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honestly, having flexibility in your headcanons is such an important skill to develop as a fandom participant. like, it's great to have strong opinions of your own, but don't you want to hear what strong opinions others hold? I love being compelled by a passionate argument! go off! tell me something I don't assume! give me the tea that's not inherent to my watching!
YES to "met in residency" rabbot. YES to "doctors without borders/army medic" rabbot. YES to "fucked a stranger at a conference in omaha last fall 'cause he asked the only decent question at the panel discussion and now adamson wants my opinion on his new hire aaah fuck" rabbot. YES to "worked together at ptmc for fuckin' yeeeeears and having a big gay revelation about my best fucking friend" rabbot. YES to rabbot, full stop.
obsessed with jack and robby both growing up being like, "....paying for medical school is going to be Difficult." and arriving at wildly divergent solutions to the problem. like yeah yeah we all know jack thought he was hot shit getting the capital-A army to pay for school but have you considered 1990s amateur porn mag model mike robinavitch. more importantly, have you considered that some of his more successful print work might have found its way into magazines that — with the passage of time — have moved from being "skin mags relegated to the garbage after overuse" to "important archival materials documenting queer life in the last quarter of the 20th century", which is the actual didactic subtitle of a traveling exhibit of LGBT+ ephemera that's being hosted at the carnegie library of pittsburgh for the entire month of june and that everyone finds out about the day that a huge 25-foot high billboard featuring twenty-two year-old robby and his best bedroom eyes and very little clothing goes up six blocks from ptmc.
selective mutism dean yes BUT ALSO sam who doesn't speak until he's like. four. and john is quietly freaking the fuck out because not again.
(turns out sam can speak just fine; he just doesn't have a lot to say to john. dean's not worried because sammy talks to him all the damn time.)
omegaverse where omegas on the cusp of their heats tend to get... bitey. inflamed gums, sore jaws; nothing that can't be fixed by biting down, hard, into their partner's muscle (preferably their trapezius, but most omegas'll make do with an inner forearm or pectoral if need be) and squeezing. it's an evolutionary quirk, and not every omega feels the urge — the breakdown's about 85/15, 'bout the same percentage as people who taste cilantro instead of soap. but it's something that wasn't really... made public, when jack was coming up through the ranks. robby, too; it was just something that you did at home, did privately and kept the lid on as best you could in public.
he and robby hail from an era before teething toys were de rigueur in the privacy of one's own home, much less the workplace. jack feels every year of his age each time he spots mel placing sutures with the pendant of her chewy necklace in her mouth, or dennis gnawing absently at the silicone band of his ID bracelet while charting with the other hand.
jack's reminded how different the world they live in now is every time he spots the small scars on robby's knuckles, all old and long-healed, or the raw cuticles and the teeth grinding and the chewed-bloody lip whenever his cycle starts to ramp up — not at all uncommon in an omega of his age.
nobody'd think less of robby if he started using oral stims — on the contrary, jack's got it on good authority (dana's, specifically) that robby's ducklings think he's progressive as fuck for not blinking twice at designation accomodations in the ED — but every time jack's brought it up in the past, robby just gives him the same half-smile that scrunches up his eyes and asks jack, "why would I want any one of those toys when I could be sinking my teeth in right here?" as he slides his fingers under the neckline of jack's shirt to pet over the bite marks scarred into the skin there.
it's just after three when jack’s phone chimes with a message from robby. when he finally gets a chance to check it, there's a screenshot waiting for him. Fertile window is here! the cycle tracking app robby uses announces in a bright green banner. Input heat details for cycle insights and further analysis.
need me to cut my shift short? jack sends back, knowing full well robby's probably asleep by now, having sent the update ages ago and rolled over with a heating pad and two packets of the powdered painkillers melting under his tongue. (for somebody who jack knows firsthand can take cock down his throat so well, robby's swallow reflex goes to absolute shit when he's in preheat.) can probably cobble together coverage if you need me.
the only reply he gets is a photo. the lighting’s crappy, but the subject is clear enough: dennis with his face shoved into robby's neck, pert nose pressed right against the swollen, reddened skin of robby's scent glad, eyes half-lidded and wet mouth slack, practically stoned, tasting robby on every inhale.
no rush, robby sends back. we'll manage a few more hours. bring coffee when you come home, tho; I think whit’s gonna need it.
you got it, baby 👍👍
not to m*a*s*h post on main but I've never read a fic that talks about how bj hunnicutt moved at least 120 good-sized rocks from the main camp area (where they were usually seen demarcating the "road" from the rest of the dirt) up to the chopper pad at the series' end.
it's one of the most iconic and enduring images of the show, and yet...
like. did he do it himself? did bj load up the back of an empty ambulance or jeep in the still, quiet, blue-toned hours before dawn, and take four, five, six trips up the hill? were his hands raw and bloody across the palms and the tips of his fingers from heaving around heavy stones?
did he have help? whose door would he knock on? klinger's? I dunno; he was probably busy figuring out travel itineraries for dozens of people. margaret? she seems the obvious choice to me, but she had nurses' discharges to handle. would charles have been willing? maybe. father mulcahy? the two of them working quietly, but while the silence is contemplative for bj, it has a more ominous tone for the father.
or did he do it all alone — as a gesture of penance or peacemaking or love enduring, love that has no name which can be spoken by men about to be separated by more than three thousand miles?
inquiring minds want to know.
actually the fact that shawn hatosy and noah wyle have separately and independently of each other brought up MASH in their various interviews is desperately important to me
