Robby met during their emergency medicine residencies in New Orleans, Jack’s hometown rather than Robby’s. Jack was fresh off two consecutive summers of training with the Army, learning the trauma medicine skills that would save hundreds of lives in the desert later on, and he acted like it.
He rushed into major trauma rooms on the heels of his attending and answered questions before they were asked. He knew he was annoying to the rest of the residents, would be called a gunner behind his back, and he didn’t care because he was high on the thrill of saving lives.
Jack wasn’t unobservant, though. He saw the way the three R2s shared a look when he eagerly answered a question, and how that one med student eyed him for a little too long in the locker room.
All this to say that Jack was aware of the fellow intern who was much more shy than he was. Michael Robinavitch was the tallest in their ED and one of the only ones without a southern accent. He was calm in the face of chaos, but always had a far-off look in his eyes when it was quiet.
There wasn’t any real draw for Jack until the beginning of their R2 year, when the exhaustion of being an intern working a hundred hours a week and studying for Step Three wore off. While Jack felt himself lightening up, becoming more comfortable in the ED and finding time to do things outside of work, it didn’t seem to be the case for Michael.
He still walked around the ED like fucking Eeyore, massive eye bags and all. That’s when Jack realized he had spent hundreds of hours with the man, seen some of the most truly horrifying things with him, and he didn’t know a thing about him.
That summer, Jack made it his mission to get to know Michael. He corners the man in the break room one morning before shift, hands him an extra paper cup of black coffee, and nods to the ratty Steelers sweatshirt he’s wearing, “You from Pittsburgh?”
“Uh— Yeah, I’m from Pittsburgh,” Michael answers slowly, like he’s confused about where this is coming from. Which, fair.
“So, which is worse: New Orleans summers or Pittsburgh winters?”
This gets a smile out of Michael. Score. “I’ve gotta say, the summers here are something else. I don’t think humans were meant to survive in this much humidity.”
“You got that right.” Jack laughs. It was perpetually sticky this time of year. “Anyone show you how to beat the heat down here yet?”
“I can’t say that they have.” Michael’s tone is unsure, but he’s smiling enough that Jack thinks he’d be down. So, he looks past Michael to the printed schedule on the wall and follows the days down until he finds one that they both have off.
“Alright. You, me, Thursday night. I’ll show you how us locals do it. What d’you think?”
Jack isn’t 100% sure he’s going to agree, not with the obvious hesitancy coloring his expression, but Michael surprises him when he says, “Fuck it, sure. Let’s go.”
“Hell yeah!” Jack’s face lights up, a bright, toothy grin that has Michael smiling right back, and he gives the man’s shoulder a clap before he heads back out into the fray. “Leave me a note with your address. I’ll pick you up after I get off.”
On Thursday evening, Jack picks up Robby in his Granddad’s old Ford F-150. It’s loud and smells like gasoline and cigarettes, but the other man doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t actually say much at all, letting Jack rant about the tourists and how the Saints are going to turn it around this year until they make it to the docks.
“You gotta get the sea breeze,” Jack explains, carrying a 12-pack of Corona with him. He leads Michael past the bars and down to a grassy area in front of the water.
Not that he would ever say it out loud, but this is one of Jack’s Places. He’s taken girls (and once another guy) to make out here in high school, and he’s come here to curse the universe for giving him deadbeat parents.
There’s a dock not 100 feet to the left where the shrimpers arrive in the early morning— he’s learned the hard way that they can see him, too— and the view of the sunset over the lake is unmatched.
Jack sits in his spot in the grass, uncaps his first beer, and watches Michael take in the view. His hair is a bit long in the back, like he’s been thinking about a mullet but can’t quite commit. His jawline is still boyish and, for a moment, Jack thinks about what it would be like to run his thumb along it.
Jack’s been aware of his bisexuality for a long while at this point. He’s made out with his fair share of men in alleyways and lived with the fear of the AIDS epidemic, and now he finds himself somewhere in the middle.
Don’t ask, don’t tell isn’t a genuine concern of his yet, and it’s not like growing up in Louisiana is much different in practice. Still, some underlying anxiety about officially being an officer of the US Army has put him off from men since graduating from medical school.
He’s stuck to hookups with women since then— residency isn’t exactly compatible with starting a relationship— and he’s been happy enough with this situation. Until Michael. There’s something interesting about the quiet emergency medicine doctor that Jack wants to be around him, even if they’re just friends.
“What d’you think?” He asks after a few minutes, when Michael sat down and opened his own beer.
“I certainly see the appeal.” Michael huffs a laugh, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Do you see yourself staying here forever?”
A bit to the point if Jack were to mind, but he doesn’t. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this city more than life itself, but… I don’t feel like it’s my forever place, y’know?
“I mean, I’ve got roots here, but not enough to wanna stay, I guess. Plus, the Army’s got me for at least four years after residency. I’m sorta hoping they’ll show me somewhere nicer. And less humid.”
This earns a laugh out of Michael, but he doesn’t respond with anything else. After a beat, Jack asks, “What about you? Didn’t wanna stay up North forever?”
Michael’s quiet for a minute, takes a sip of his beer before answering, “It’s weird, I never really saw myself leaving Pittsburgh. I was raised by my Grandma, and she… uh, she died when I was starting med school. So I guess I didn’t really see any reason to stay. No roots, I suppose.”
He laughs out the last bit, but Jack’s sure that if he looked over, his eyes would be wet. Michael continues, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great down here— the people, the food, the music— all of it. But I still think I’ll make my way back eventually. It’s just… familiar.”
And that’s before they finish their first bottle.
They drink the whole case between the two of them. Jack talks about being the first in his family to go to college, thanks to a soccer scholarship, and then taking the Army scholarship because it was the only way he could afford medical school.
Michael gives Jack glimpses into life growing up with his Babushka, who had high expectations for her grandson until dementia left her with only the memories of fleeing Russian persecution.
They split the tension by shitting on the Dallas Cowboys and laughing about the intern who got reamed out by their attending in front of everyone for hitting on the nurses.
They don’t leave the docks until the fishers arrive, the sun not even peeking into the sky yet. There’s not a big declaration of friendship at the end of the night— it’s more of an understanding that settles between them.
It’s not conscious, but when Jack thinks of forever after that night, Michael’s always in it somewhere.
Michael’s appendix bursts two months after this night; after two months of losing patients and sharing pizzas after 36 hours at the hospital and drinking too much on Jack’s front porch.
He comes into the ED on his day off, clammy and about to pass out from the pain. Jack’s not his doctor— their attending whisks Michael to a private room quickly and tells the rest of the staff to get back to work— but he lurks around the nurse’s station until he can piece together what’s happened.
Jack watches his attending send Michael off for surgery, bitch to the charge nurse about being down a resident for a month, then realizes that the 28-year-old doesn’t have an emergency contact form in his personnel file.
“Fucking hell, you’d think these children would’ve learned to fill out a form by now…” Jack hears from where he’s hiding behind a wall, and his heart lurches. It’s hard to see the man in any other light now that he knows the man has no living family; it colors everything he does.
Michael likes the quiet, doesn’t feel the need to fill awkward silences or make casual conversation when it’s not necessary. He works every holiday and doesn’t take any time off to visit family, even when they’re guaranteed a few precious weeks each year.
It’s not that Jack pities Michael; he’s got his fair share of complicated family relationships that leave him in similar situations, and he just wishes that he could do something about it.
Then, he realizes that he can do something about it.
The primary attending in their ED is an old-school type. He assigns 100-hour work weeks and calls every woman “sweetheart” and definitely does not want to get involved in any of his residents’ personal lives.
That’s why Jack feels comfortable walking casually around the corner and up to the counter next to his boss, “Hey, Doctor Landry, I thought you should know that Michael’s going through a pretty rough break-up right now. He wasn’t home enough, she couldn’t handle it, you know how it is—”
His attending is glaring already, “Get to the point, Abbot.”
“He’s got no family in the area, so I’m stepping in as his emergency contact right now. He must’ve forgot to hand in the new form, but I’ve got him.”
Landry’s already flipping through charts, moving on from the whole situation when he responds, “Well, Robinavitch should be out of PACU and settled in General by shift change. I’ll let the team up there know you’re coming.”
“Great, thanks.” Jack exhales as he starts to back away, a weight lifted off his shoulders.
“And be sure to find your own coverage if this cuts into your shifts. I can’t afford another resident down right now.” Landry adds, not even a hint of sympathy.
Jack wasn’t expecting anything less, so he nods a yessir and goes back to his patients.
Michael isn’t awake when Jack makes it up to the General Surgery floor. Jack’s secretly grateful for the moment of quiet, or as much as he can get with all of the beeping machines.
He settles in the cushioned chair next to the bed and checks out Michael’s chart— no complications means he should be out of here in 3-ish days. Jack has a long 48 hours off coming up, and Michael should be well enough to mostly get around on his own by then.
He’s startled out of his thoughts when Michael shifts in his bed, letting out a groan to match the 4-inch incision in his abdomen. Jack leans his arms on the railing of the bed, smiling when Michael finally notices him. “Welcome back, man.”
“Oh, fuck.” Michael rasps. Jack realizes he’s probably thirsty and holds out a cup with a straw from the bedside table. “How bad is it?”
“Burst appendix, but they didn’t see any signs of infection. You should heal up quick.” Jack replies, but he knows that’s not what he’s asking. “Landry got you taken care of himself, so I can promise none of the med students saw your tighty whities, in case you’re worried.
“And hey— I told him I was your emergency contact, so you get a free stay at Casa Abbot when you're discharged.”
Michael's faint smile falls, “Shit, man. You didn’t have to do that. Don’t worry about me, really, I can figure something out.”
Jack realizes he’s going to need something more like tough love to be persuaded, “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I got the space. Plus, you live in a four-story walk-up. I’d love to see how your sutures look after that.”
Thankfully, the fight leaves Michael after that, “Thanks, for real. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“No need. Let’s get some rest.” Jack waves him off, settling back in his chair. “I’ve gotta be back on the floor in the morning, and I’m pretty sure your nurse will kick me out if she sees you up.”
Michael stays at Jack’s house for a week after he’s discharged from the hospital. It’s actually his Aunt’s house, but she’s playing girlfriend in Mississippi for the time being, so Jack has it all to himself.
He sets up Michael in his bedroom and sleeps in his Aunt’s bed, not that he gets much sleep during that week. He cooks meals for him to reheat during the day and helps him wash his hair in the evenings.
Michael’s a perfectly fine roommate during this period. He hands the TV remote to Jack at any opportunity and stays quiet on the days Jack sleeps through because he’s on the night shift.
The metric is skewed because Michael is recovering, but Jack likes to think they would make good roommates. If it ever came up.
They’re basically inseparable for the rest of their residency. They replace the absence of stability and support for each other at every chance they get; in break rooms, at bars, and at their spot by the lake. Jack’s never had someone so loyal and unapologetic in his life.
He adds Michael to his emergency contact file with the Army when they finish residency. It’s 2002, and Jack knows he’s going to be deployed within months of getting his first assignment.
His cousin is technically his next of kin, but she’s young and shouldn’t have to shoulder all of the responsibility if his dumbass does something permanent. He mentions it one night to Michael, one of their last together before he leaves for Fort Hood.
The man nods, eye contact as serious and understanding as ever. Then, he cracks, “Well, I'd better update mine while I remember. I don’t think you’re gonna be answering calls about my ass while you’re in the desert.”
Jack chuckles loudly at his quip. He remembers being so happy that night. It’s one of the last times they see each other before everything changes.
—
When Jack wakes up two days after Pittfest, Robby is already gone.
That’s normal, though. With opposing schedules, they’ve gotten used to getting ready silently and in the dark to avoid disturbing each other. In no way is Jack a deep sleeper, but he’s always been able to sleep through Robby stomping around.
He makes the most of his day off by getting a good workout in, shopping at two different stores to find the perfect mix, and stopping by his house to pick up some of his belongings to bring back to Robby’s.
He usually has enough at the other man’s to last him awhile, but if he’s being honest, Jack’s not ready to leave Robby alone anytime soon. It shouldn’t be that different; Jack has seen Robby through loss, and he’s always come out the other side.
He’s seen Robby through the stress of COVID and the loss of his mentor, but even then, it didn’t take more than a few months for the smiles to become less fake and more frequent.
Now that Jack thinks about it, though, Robby hasn’t been the same since the pandemic. Obviously, it changed everyone— healthcare workers on the front lines even more— and for that, Jack has never been too concerned.
But maybe it’s more than that. Pittfest was an exceptionally bad day, but it was just that: a bad day. And the Robby that Jack knows would never contemplate suicide over a day that was damn near over anyway.
Maybe it was the fight with Jake, who, for all Jack knows, hasn’t talked to Robby since they sent him off to surgery for his leg. Robby’s paternal instincts flipped like a switch when he met the kid, and he’s loved him like a father ever since.
Having his son’s girlfriend die in his hands could send any dad down a slippery slope, Jack supposes, even if Robby knows deep down that it wasn’t his fault. But Robby has always cared a bit too much. He gives himself to his patients in a way that Jack could never, not if he wanted to make it out of the desert with his sanity.
All this to say that maybe Robby still thinks Adamson’s death is his fault, and that Leah’s death is his fault, and all of the other losses in the ED are on him, too.
Jack is pondering this on Robby’s couch, old country music playing on the sound system and a journal article sitting uselessly in his lap. It’s just past 2 pm, and Jack’s not expecting Robby home for at least another five hours.
He knows that people are covering the day shift to give the Pittfest crew a break, but he doesn’t think that’ll keep Robby away. If he’s already in the building, Robby will go down to make sure everything’s running smoothly and end up running five traumas for his trouble.
That’s why Jack’s surprised when Robby’s front door slams open, shocking him out of his Robby-mental-health train of thought. It rattles the picture frames on the living room wall; that’s how hard the door hits the frame when it closes.
The military-grade fear dissipates when Jack hears Robby’s footsteps in the hallway— he’d recognize them anywhere— but that quickly turns into concern. He hears the sound of his backpack dropping, then the footsteps move into the kitchen.
When Jack makes it to the doorway, Robby is pacing the length of the room with his hands on his hips. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving with the effort, and when he looks up at Jack, there’s a wild set to his eyes that he doesn’t recognize.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asks softly, like there’s an animal in the kitchen he’s trying to tame instead of his best friend.
This seems to spur Robby into action. He veers towards the coffee maker, starting the process of pouring the grounds in, when he begins to talk. “Fucking Gloria and her stupid fucking meetings, that’s what.”
“Alright, yeah. That’s fair. You wanna sit down? Talk about it?” Jack tries to placate him, but it doesn’t work.
Robby continues his coffee routine with excessive force, and Jack watches the disaster unfold before his eyes in slow motion. Robby slams open the cabinet, hard enough to break the hinges if his apartment were a little older.
He snatches a mug from the bottom shelf— something old. It probably had a drug name on the front, from when the reps still handed those out, but it’s been washed so many times that it’s faded to a few black splotches.
When Robby goes to set the mug down on the countertop, hand on the top like a claw, he does so with so much strength that the ceramic explodes into fragments.
“Hey, hey, woah—“ Jack starts, moving from the doorway towards Robby, but the man’s not listening to him.
“Goddamnit, can’t even do this right,” Robby starts to mutter under his breath, promptly opening the trash can below his sink and using his uninjured hand to haphazardly throw the shards away.
Jack makes it to the other side of the kitchen counter, careful to avoid the ground directly surrounding Robby where the pieces of the mug might have landed, and grabs his arm to pull him away from the mess.
He uses the full strength of his body to pull Robby away and continues to keep a tight, probably painful grip on the man’s arm.
“Michael, man, it’s alright. I’ll clean it up, I got it.” Jack starts, looking up and waiting for Robby to meet his gaze. “I gotta clean up your hand. You’re bleeding.”
That seems to snap Robby out of his furious haze. He looks down at his hand and sees what Jack was yelling about. There look to be a bunch of tiny shards embedded in his fingers, and a clean cut down his palm where a larger shard sliced as well.
Jack watches him, staring at his hand like it isn’t his own, and realizes he’s probably not aware of the pain he should be feeling right now.
“Alright, c’mon, let’s sit down.” Jack directs Robby to the kitchen table and pushes him into a chair. “Wait right here, I’m just going to grab some stuff to clean up your hand. I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”
Robby nods slowly, which Jack takes as a good sign, so he leaves the man alone to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. It’s really more of a miniature ED kit at this point, with the suture kits and such supplies taken from the hospital and shoved in the red case.
When Jack returns, Robby no longer has that wild look in his eyes. His shoulders are hunched over further than usual, breath slowing without all of that anger to keep him going.
It’s like all of the fight has been drained out of him, and Jack wishes they could go back to the furious version of the man from a few minutes ago. That seems a lot safer, all of a sudden.
Robby’s checking the range of motion on his injured hand, staring as blood drips a steady stream out of the worst gash on his palm.
“Knock that off, will you?” Jack nudges Robby in the shoulder as he sits in the chair next to him. He scoots himself closer to get a better angle on the hand, and their knees press together in a way that at least Jack finds comforting.
As he inspects the hand, Jack finds that none of it is as bad as he thought. The shards are nothing more than big splinters, can be removed and cleaned easily, so he starts with that.
Robby doesn’t so much as flinch until Jack gets to the most significant injury. With the way it’s still bleeding, Jack knows it’s obvious even to Robby that it needs sutures. He doesn’t say anything when Jack draws up the lidocaine, so he murmurs a warning before numbing him, “This is gonna sting.”
He waits until Robby snaps out of whatever daze he was in and meets his eyes, then gets to work. In the end, there are twelve neat stitches across Robby’s right palm.
Later, Jack will consider this a small victory. He doesn’t do stitches very often, maybe if a patient was bothering a resident or something, and he’s happy to know he’s still got it.
For now, he can only think about trying to move forward. He cleans up the mess of medical supplies on the kitchen table and then turns to the kitchen. There are pieces of the mug scattered everywhere and the coffee pot is full, but that’s not Jack’s main concern.
He steps around the shards that he can see and goes to Robby’s pantry. There’s not much, but Jack’s not looking for a whole meal. He sets a plastic water bottle and a protein bar in front of Robby and all but orders, “Eat this first. I don’t want you passing out when you stand up.”
Robby looks at the rations like they’re offended him, but still nods. Jack busies himself by sweeping the kitchen. He goes over the whole area three times and again with a rag, making sure there are no fragments left.
When he’s done, Robby’s finished half of the protein bar and most of the water bottle. Jack considers it good enough for now. “Wanna lie down?” He asks, leaning against the table in front of Robby.
Jack watches Robby nod, apparently still not in the mood for using his words, so he holds out his hand and helps him up from the kitchen chair. He’s not intending to play mother hen; he’s just trying to be there for Robby, and he’s usually not great at giving support unless there’s talking involved.
So, when they’re stripping their day clothes and Jack watches Robby struggle to undo the button of his pants one-handed, he doesn’t think twice before asking, “Need help with that?”
He doesn’t realize the implications until after the words leave his mouth, and then there’s nothing to do but sit there, face red with embarrassment. Robby is shirtless, becoming increasingly frustrated with the fly of his pants, and finally drops his arm in defeat.
“Please,” Robby relents, meeting Jack’s eyes not with shame or residual anger, but almost… shy?
Jack hasn’t seen that look in a long time, not since he cracked Robby’s shell at the dock or climbed into bed with him years ago. It’s jarring, and so Jack makes sure not to linger when he unbuttons the top of Robby’s cargos— it’s all clinical.
He shifts back to his spot to finish taking off his own clothes and prosthetic, then settles on his side to face Robby. The other man doesn’t even bother with the covers, just flops down face-first on the pillow and stays there.
Jack can’t tell if it’s the embarrassment of the day or exhaustion or something else, but when Robby doesn’t move to at least press his side against him, Jack takes matters into his own hands.
He settles his arm on Robby’s back with his hand at the nape of his neck and begins to massage. He plays with the longer hairs and urges the tension out of Robby’s neck with deft fingers and preens when he relaxes further into the bed.
Jack doesn’t stop until his hand cramps, and Robby is fast asleep. Even then, he keeps his arm in the same spot as he tries to relax his own mind.
He’s so content like this, secure in bed with Robby safe next to him, and it’s not the first time Jack thinks that he could stay here forever.
—
Jack met Laura three years after he lost his leg. He was an attending at Mercy— Robby’s hospital hadn’t had an opening yet— and was living on his own in a fully accessible apartment.
Robby had started seeing a single mother named Janey, and the two of them made quite a pair. She was a librarian with a calm to match Robby’s, and he got on with her son like a house on fire. They were domestic in a way that Jack could never see himself being.
Unfortunately for him, the couple had decided that he needed a relationship as well. Jack was not convinced. It took weeks of dinners and trips to the park and Sunday game days for the couple to wear Jack down enough that he agreed to go on a date with Janey’s high school friend.
They told him that she was a chef and had a crazy to match his, and wouldn’t care about his baggage or nightmares or BKA. He showed up at the coffee shop ready to call it quits after twenty minutes and tell his friends it was a lost cause, and then he fell in love with the most wonderful woman he’s ever met.
Laura was a spitfire, always starting some crazy new project and taking Jack on a wild adventure that he thought he would never do again when he lost his right foot.
She built this massive community garden from scratch one summer that’s still kicking in a local park to this day (Jack makes sure of it). Once, she convinced Jack to ride rollercoasters at a local amusement park all day just because she felt like it.
Jack didn’t think he could feel more alive than when he was performing trauma surgery under fire, but Laura challenged that notion every day that they were together.
She proposed to him two years to the date after they met at the coffee shop. They’d discussed marriage, were on the same page for months, but apparently, Jack was taking his sweet time.
They weren’t a conventional married couple; neither had a particular interest in having kids, and they often worked opposite schedules—Jack on the day shift at the Pitt and Laura on the dinner rush, which usually went well into the night.
But they had a healthy sex life and watched shitty reality TV together on days they both had off and went on regular adventures together. It was the happiest Jack had been in his life.
Her passing, five years into marital bliss, was something of a cosmic curse. Jack was asleep between day shifts, and Robby was working nights at the time. He’d broken up with Janey the year prior and was having a hard time with the empty apartment, he’d confessed to Jack one day over beer.
When he got the call from Robby that night, he didn’t have a pit in his stomach or a feeling that something was wrong. Robby usually called him directly for extra help when he was on shift, and his wife wasn’t due back for another few hours.
Laura was brain-dead by the time he made it to the hospital. He still remembers that night crystal-clear, how he didn’t believe she would overdose on laced cocaine and punched her sous-chef when he confirmed she was an infrequent user.
It was also the first night that he found himself on the roof of the hospital. It was just after Laura’s honor walk— she’d always said she wouldn’t need her organs when she was six feet under anyway— and Jack was suffocating.
There were so many people and so many decisions; he just needed to get away from it all, that’s what he told himself. He made it to the roof and onto the other side of the railing, and then became conscious of how much he wanted to end it all right there.
Jack was calm, finally. He had lived a good life, had his great love, hopefully made a difference. For a moment, he thought that if he stepped off the top of that building, he would have no regrets.
And then Robby burst through the door to the roof. Jack turned around instinctively, their eyes met in the early morning light, and he realized he had made one grievous error in his calculations. He’d forgotten that he and Robby always had each other.
Robby had sprinted across the roof, pulled Jack away from the edge by the back of his old sleep shirt, and held him in a hug so tight that Jack didn’t think he could escape if he tried— military training be damned.
He’d gripped Robby’s arms— a desperate attempt to ground himself from the hyperventilating and shaking and the gaping hole he suddenly felt in his chest. He remembers sobbing while the cool metal of the railing dug into his back because he was still on the opposite side from Robby, but he couldn’t move.
He sobbed and begged and choked on his own tears, but the man never faltered. He held Jack steady and whispered a prayer in his ear that he still doesn’t know to this day, but it gave him something to grasp on to when he finally calmed down.
Robby took Jack back to his apartment and didn’t take his eyes off him for weeks. He would stay up all night if that’s what Jack was doing, and slept with one hand over his back in case he woke up. He even sat on the floor of the bathroom while he showered and made Jack do the same for him.
Jack found that the touch was grounding, the warm skin on his reminded him that he’s alive instead of straddling death. Robby must have gotten something from it, too, because they became infinitely more physical with each other after this.
They didn’t talk about it until after the funeral. They were in Robby’s bed— the man was slowly reading a novel out loud because Jack hadn’t been able to settle his mind enough to sleep.
He was restless with emotion but not in the mood to cry, and that’s when he spoke during a pause, “I was gonna do it, y’know?”
Robby inhaled sharply, but was calm in the way he set his book down. “Yeah, I know.”
The pit in Jack’s chest grew when Robby’s face scrunched up. He was still looking at the back cover of the novel, like he couldn’t meet Jack’s gaze because it would’ve broken something in him.
All Jack wanted to do was wipe the pain from his expression, or his mind. “But you got me, yeah?”
“Of course I got you.” Robby finally set his book away and lay down to face Jack. There were tears in his eyes, but his expression wasn’t as pained as before. “I always got you, Jack.”
Robby reached out to trace absently along Jack’s arm— something of a habit he’d picked up from hours upon hours lying there in silence. Jack was finally getting sleepy, but he had to add before he completely passed out, “I got you, too, Mike.”
—
Just hours after sewing up Robby’s hand in his kitchen, Jack wakes up to whimpering in the bed next to him.
It’s not the first time Jack’s woken up to Robby having a nightmare— Lord knows they both have enough of those not to be phased— but it’s the first time he’s seen a steady stream of tears down Robby’s face while the man is still asleep.
He’s breathing hard, face scrunched like he’s in physical pain, and murmuring unintelligibly. Jack doesn’t want to wake him up too suddenly; he knows from personal experience that yelling can often make the situation worse.
He sits up slowly, careful not to jar the bed, then places a gentle hand on Robby’s shoulder. He’s burning up under Jack’s palm, far too hot for the way the weather has been cooling down recently, but Jack doesn’t shy away.
Rubbing a methodical path up and down Robby’s arm, he starts softly, “Robby, you’ve gotta wake up. It’s just a dream, man. I promise.”
Robby seems affected in that his pained noises intensify, so Jack increases the pressure in his touch. “Michael, everything’s okay. I got you.”
In an instant, Robby’s eyes shoot open. They’re wild, darting around like he’s trying to remember where he is, so Jack says, “Hey— you’re here, you’re home. It’s alright, everyone’s safe.”
“Fuck,” is the first coherent thing Robby says, but there are still tears streaming down his face, and Jack realizes that he’s beginning to hyperventilate.
“Alright, let’s sit up.” Jack manhandles Robby upright and runs a hand across his shoulders in a slow rhythm. He continues a steady stream of comfort, “You’re going to get through this, I promise you. We always come out the other side, right? I’m gonna make sure you do.”
He stays at this until Robby’s breathing slows, his skin is cooler to the touch, and he starts to sway in his upright position. Only then does Jack ask, “Wanna lie back down?”
Jack doesn’t wait for an answer, just wraps an arm around Robby’s shoulders and brings them back down on the bed. He has Robby use his shoulder as a pillow, and his own face rests in Robby’s hair.
It’s fresh, but the smell has faded since he last washed it; most definitely the eucalyptus shampoo he’s used as long as Jack’s known him. It’s familiar in a way that makes his heart pang, because after all of these years, he still doesn’t believe he gets to know another person in this way.
He gets Robby’s comfort and commiseration and joy, has someone in his life who understands him like no one else does. He would do anything to let Robby feel the same way.
He knows they’re not going back to sleep anytime soon— Robby’s shifting too much for that to be an option— but Jack’s body feels like lead, and he’d prefer to stay in bed as long as possible.
Eventually, he lifts the part of his arm that’s not under Robby to reach for the man’s hair. He brushes through the short strands on the top of his head until there are no knots, then starts that same rhythmic scratching on his crown that Robby likes so much.
There’s still music playing quietly from Robby’s living room— Jack hadn’t had the mind to turn it off in his concern that afternoon. It’s some old Willie Nelson album that he knows Robby doesn’t particularly like, but Jack keeps playing it in hopes of turning the man to the dark side.
It’s otherwise silent for a long time, so Jack startles when Robby speaks up, “I’m gonna call that therapist in the morning.”
It probably wouldn’t be surprising to anyone else if Robby said this to them, given the day and week he’s had, but it’s right at the bottom of the list of things Jack would expect.
He’s been trying to get Robby to see a therapist for no less than a decade with absolutely no luck. It started when Jack was at Mercy, still seeing someone from the VA to work through the loss of his leg and become comfortable performing medicine again.
He’d mentioned it offhandedly to Robby—about how much therapy helped him reintegrate back into society. Robby had clapped him on the shoulder with a proud of you, man, and seemed open enough to the concept that Jack kept the idea in the back of his mind.
Then, the next time Robby drank too many beers and shed a few tears on his couch— probably because he fought with Janey, or maybe it was a difficult patient that week— Jack tried to bring it up casually.
“I don’t need a therapist to tell me I care too much,” Robby had snorted, which was fair. “I just gotta… move through it.”
Then, to Jack’s horror, he wiped his face with his hands and began to get up from the couch. “I should get going. I’ve got an early shift in the morning, all that.”
“Hey— no, wait. Sit back down, we haven’t even seen the Cowboys get their ass kicked yet.”
Jack protested hard, but Robby apologized and made a hasty exit. After that, Jack was careful not to make such suggestions if he wanted to keep Robby in his sights.
Things changed during the pandemic. Everyone was at their limit, and there was no sign of anything slowing down. That summer, the hospital announced it was offering free trauma counseling to all ER staff who needed someone to talk to.
Jack didn’t feel the need to take them up on it— he had his own civilian therapist who hadn’t led him astray since Laura died— but he approached Robby once during shift change.
“You hear about that new therapy thing the hospital’s doing?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Robby huffed, staring grimly at an iPad. That was his permanent expression during those days.
“Have you thought about checking it out?” Jack asked, and was close to crossing his fingers that his friend wouldn’t run away.
He’d just shrugged, busying himself with checking the vent settings on a nearby patient, “I’m thinking about it.”
That was the closest Jack had ever gotten to a yes, and he was close to jumping with joy. Instead, he tried to play it cool and push his friend in the right direction, “You’d be a good influence. For the residents and all.”
“I think Adamson’s got that down already.”
Jack didn’t get to bring it up again before Adamson got sick. Robby was a mess during that time, always short-tempered and occasionally irrational. Don’t get Jack wrong, Robby took on the role of Acting ER Chief with such grace that it became permanent, but he was in no way personable.
He spent all his downtime at his mentor’s bedside and tried every treatment possible, including the experimental ones. By the time Adamson was placed on ECMO, his family had more or less accepted his fate.
It wasn’t a guarantee, especially because he was outside of the recommended age range for the treatment. When Adamson hit two weeks on the machine with no improvement, the family gave Robby their blessing to do what he saw fit.
Afterwards, Robby spent a long time punishing himself for not being able to save the man.
He’d stay well past his shift end and refuse to eat until his hands got too shaky to work, according to Dana. Jack had to fight tooth and nail to get Robby to lean on him. Even more than usual, since the man was an orphan and would give in to the loneliness until it swallowed him whole.
Jack found him on the roof one winter evening, far too cold and snowy for them to be out there on a normal day. They stood ten feet apart in puffy winter jackets, making small talk about the new vaccine and the med students and such.
Finally, when he couldn’t feel his nose and his teeth started to chatter, Jack bit the bullet, “Did you ever talk to that counselor the hospital brought in?”
Robby didn’t answer immediately, but he didn’t act like the question was unexpected.
“No, I… couldn’t.” He answered quietly, actively looking away from Jack when he spoke. “Sorry.”
Since then, Jack had assumed that getting Robby to go to therapy was a lost cause. He still brought it up, but he stopped placing any expectation on the man to try it and opted to offer direct support instead.
I’m gonna call that therapist in the morning.
Jack’s first thought is that he can’t fuck this up. He actively keeps his breathing steady, his voice neutral when he says, “Yeah?”
“God, I just keep fucking everything up.”
Jack wants to hear more, so he squeezes Robby tighter and waits for him to continue.
“I’m failing these students so badly. I’m supposed to be watching them, teaching them how to be doctors. Instead, they’re on drugs and… fuck. Forget I said that.”
Robby’s face is scrunched up like he’s trying not to cry and it’s breaking Jack’s heart, so he’s setting aside that revelation for later. Robby goes on,
“That med student had to come talk me off the floor in peds, can you believe that? I can’t get my shit together enough to do my job. I’m not— I’m not a good teacher like this, not a good doctor.
“I’ve been shitty to you this whole time, too. Making you clean up all my messes. You don’t deserve that.”
Jack has had enough at this point, so he cuts Robby off by pulling his arm out from under him. He sits up on his elbow and looks down so that Robby’s making eye contact with him, face deadly serious.
“You know how long you’ve been cleaning up my messes? Damn near twenty years of cleaning up my messes, and you don’t think you’re allowed to make one of your own every once in a while? That’s fuckin’ insulting, man.
“You know I got you, remember? This is the shit I’m here for, not just the beer or the football or whatever. Get it through your thick skull, you can lean on me as much as you need to. I’m sturdier than I look, promise.”
Robby hasn’t looked away from Jack since he started talking, eyes full of unshed tears, but the lines on his forehead have started to relax. Jack adds,
“And for the record, you’re the best damn teacher I’ve ever seen. These kids only do so well because you care so much. I know it’s hard to care so much, but—“
Jack is cut off before he can finish his sentence because Robby is kissing him.
It’s a harsh thing, the way that Robby presses his mouth to Jack’s. His lips press against his teeth almost painfully while his brain recalibrates, and then Jack kisses Robby back.
There’s nothing but disbelief running through his mind for the first moments. Jack’s been waiting for this moment for longer than he wants to admit. He imagined their kiss in this exact spot, when they’re sprawled across one another for comfort and their noses are close enough to touch.
Then Robby deepens the kiss, nipping Jack’s bottom lip in a way that makes his dick twitch, and that’s when Jack realizes what they’re doing.
He pulls away with the thought that Robby could consider the action a rejection, and quickly cups his hands around Robby’s face to keep him close. Their eyes are locked, unable to move anywhere else, and Robby is looking at him so earnestly that Jack thinks he might combust.
“Hey— you know I love you, right?” Jack starts, then considers he might be coming on too strong. They’ve said those three words to each other before, at work or in deep conversations, but they’ve always had a brotherly connotation, and the implications are very different now.
But Robby’s still staring up at him like he hangs the moon, so Jack continues, “I’d be happy to… explore this with you any other time. But you’re going through something right now, if you can't tell, and I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. Alright?”
Jack runs his thumb along Robby's cheekbone in the quiet, and Robby leans into the touch. Eventually, he speaks up, “I’ve been wanting to do that since that day at the lake. You were so nice to me, and you have this massive staring problem that I probably took the wrong way, and I just… It’s always been you, y’know?”
And now it’s Jack’s turn to stare in disbelief. He’d fallen for Robby on that day in ways that he’d spent years trying to repress, and all along, Robby was thinking the same thing? His heart is racing so fast he has half a mind to be concerned.
Robby goes on, “I know this is like the worst timing ever, but I just feel like it’s never been the right time. And I need you to know that I want you. As much as you’ll give me.”
Fuck it.
“I’ll give you everything,” Jack says, and then he’s kissing Robby again. It’s not as aggressive as the first time, with Jack trying to express his love and affection and everything else with his lips.
He sucks Robby’s bottom lip softly through his own and licks into his mouth slowly, trying to drag it out as long as he can. Jack shifts towards Robby and rolls so that the man is under him. He settles his knee between Robby’s legs for leverage, not touching his dick but unintentionally close enough to tease.
Robby surprises him by moaning into the kiss, and the idea that he’s as affected as him has Jack pressing harder into Robby’s mouth. They have a good rhythm, neither controlling nor frantic.
At least, that’s until Jack pulls Robby’s bottom lip through his teeth with more bite than before, and the man rolls his hips up into Jack’s. That’s when he realizes that Robby is hard, an unmistakable line through his boxers that Jack’s now hyperaware of.
Neither man is wearing anything else; Robby didn’t have the energy to put on his usual sweats after the day he’d had, and Jack realizes what’s about to happen far too late.
Jack’s not hard yet; it takes him longer with age and antidepressants and all, but he knows he’ll get there soon. He presses his hips down into Robby’s as he breaks the kiss again, looking into his eyes with a questioning stare.
“Yeah?”
Robby nods frantically, voice raspy and lips wet. “Yeah, yes. Please.”
And who is Jack to deny him anything after that? He begins a slow pace with his hips, grinding them together, and leans down to mouth at Robby’s neck.
He’s not loud, not that Jack expects it from someone as shy as Robby, but he’s always enjoyed coaxing those wonderful noises out of his partners. Jack massages the skin above Robby’s collarbone with his teeth and relishes in the quick huffs of breath he can feel near his ear in response.
It’s not much, but he can work on that in the future. That thought sends another rush of energy through Jack, and he doubles his efforts on Robby’s neck.
Robby’s grasping at Jack’s back, pressing their bodies closer as though they’re not literally on top of each other. When his hands trail down to Jack’s ass and push their hips further together, Jack takes the hint.
“I got you, Mike.” Jack sits up just enough to pull down Robby’s boxers to his hips and then does the same with his own. Robby is long where Jack is thick, both red and dripping from how they’ve been chasing their pleasure.
When he leans back down onto Robby, their cocks meet and press between their stomachs, and they both groan at the feeling. Jack catches Robby’s mouth in his once again, and the kiss is messy and hurried and perfect.
There’s not enough friction for Jack like this, though, hard to get the right angle with only one foot. He shifts back to his side, arm pulling Robby’s shoulder so that they’re facing each other.
He waits to kiss Robby again until he’s grabbed the man’s cock, stroked him firmly, and seen how his expression melts in pleasure. Then, he wraps his hand around both of them and presses his mouth to Robby’s again.
Robby’s uninjured hand is all over Jack; in his hair and turning the curls to frizz, running down his chest and through the coarse, grey hairs, tracing the lines of his jawbone like he’s trying to memorize it.
Like this, it doesn’t take long for Robby’s movements to turn frantic, and he grips Jack’s cock with intention so that they can stroke each other off in earnest.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let go for me, baby.” Jack whispers into Robby’s mouth, all of his focus gone into chasing Robby’s pleasure.
Robby leans his head forward and presses his forehead against Jack’s, breathing hard into his mouth like it’s a lifeline. They’re so close that Jack can't make out the tears leaving Robby’s eyes until he feels them drip onto his own cheek.
He pulls back an inch, trying to gauge Robby’s emotions and wondering if he took it too far too soon, but Robby shakes his head.
“They’re good.” He says quietly, and Jack doesn’t think that’s the whole truth, but he trusts Robby enough to keep going when he says so.
Jack picks up the pace once again, and Robby follows suit, drawing increasingly loud moans out of Jack that he can’t help. Robby comes suddenly, a long groan slipping out, and that’s all Jack needs to fall over the edge as well.
They’re both wet and panting and vaguely uncomfortable from the boxers tying their legs together, but Jack can’t make himself separate from Robby after they’ve come down.
He curls his fingers into the short hairs on the back of Robby’s neck and breathes in his scent, heavy with exertion but not unpleasant.
“Been wanting this since the lake, too,” Jack murmurs eventually. He wants to say his piece before Robby gets in his head about it. “I was too scared back then, with the Army and all, but I’ve always wanted you. All of you.
“And I meant it— you’re gonna get through this, and I’m gonna be right by your side. All this shit you’re feeling right now? It’s going to get better, I promise. You’ve just gotta trust me, alright?”
The tears have slowed, but Jack can still feel Robby’s breath hitching where he’s breathing into his neck. He nuzzles the spot with a wet face, like he’s trying to climb into Jack’s skin.
“I trust you.”
