#ft. robinavitch.

[stvampyr]

@paraeble — jack to robby: "i keep telling myself i don't care."

robby raises his head from the hands that have kept his face conveniently out of sight, elbows mechanically retracing from crouched up legs. a defeated sound escapes him as he forces his body back into an upright position. he had heard jack push open the door and enter, but he had waited, like a child, to see if he would simply go away if robby just stayed still enough. jack’s words presses him to finally move and acknowledge him there. the front of jack’s boots knock against his, standing so close that his hovering makes him seem taller than he is. the angle is ridiculous, and, under different circumstances, would have made him laugh. hey, jack. i don’t see this side of you often.

all he can think is that this is the jack that patients see as they become conscious: the set jaw-arms folded over chest-g.i joe-looking doctor, watching with narrow hazel eyes, clearly planning the next move. even in a seedy motel room, picking up his friend, he carries with him an air of professionalism. fuck it, if robby wants to be his patient or his help. robby opens his mouth to tell him to leave him be, but it only gives way to a strangled sob, making him want to bang his head against the wall behind him.

“i didn’t mean to text you. you didn’t have to come.”

[stvampyr]

@pittvet said: “you looked happy talking to them.”

robby is polite when he wants to be. he throws his head back easily and laughs at jokes that never land, but his eyes are always raised, fixed on a point on the ceiling, so that it isn’t obvious that there is nothing behind them. faking it. acting the part of the administration’s finger-puppet, propped up and told to behave for some vague promise of benefits for his department. every event he attends seems to get him one step closer to having his soul sucked out and him mastering the art of pretending-to-give-a-fuck. it isn’t until he rejoins jack at the bar, and the other makes a comment (something in his tone making it difficult to interpret) that he realizes he might have been doing too much this time.

“what? with the blonde just now?” he tips his head in the direction of where he’s just come from, finding the woman already gone. he frowns a little, his eyes rolling. “sure, if you think blood money really gets me going.” she had told him something about her family and their connections to the hospital, but it hadn’t been anything worth remembering. the conversation, beyond that, had mostly been her flattering him or the hospital and him awkwardly trying to find an appropriate response. in hindsight, he supposes it might have looked like something worth insinuating something about. “just call me cheap, man.”

the bar is thankfully pretty empty and, with any luck, they can avoid making conversations with others for the time being. robby gets rid of his blazer, putting it on the counter before sitting on the stool next to jack. “not sure how gloria would feel about me sleeping with a benefactor anyway. might set a standard i don’t want to upkeep.”

[stvampyr]

i just want to know what langdon and robby’s relationship was like before season 1

[stvampyr]

@encharms (santos) said: "by god, how much have you had to drink?"

robby’s first mistake had been letting himself get robed into appearing at the staff party. his second, more detrimental, mistake had been expecting his alcohol tolerance to be higher than it is (curtesy of twelve hours on his feet and nothing substantial priming his stomach). it’s a lethal blend. the fact that he doesn’t want to be here making the drinking a prerequisite. he has retracted to a stool at the closed end of the bar, alone and hoping to pass as a regular or blend in with the furniture. after awhile, he forgets to pay attention to whether or not he is doing so successfully and he simply drinks. it takes doctor santos stepping into his peripheral vision, ordering something while standing in the space between his stool and the next, for him to tap back into reality. 

he senses the way she turns to look at him, but he keeps staring at the residue in his glass until her question prompts him to turn his head. the way she blurs in front of him makes him feel an onset of nausea. he blinks repeatedly in spite of knowing that it won’t rectify the situation. “what?” he answers, densely, like he can’t make out whatever she’s saying. he runs a hand down his beard, wiping down some of the moisture there, trying to look a little more stable than he feels and clears his throat, “probably less than what you are thinking right now, judging by the look on your face.”