Home— Robert Robertson x reader
Summary: a worn-out Robert comes home late to his sleepy girl, who’s determined to pull him back together with soft hands, softer kisses, and all the quiet love he’s too tired to ask for.
CW: mild injury/patching up, soft intimacy and showering together (no smut), and a whole lot of disgusting domestic fluff <3
Guys I’m absolutely obsessed with Dispatch and am in love with Robert!! Expect a LOT more of him (and sonar) :)!
Dividers by @strangergraphics!! I love her stuff sm, check her out <3
You don’t remember drifting off. One moment you were curled on the couch with Beef pressed warm against your hip, wrapped in Robert’s hoodie like it was a borrowed heartbeat… and the next, you’re blinking awake to the faint scratch of a key turning in the lock.
Beef hears him before you do— ears perked, tail thumping once, then twice, against the cushions. It’s the sound that pulls you from sleep, hazy and slow and soft around the edges.
The door swings open.
Robert steps inside like he’s made of weariness and gravity. Shoulders bowed, hair mussed, shirt smudged with a constellation of grease, dust, and proof of a day far too long. He kicks his boots off with a tired grunt, a muted wince when one catches on the heel.
You’re on your feet before he can straighten. Your body moves without permission— bare feet hitting the cool floor, hoodie sleeves dragging over your hands, sleep still fogging your vision.
He looks up.
And the raw relief in his eyes knocks the air right out of you.
“Hey,” he murmurs— voice rough, worn thin, barely more than a breath given shape.
You cross the room in three soft steps and fold yourself into him, arms winding around his neck, cheek pressed into the warm hollow beneath his jaw. Not gentle. Not cautious. Just home.
He melts.
That’s the only word for it. His arms slip around your waist, pulling you in with a kind of desperate softness, his forehead pressing into your temple as if letting go would undo him entirely.
You feel the tremor in him— the kind you only notice if you’re this close.
“Oh baby…” you breathe, fingers slipping into his hair. “Long day?”
He nods against your skin. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t let go.
Beef noses insistently at his calf, then plops down on both your feet, making sure, in his dog logic, that Robert is truly home. Robert huffs out a small laugh, but even that sounds exhausted.
You pull back only when he winces— small, instinctive, a tightening around his ribs. Your hands find his face instantly, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“Bathroom,” you whisper, voice still thick with sleep. “Come on.”
He tries— tries— to argue. Something about you needing rest. Something about him being fine.
You shake your head, tugging gently at his hand. “I said come on.”
He gives in with a soft exhale, letting you lead him down the hallway.
The bathroom light is warm and low— honey gold against tile. You close the door, shutting out the rest of the world.
Robert stands there, tired and waiting, while you peel the day off him. You lift his shirt carefully, your fingers brushing the darkening bruise across his ribs. He inhales sharply.
“M’sorry,” you murmur automatically.
He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “You’re not hurting me.”
You kiss the center of his chest in apology anyway.
Steam fogs the air when you turn on the shower. The two of you step in together, the warmth enveloping you both in a soft cocoon. Water cascades over his shoulders, and he groans— a small, unguarded sound that makes your heart ache.
You reach for his hair without thinking. He bends his head so you can reach, hair damp and heavy beneath your fingertips. You work shampoo through his hair, slowly, dreamily, your nails grazing his scalp in tiny circles.
His breath stutters.
His hand finds your hips.
His forehead rests in the curve of your collarbone.
“Feels good,” he mutters, voice already slipping toward sleepiness. “Your hands…”
You smile, rinsing suds from his hair, watching the water bead on his lashes. “You always say that.”
“Because you always do it right.”
You brush water from his cheek with your thumb. He kisses your wrist again, slower this time, lips lingering like he’s thanking you without words.
The shower becomes quiet, warm, safe— your fingers tracing through his hair, his body softening under your touch. You trail kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the space beneath his ear, small and tender and meant only for him.
When you’re both rinsed and clean, you guide him out and wrap him in a towel. He leans into your touch like he’s been waiting all day to be held this way.
You tug him to sit on the closed toilet lid and step between his knees. He spreads them just enough to make room for you, hands sliding to the backs of your thighs in lazy circles.
The towel sits low on his hips, exposing the bruise along his ribs. You inhale softly, fingers brushing the edge of it.
“Hard day?” You ask.
His eyes darken— not with pain, but with the weight you know he carries so quietly. “Long day. Long week. Just… a lot.”
You nod. You don’t make him say more.
Instead you clean the scrape along his arm, blow gently to cool the sting, tape a bandage on his knuckle. His eyes flutter half closed as he listens to your breath, your movements, your heartbeat.
“You’re falling asleep standing up,” he murmurs.
You hum, eyes half lidded, and kiss his cheek without thinking. He leans into it. You kiss the corner of his mouth. He catches it. You kiss his jaw, his temple, the warm skin near the bruise around his eye. Each kiss makes his breath slow, deep, soften.
When you’re done, you slide your hands down his chest and whisper, “bed.”
He stands— slowly, a little heavily— and wraps an arm around your waist as if you’re his anchor. Beef is waiting at the bedroom door, tail wagging, eyes bright with sleepy loyalty.
In the soft dark of your room, you pull on sleep shorts and slide back into his hoodie. It hangs off your shoulder, sleeves too long, smelling like him and warm water and home.
He watches you with an expression that looks a little like awe and a lot like love.
The moment you get under the blankets, he follows, gathering you into his chest. Your legs tangle, your cheek resting against his heart. He exhales into your hair— long, deep, like he’s finally exorcising the day.
You tilt your head, kissing the spot over his heartbeat.
Once.
Twice.
Slow, lingering. Sleepy.
He shivers.
“C’mere,” he whispers, voice scraped soft. His hand finds the back of your thigh, pulling you closer.
You lift your head just enough to kiss his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, then the soft place beneath it. Little kisses, featherlight, scattered like you’re soothing away bruises the world can’t see.
“I’m okay,” he murmurs, but his voice cracks on the last word.
“I know,” you whisper, fingers stroking his cheek. “But I can still take care of you.”
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Sweetheart… you’re barely awake.”
“I’m awake enough,” you say, kissing him again. “I just want you to feel better.”
His eyes flutter shut. “I do.”
You settle back down, tucking into him, hoodie sleeves brushing his ribs. He pulls the blankets higher around your shoulders, tucks them in like he’s afraid the night might steal you away.
Beef curls at your feet with a heavy dog-sigh.
Robert presses a slow kiss to your forehead— warm and full of unspoken gratitude.
“You’re so good to me,” he whispers into your hair.
“You deserve it,” you murmur, already fading.
He swallows, arms tightening around you. “Not sure what I did to earn this.”
“You came home,” you breathe.
That hits him harder than you intended. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you impossibly closer.
“I’ll always come home to you,” he whispers, voice quiet and fierce.
You hum against his chest, sliding one sleepy hand up to rest over his heart.
And wrapped in his arms, wrapped in the weight of the day finally gone, wrapped in the warmth of your boy safe beside you— you drift.
Soft.
Entwined.
Breathing as one.
And the night, at last, becomes gentle.