ANS. " don't pretend this is about concern. "
his lips are parted; a dull, thin line of oxygen, the only thing a stunned airway could manage to scrape up alongside its surprise. rarely had he known robby as rash— direct, sure, in the line of obligation. the type of hardened delivery that only comes with years of both calloused hands and calloused heart. speaking out of turn was human, for some more than others, and abbot, surely. but dr. michael robinavitch? daylight, in his personification, unrelenting, at times, but careful where he shined. until now. until he got the hand-off debrief, far more personal than usual; tainted with the scorched-earth left by the attending.
admittedly, his approach was jaded by his own combativeness— latent, for years. discarded for breathing exercises and pep talks, both of which hardly worked for a stubborn man such as @stvampyr. jack's known to keep his nose out of what doesn't concern him; office sociopolitics were no man's land, littered with inescapable landmines with a guarantee to come out on the other side burned.
" what else would it be about? " jack could see the way the other wanted to leave; just get out and desert the mess he left— usually, he'd be the one to pick up the pieces. " you're a fuckin' mess, brother, " even though it was accompanied with a laugh, nothing, otherwise, remained indicative of any lightbeartedness. " you think i'm gonna let you leave like this? trust me, man, i've tried running away from shit before. " you've seen it firsthand. " all it does is catch up with you— make you feel like you're crazy. tailing behind you; shit like this has got your heat signature— " he shifted, teetering his weight onto the other appendage, " —so, yes, this is about concern. "
