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Robby isn’t religious but it’s not too far from a vision - Jack Abbot with one knee up on the gurney and both hands inside a chest cavity, light haloing him from the ambulance bay on the other side of the doors to Trauma 2. His hair is a little wild, extra curled up on one side like it always is after a particularly hectic night, and his eyes are focused somewhere just over Ellis’ shoulder as she’s giving him numbers. His arms are bare - no long sleeves under his scrub top, never mind that it’s February - and they look like something out of mythology. It’s like fucking Hercules finished his twelve labours and decided to get a real job.
Robby watches, carefully, familiar, and he sees the moment Jack makes a decision and decides on a course of treatment, calling out orders with a voice that still carries an echo of Major Abbot in it. The crew around him move like a well-oiled machine, despite it most likely being the last thing they’ll do on this shift, and it’s over quickly.
Not rushed, not sloppy, just fast and practised and well-executed.
“BP’s coming up, Dr Abbot.”
“Thank you, Whittaker. Hey, call Walsh and tell her we got a present for her, would you?”
Then Jack’s snapping his gloves off and throwing them in the bin as he swaggers - yes, swaggers, he’s the most ER cowboy out of them all - past Robby and shoots him a tired little wink.
“Mornin’ sunshine. Come on, let me show you the board.”
It leaves Robby’s ears ringing a little, and he shakes his head to clear it, makes himself focus on the handover. If Jack thinks he’s acting weird he doesn’t say anything about it.
“And that’s about it. I’m out. Don’t break anything while I’m gone, I just had the walls painted.”
“It’s my department, Jack.”
“In the daytime, maybe. At night she’s mine, and what we do is between us and god.”
Robby doesn’t blush, but that’s just because he’s had years of training and exposure to end-of-shift Jack.
“Clock out, Dr Abbot, and seek whatever absolution you deem necessary.”
Jack’s already swinging his backpack over his shoulder, craning his neck until it pops. Robby doesn’t look.
“That would be none. Te veo en la noche, brother.”
It stays with him, that vision. It follows Robby through a full shift packed with the usual, steady stream of organized chaos.
It stays, through a mutual and drunken domestic dispute resulting in multiple head lac’s and Dr Santos needing to be removed when she heard that there were kids involved.
It stays, through three different kids under 20 coming in with fent in their blood and some all pulling through.
It stays, through Mel looking at him ith her wide, earnest eyes and asking him - like she does every week - if he knows anything about Langdon coming back.
It stays, even as Jack himself shows up again, looking less tired perhaps, but no less cynical, and more than ready to do his job. He’s got the decency to wear long sleeves under his scrub top, so Robby can do handover without any major incidents.
“Your turn, brother. Get out of here. Two whole days, right?”
Robby nods, still seeing little golden traces haloing Jack’s head.
“Two whole days,” he confirms. “Try not to burn my department down.”
Jack makes a show of checking his watch and grinning.
“My department now.”
It stays with him the entire walk home, and all the way through some reheated chinese takeout. It plays endlessly on repeat, like one of those social media clips Jake used to make him watch, never stopping unless you scrolled away.
It stays with him through a long, hot shower, and it plays without end as he puts on a pair of soft sweatpants and worn out t-shirt, as he gets ready for bed, as he pours himself a generous bourbon. The same 90 seconds, over and over, of Dr Jack Abbot doing his job, and being very good at it.
Robby enjoys that bourbon. It warms him from the inside out, and it makes him comfortably fuzzy around the edges of his mind - a mind that, these days, seems more and more like it’s filled with nothing but Jack and his goddamn arms. It’s like Jack walked in with a scalpel and carved out a permanent space in there for himself. There’s a canyon in there now, a space both echoing empty and full at the same time, and it’s a constant source of both elation and deep, deep frustration.
The low hum of jazz is interrupted by a cheerful ding from Robby’s phone, and he squints at it desperately. The bed is very comfortable and his glasses are.. not here. They’re somewhere.
J.A: Koneski from Rad just asked me if I had four (4) spare staff to send up ??
Robby frowns and painstakingly types out a reply.
M.R: Why
J.A: Who the fuck knows?
J.A: Possibly he’s overcome with the task of taking pictures of bones
J.A: Not that we couldn’t do it, mind you. We’re such pros here on the nights, we could do what you do on days with half the people
J.A: Watch me clear this board and keep it clean until you get back
Oh, them’s fighting words. Jack really must be having a slow night if he’s gotten bored enough to pick a fight with Robby over text of all things. Unfortunately for both of them, Robby’s a little drunk. And unfortunately, his glasses are still not here in the bedroom with him.
He squints at the phone and jabs at the screen until the little dot with the microphone turns red to indicate it’s recording a voice note.
“Alright, you listen here, Dr Abbot.” He’s trying really hard to summon up his Chief voice but probably he sounds much too fond and amused already.
“You need to be mindful of what you’re putting down right now, because your boss might be in mind to pick it up. And after your boss understaffs the night shift, he’s gonna make sure every single nurse in the department knows it’s at your explicit request. All because you got a case of the-” Robby glances briefly at his alarm clock on his nightstand with its nice big numbers, “- quarter-part-midnight hubris and your pathological need to be showing off. And when they all turn on you, I’ll laugh.”
And then something warm - possibly the bourbon - swims to the surface of Robby’s mind, and he can’t help but sigh a little.
“…bet you could do it, though,” he murmurs into the phone. “You’ve made do with far worse. We both know you have. After the army, this has got to be a fucking cakewalk, nurses or no nurses. I can tell sometimes, how easy it is for you. It’s like breathing. You don’t even need to think about it, you just reach the next course of action and… there it is. No.. fancypants machines, no overpriced tech. Just a man and an airway.”
Possibly, maybe, Robby is waxing a bit poetic here. But for all that Jack’s the biggest ER cowboy in greater Pittsburgh, he’s not great at taking a compliment. So this is probably good for him to hear. Robby plows ahead.
“Like this morning. When I came in and you were working on that crush incident. Your whole team was working like, like an extension of your arms. Even Whittaker. He’s been on nights for less than a month and you’ve got him fine-tuned already.
You speak, and they listen, Jack. You move, and they move. One team, moving like one set of arms.”
And goddamn, Robby isn’t sure how it happened but his hand is on his dick now, cupping himself and feeling himself harden through his sweatpants. He slings his arm over his eyes, blocking out everything but that moment, that golden outline in Trauma 2.
“Your arms, Jack. When do you even find the time? If you don’t wear long sleeves under your scrub top my whole morning is down the drain, that’s how useless it makes me. Those fucking arms, man. Your arms, and your hands. Always so fucking sure. Always so fucking steady.”
There is a brief, blessed moment of clarity and sanity, and Robby suddenly hears himself, hears his own ragged breathing and the words that are spilling out, and fuck, when did things go this sideways? He clicks off the phone and drops it on the bed next to him hurriedly. Jack neither wants, nor deserves to be exposed to this.
This being Robby not even bothering with lube, just spitting in his own hand and stroking his cock slow and tight, the way he needs it sometimes, slow and fucking torturous like it’s the only way he’ll exorcise the spirit that haunts him.
This being Robby bringing himself to the edge at a ragged, rough crawl that has him panting and sweating through the sheets, that has him murmuring Jack’s name over and over like he’s delirious with a fever, like he’s praying with all his might.
This being Robby coming so hard he blacks out a little, thinking about what Jack’s arms would feel like if they held him down and didn’t let go.
Robby and Jack are very good friends. Jack neither wants, nor deserves to be exposed to how Robby jerks off to the thought of him and then wipes himself off with a corner of the sheet, and the falls asleep, drunk on bourbon, longing, and an endless loop of gold.
Robby wakes to a sudden, insistent cacophony of noise. One look at the clock on the nightstand tells him it’s 07:36. Robby has the day off, and barring an actual emergency, not a single soul should be attempting to contact him before noon.
And yet, there’s a buzzing from somewhere in the blankets, there’s a repeated hammering on the front door, and whoever’s on the other side of it seems to have a finger jammed on the doorbell because the whole apartment is filled with a long, uninterrupted buzzer noise.
“Oh my fucking god,” Robby groans. He finally finds his phone tangled in the sheets near his knees. The screen is lit with an indignant fury, somehow, reading “JACK ABBOT” in bold letters until the ringing stops. 4 missed calls. Then the ringing starts again, and Robby answers it.
“What the fuck, man, is that you at my door?”
“Open up, Robby.”
“I will if you fucking stop - did someone die?”
“Someone’s about to.”
Jack sounds positively murderous, but he hangs up the phone and lays off the doorbell. Robby rolls his eyes and then himself out of bed, scrubbing a hand over his face and trying to activate some higher brain function. As he walks through his apartment to the front door he gives his calls and messages a cursory once over to see what he’s clearly missed; Is there another active shooting going on? Massive fire somewhere? Did the current administration take another massive step towards all out fascism perhaps? Or, pipe dream, did the orange menace finally succumb to another stroke?
And then, with one hand on the door handle he sees it: a single message from Jack, sent at 00:44.
J.A: Did you mean to send me that?
It’s in response to a 23 minute long voice note that Robby apparently sent him at 00:39.
“Oh, my fucking god,” Robby whispers to himself, horror and adrenaline spreading through his body at breakneck speed. He’s fucked. He’s so completely fucked.
As if he can sense him through the door, Jack slams his fist against it again.
“Open the fucking door, Robby,” and there are the strains of Major Abbot again, and much like every single doctor and student under Jack in the Pitt, Robby is helpless to do anything but obey. He unlocks the door and steps back, holding it open.
Jack pushes in with surprising calm. His face is a fury, a blaze of intent, but his movements are controlled and precise. He walks in, shuts the door behind him, locks it, and then advances slowly. Robby instinctively backs up, but Jack doesn’t stop until he’s got Robby pressed up against the opposite wall.
“You sent me something last night, brother.”
Robby nods, eyes closing in mortification.
“Jack. I’m so, so sorry-”
“Look at me.”
It’s the same voice. The voice that demands and expects an immediate following, the voice that brooks no arguments, the voice that taunts surgeons for sport, the voice that haunts Robby’s fucking dreams. He opens his eyes again.
When Jack has Robby’s eyes on him again, he reaches up and sets a hand on the wall next to Robby’s head. Then he leans his weight on it, leans in real close, locking Robby entirely in place.
He smells like hand sanitizer and hospital latex and sweat, and he smells like a man who’s worked a full shift - he smells so fucking good. Robby tries to control himself, because he doesn’t entirely understand what’s actually going on here, even as he can feel the heat of Jack’s other hand hover over his hip, just where his t-shirt doesn’t quite cover his stomach all the way down to his sweatpants.
“I listened to it,” Jack says, voice rumbling. “All of it. Not in one go, obviously, didn’t have time for that. But a minute here and there, when I could. Parker kept asking me why I had one fucking airpod in and out all night. She’s started a rumor that I’m listening to erotic audio books.”
His hand finally lands on Robby’s hip, stroking hot like a brand. He turns it, so the back of his hand is caressing the fine hairs on that awkward gut that Robby has but that Jack seems impervious to, despite him only being four years younger. Jack glances down at it as he does, looking almost fond.
“It took me almost three hours for you to finish. Three hours. And then I had to finish the rest of my shift after that. So when I tell you that I’m somewhat worked up, Dr Robinavitch, I’m sure you can understand why.”
Robby’s dread and mortification are slowly ceding ground to white-hot arousal burning like gasoline through his veins. He nods, very carefully. Jack nods back, not entirely without sarcasm. God, Robby’s gone on him.
“So, I’m gonna give you an out right now, where you can tell me you didn’t mean to send that, and that you want to forget it ever happened. In which case we will.”
His hand stills, pressed gently against the curve of Robby’s belly, nestled halfway in under his t-shirt.
“You gonna take that out?”
Robby swallows, and then shakes his head, once, twice, and then a little more frantically as his breathing picks up speed.
“No. No, I’m not. Please, Jack-”
Jack makes a needy sort of sound, and then he’s pressing his whole body up against Robby, pressing so close, and pressing his tongue into Robby’s mouth like a starving man. And then Jack’s hands are everywhere, and Robby’s so hard it hurts, instantly, and then Jack’s manhandling Robby back through the apartment towards the bedroom, muttering the whole time.
“-20 goddamn minutes of you talking about my arms, like you aren’t 6 foot and change of everything I’ve ever wanted to sink my fucking teeth into, fucking christ, Mikey-”
And then Robby’s sort of tossed on the bed, not feeling like he’s 6 foot and change of anything, but more like he’s gonna burn up if Jack doesn’t hold him down, and he lies there reeling a little while Jack gets his leg off. When Jack turns back to him, Robby’s already reaching with greedy hands.
“What do you want?” Jack whispers hotly against Robby’s mouth, in between kisses so slow they seem to last eons. “How do you want it? Tell me, please. Tell me.”
Robby’s actually losing his mind, but he does his best to string words together, even as he’s losing himself amongst the freckles spreading like stars across Jack’s shoulders, and in the roll of Jack’s hips against his own, nothing but skin on skin.
“Want your arms. Your hands, Jack, I need you to hold me-”
And Jack’s already gathering him closer, squeezing until it almost hurts, like he knows exactly how Robby needs it.
“Will you fuck me?” Robby breathes into Jack’s neck, “Just like this?”
After that things go decidedly hazy. When Jack’s pressing into him, from all sides, in all ways, his dick in Robby’s ass, his tongue in Robby’s mouth, his arms around him like a cage, like a safety net, that’s when Robby loses track of his mouth entirely.
“Don’t let go,” he pants, frantic and fucked out. “Don’t fucking let go, Jack. Never let go-”
Jack tightens like a fucking boa constrictor and groans like he’s in pain, fucking Robby deep and thorough.
“I won’t, baby. I won’t, I promise.”
“Do not fucking let me- oh fuck, right there. Right there, you’re gonna make me come, Jack, don’t stop, don’t let go-”
Jack sinks his fucking teeth into Robby’s shoulder for a vicious moment and then does his best to fuck Robby’s brains out through his ears.
“I’m not lettin’ you go, not when I finally got you. Come for me, Mikey. Give it to me.”
And with a broken sob and Jack’s arms around him, Robby does.
Afterwards, Robby cleans himself up in the bathroom, and then comes back with a warm washcloth and wipes Jack down. Out of force of habit and due to several personal flaws, he almost overthinks it and freaks himself out, unsure of what happens now, unsure of his place in his own bed.
But Jack knows him, and with eyes already half-closed he yanks Robby back down on the bed and wrestles him into a shape that he finds suitable for the moment. He winds those arms back around him, and tugs him close.
“Told you. Not letting go.”
With Jack’s breathing fanning out over the back of his neck, Robby goes back to sleep.
