Chapter Text
Jack had been awake for twenty hours and was currently sitting outside the principal's office because his cat kept biting other children.
Technically other cats.
The distinction felt increasingly irrelevant.
He sat upright on the narrow wooden bench outside the daycare office with the rigid stillness of a man trying very hard not to acknowledge how absurd his own life had become. One ankle rested across his opposite knee beneath worn jeans, prosthetic angled slightly outward in the cramped space. One hand drummed once against his thigh before stopping itself.
The hallway smelled faintly like antiseptic wipes, expensive pet shampoo and the warm stuffiness of a building that kept its thermostat slightly too high for the comfort of anyone not covered in fur.
Somewhere deeper in the building, a dog barked exactly three times before being shushed by somebody with the exhausted patience of a preschool teacher nearing burnout.
Jack looked straight ahead.
Across from him a corkboard displayed smiling polaroids of successful playgroup graduates arranged in neat rows. They laid pinned beneath a hand-lettered sign that read Our Stars! in cheerful yellow marker. Each photograph had a name tag below it.
Mittens.
Biscuit.
Chairman Meow.
Jack stared at the tiny paper mortarboard balanced on an orange tabby's head and felt something inside him detach quietly from reality.
Unbelievable.
Six weeks ago his biggest personal problem had been unresolved sexual tension with his best friend of three decades.
Now they co-parented a violent senior cat.
The relationship part, ironically, had gone surprisingly well. That was the truly irritating part. Thirty years of making both of them clinically insane and then it had just... settled into place with almost insulting naturalness.
Neither had the domesticity that seemed to bloom around them almost immediately once they stopped pretending this was temporary; the toothbrush currently sitting beside his in Robby’s bathroom, the increasingly embarrassing amount of time Jack now spent standing shirtless in the kitchen at stupid o’clock in the morning discussing emergency department staffing while Robby made tea in sweatpants.
The fact that sex with his best friend had somehow become part of ordinary life still occasionally felt absurd enough to sneak up on him at random moments.
No.
The problem was Franklin.
Franklin, who had apparently decided the safest way to process his new home environment was through escalating acts of psychological warfare.
The monstera incident had happened during Franklin’s first week in the brownstone. It somehow ended with Jack driving across Pittsburgh at eight in the morning on zero sleep while Robby sat beside him holding a sedated orange cat wrapped in a towel like the world’s most emotionally unstable burrito. Somewhere between the emergency vet, the dead plant, and Robby quietly apologizing to Franklin for “the mean stomach pump situation,” they had agreed the cat probably needed supervision during the day.
Franklin had been fine.
The monstera had not survived.
And that, Jack reflected, looking at the corkboard, was how they had ended up here.
Franklin had been attending Pittsburgh Paws Premium Pet Care ever since.
Jack shifted slightly against the bench and rolled one shoulder beneath the heavy Pitt sweatshirt he'd dragged on in a hurry after the daycare called. He still smelled faintly like hospital disinfectant and stale coffee beneath the detergent clean of fresh clothes, exhaustion clinging stubbornly to him despite the five hours he'd managed on the couch before his phone rang a little after two with a number he didn't recognise.
On the other end was a very apologetic woman explaining that Franklin had bitten two cats and was now on his final warning.
Robby was at the Pitt.
Robby was at the Pitt being Chief of Emergency Medicine, a role that came with authority and institutional respect and people addressing him by his correct title.
Jack was on a wooden bench in a pet daycare being summoned about his cat's anger management issues because he worked nights and was therefore technically available during business hours.
He rubbed absently at the heel of his hand against his stubbled jaw.
The thing was (and this was the part Jack kept returning to with the focused irritation of a man running a differential he couldn't close) he was good with animals. Historically excellent, actually. Dogs loved him, cats tolerated him at minimum, usually more. Even the frankly evil African grey parrot belonging to one of Dana's neighbours had stepped onto his arm voluntarily once, which Dana had described as either an honour or a threat and which Jack had taken as the former.
Franklin, meanwhile, looked at him like Jack had personally foreclosed on his childhood home.
The coffee mug had lasted three days after Jack moved in. Franklin had knocked it off the bookshelf while maintaining direct eye contact the entire time. Not even a distracted swipe; it was a deliberate, considered push, one paw, watching Jack watch it fall.
Things just escalated from that point on.
His once pristine crutches looked like they had survived a coyote attack. Jack kept a spare pair for bad socket days and Franklin had apparently identified them as a specific target. He'd left the prosthetics alone though; Franklin had demonstrated enough strategic intelligence to leave them alone — just the crutches.
Both of them. Systematically.
The hissing happened every time Jack walked past him in a doorway.
The doorway thing was its own category.
Franklin sat in doorways, and specifically doorways Jack needed to walk through. He waited, with his one eye, full of judgment and unmoving. He would sit there quietly, not making a sound, radiating a quality of moral disapproval that Jack had previously only encountered in senior consultants and his eighth-grade biology teacher.
Jack had started going around him, sometimes palms up just in case he needed to ward off a spontaneous demonic attack.
He had also bought Franklin the expensive treats. The ones the vet recommended, the ones with the good protein content, the ones that cost more per gram than the coffee Jack drank on shift. He'd done the research. He'd compared brands. He'd read the reviews.
Jack had never been particularly good at doing things halfway.
Yet Franklin had sniffed them, looked at him, and walked away. The bag of treats remained tucked in a corner on the counter, untouched.
And despite all of it — the biting and the hissing and the coffee mug and the crutches and the treat situation — Franklin still slept curled against Robby every single night like a devoted Victorian wife. He kneaded Robby affectionately like bread every morning, followed him from room to room with the singular focus of a creature who had found his person and considered the matter closed.
Jack on the other hand tracked Franklin's preventative medication. He'd spent hours researching orthopaedic cat beds before selecting the correct one based on Franklin's age and weight.
Franklin had still not acknowledged this.
Jack stared at Chairman Meow's mortarboard.
Unbelievable, he thought, for the fourth time since sitting down.
His phone buzzed once against his thigh.
Robby:
how bad is it?
Jack looked at the message for a long moment. Outside the hallway window, a terrier was being walked in small determined circles by a volunteer in a yellow vest while a second volunteer followed behind with what appeared to be a clipboard and a look of deep personal resignation.
He typed back:
the asshole has been radicalized
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Robby:
be nice to him
Jack stared at those four words for a genuinely significant amount of time.
Be nice to him.
Franklin, who had declared unilateral war on every object Jack personally valued within forty-eight hours of moving into the brownstone. Franklin, who treated doorways like tactical checkpoints and Jack’s crutches like symbols of a corrupt government that needed dismantling. Franklin, who accepted expensive orthopedic beds, premium treats, preventative medication and round-the-clock medical vigilance from Jack with the cold detached dignity of a hostile monarch receiving taxes from the peasantry.
Be nice to him.
Jack lowered the phone slowly and looked down beside the bench.
Franklin was asleep inside the absurdly expensive soft-shell carrier Jack had panic-bought after spending four consecutive nights reading cat forum reviews at three in the morning. A small patch of orange fur pressed against the mesh side near the zipper. His one visible eye was fully closed now, face relaxed into complete innocence while soft little snoring noises escaped him at intermittent intervals like a pensioner napping through daytime television.
Jack stared at him.
“You’re apparently on a final warning,” he informed the sleeping cat quietly.
Franklin continued snoring.
Jack’s mouth flattened slightly.
“Which strongly implies there were previous warnings,” he added, rubbing his thumb absently across his knuckles now while piecing together the deeply unsurprising realization that Robby had absolutely withheld behavioural incidents from him. "Interesting that a certain someone elected not to share that information with me."
The carrier rose and fell softly with Franklin’s breathing.
“And two cats?” Jack continued, genuinely offended on principle now. “You have one eye and arthritis. What exactly are you bringing to these altercations physically?”
A tiny orange paw twitched once in sleep.
Jack looked at the carrier with reluctant suspicion.
The thing was, he could almost respect it. Not the biting. Obviously. There was, however, something objectively insane about a twelve-pound senior cat with depth perception issues apparently deciding he could still take on the general public if sufficiently motivated.
Jack sighed through his nose and leaned back against the bench again. “You are extremely lucky Robby thinks the sun shines out of your ass,” he muttered.
Franklin snored louder.
He was typing a response when the office door at the end of the hallway clicked open. A golden retriever trotted out first wearing a tiny plaid trench coat with the cheerful self-assurance of a creature who had never once faced consequences for his actions. A woman behind the door smiled wearily after him.
"Okay," she was saying gently, "maybe no more group enrichment immediately after snack time."
The retriever barked directly into a ficus.
Jack closed his eyes briefly, hands still cradling his phone.
A second door opened further down. A man stepped out holding a clipboard, looked along the hallway, and found Jack on the bench.
"Mr Robinavitch?"
Jack looked up and pushed himself to his feet with a quiet exhale, the prosthetic settling beneath him as he straightened. He tucked the phone into his pocket without finishing the reply.
He didn't bother correcting the name.
He followed the man inside.
The office was small and aggressively cheerful.
Motivational posters about patience and trust lined the walls between framed certificates. A desk fan oscillated slowly in the corner despite it being November. The whole room smelled like lavender diffuser and mild institutional desperation, which Jack recognized from approximately fourteen years of hospital administration meetings.
The director, David, according to the nameplate, was a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with the energy of someone who had chosen to work with animals precisely because animals were easier than people. His deeply greying hair suggested he had since discovered this was not entirely true.
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk.
Jack sat as Franklin's carrier landed softly beside his feet. Through the mesh, one orange eye opened halfway and tracked the room with quiet suspicion before closing again.
"Mr Robinavitch," David began, setting his clipboard on the desk. "Thank you for coming in."
Jack thought about it for approximately one second.
The thing was, Robby handled the daycare.
Robby was the one who had found this place, filled out the intake forms, done the initial tour. Robby’s number sat listed as Franklin’s primary contact because Robby usually handled drop-offs on the mornings their schedules aligned and picked him up afterward with the enthusiasm of a man collecting someone he genuinely missed.
Jack existed lower down on the forms somewhere beneath emergency contact details and vaccination records as co-owner and secondary pickup.
Apparently today had escalated beyond primary-contact territory, which honestly felt fair considering Franklin had apparently assaulted two cats. It also meant Robby had almost certainly been fielding increasingly diplomatic phone calls about Franklin’s behavioural problems for weeks without mentioning any of it.
It made sense that they'd be expecting Robby.
"I'm actually not — " he said. "Dr Robinavitch is my partner. I'm Jack. Abbot." He paused, before nudging his chin toward the forms in David's hand out of instinct. "We're both listed on the account."
David blinked once, then flipped through the clipboard with practiced efficiency. His finger stopped midway down a page. "Ah. Yes, Jack Abbot, co-pawrent." He looked up with a professional smile that didn't quite cover the faint recalibration happening behind his eyes. "Apologies for the mix-up, my wife Sandra usually deals with the accounts. Sorry again."
"Not a problem," Jack said, which was true.
David settled back in his chair, clipboard balanced across one knee, and folded his hands with the measured composure of a man about to deliver news he'd delivered before.
"So," he said. "Franklin."
"Franklin," Jack agreed, his eyes widening by a fraction as he pursed his lips.
"He's been with us for just under five weeks now. And during that time he's been, " David paused to choose his words with visible care. "...selective. About his social interactions."
Jack looked at him steadily now. "He bit two cats."
“He did,” David said, with the unmistakable relief of a man grateful not to have to phrase it professionally himself. He glanced briefly down at the folder again as though confirming the details before correcting, “Actually, no. He bit the same cat twice.”
Jack's face went flat.
“This morning,” David clarified carefully. “During free enrichment.” A small pause followed while his eyes flicked once more toward the paperwork. “Which was… not the first incident of this nature.”
"I gathered," Jack said.
"We did reach out to Dr Robinavitch on the previous occasions," David continued, with the careful diplomacy of a man who had learned to document everything. "A few weeks ago now. And once before that."
Jack absorbed this information with the focused calm of a man who was not remotely surprised and whose partner was going to hear about this at length over dinner.
Of course Robby hadn't told him. Of course.
The man had spent six weeks looking at Franklin like he personally invented oxygen. He was not about to introduce the narrative that Franklin was causing problems because that would require admitting Franklin was anything other than a misunderstood senior cat who simply needed time to adjust.
"I'm sorry about that," Jack said, with complete sincerity. "We should be communicating better about Franklin's," he searched briefly for the right word, "— adjustment progress. I wasn't aware this had been an ongoing situation. I'll speak with Robby."
David nodded, visibly appreciating the lack of defensiveness.
"We do want to make this work," he said, which Jack understood to mean: we'll kick your cat out if it doesn't. "Franklin is... he has a lot of redeeming qualities." He reached toward the side of the desk. "I wanted to show you these, actually."
He produced a manila folder and opened it across the desk to reveal a small collection of polaroids, arranged with the careful optimism of a man making the best possible case.
Jack picked up the first photograph between two fingers.
The centre had apparently designated this one group socialisation time. Every other cat in the frame was engaged in some form of interaction; a tabby batting lazily at a hanging toy, two tuxedo cats grooming each other, a small grey one asleep in a communal bed beneath the window.
Franklin sat at the absolute edge of the group, slightly apart from everyone else, staring directly into the camera with visible disdain.
Jack stared at it for a second.
At home Franklin slept spread across Robby’s chest like an invalid being gently escorted toward the light. He screamed outside closed bathroom doors. He followed Robby room to room with unwavering emotional commitment and once spent twenty consecutive minutes trying to fight his own reflection in the dark microwave door.
Apparently outside the brownstone he became a hardened social separatist.
Interesting.
The second photograph was labelled enrichment hour.
This one appeared to have been taken beside a large carpeted climbing structure positioned near the windows. Several cats occupied different levels of it peacefully; one sprawled belly-up across a platform while another peered lazily through a hanging tunnel.
Franklin sat alone at the very top, perched there like a deeply judgmental gargoyle overseeing the decline of civilization while three separate cats below him looked visibly unwilling to ascend any further.
Jack stared at the photograph for a long second.
“Did he…” He tilted it slightly closer to inspect. “Did he trap those cats down there?”
David hesitated, but the curl of his mouth betrayed him. “We prefer not to anthropomorphize behavioural motivations,” he said, before clearing his throat once.
Inside the carrier Franklin had gone completely still.
Listening.
The third photograph featured a small seasonal bandana around Franklin’s neck. This one was almost, almost approaching cute, except for the cat immediately beside him, who appeared to be in the early stages of quietly leaning away.
“He's really such a joy when he's settled,” David said with the determined brightness of a man who had committed fully to this sentence.
Jack looked down at the photographs again before his gaze drifted briefly toward his left forearm where a thin white scar disappeared beneath the cuff of his sweatshirt.
Franklin had given him that during week two after reacting very poorly to the concept of oral antibiotics. Robby had laughed so hard he’d needed to sit down on the kitchen floor afterward while Jack stood at the sink bleeding into a dish towel and informing both of them that the cat was clinically unwell.
Or possessed.
Franklin, meanwhile, had escaped onto the refrigerator and spent the next forty minutes glaring down at them both with the moral indignation of a man wrongfully imprisoned.
Jack looked back at Franklin’s face staring flatly out from three separate photographs like an exhausted longshoreman contemplating union violence.
“He certainly has a presence,” Jack said finally, which was the most honest thing he could have said.
David pointed gently toward the first photograph.
“He does seem to prefer his own company, which isn’t unusual in seniors. But the issue is that when other cats approach his space he can become—”
“Combative?” Jack offered.
“Reactive,” David corrected diplomatically. “Yes.”
Jack lowered the photographs carefully back onto the desk. “What exactly prompted this morning?”
David consulted his clipboard. "Another resident, Butterscotch, approached Franklin's rest area during free time. Franklin... well, he responded."
Jack grimaced immediately. “Butterscotch okay?”
“Oh no, he’s fine,” David assured him quickly, both hands lifting instinctively from the clipboard in immediate reassurance. “Superficial only. No puncture concerns.” He made a small calming gesture in the air between them before adding, “Honestly, Butterscotch was more emotionally affected than physically injured.”
Jack exhaled quietly through his nose and leaned back slightly deeper into the chair. Inside the carrier Franklin remained completely motionless.
Still listening.
David lowered his hands again and set the clipboard carefully onto the desk.
“But it did cause some distress in the room generally,” he continued more gently. “This is the third incident of this nature, and our policy after three incidents is to require an intervention before the animal can continue attending.”
Jack kept his face professionally neutral. Beside his feet the carrier shifted softly. Jack glanced down to see that Franklin had woken fully now and was sitting upright against the mesh. His single eye was fixed on David with the concentrated interest of a defendant hearing sentencing.
Good job, you little psycho, Jack thought at him. You've done it now.
Franklin held his gaze for another second and then looked pointedly away, as if Jack had been the one to cause this.
"What kind of intervention are we talking about?" Jack said, returning his attention to David with a tone that conveyed polite professional interest and revealed absolutely nothing about the internal conversation currently happening.
"We'd strongly recommend a consultation with a feline behavioural specialist," David said, warming to the subject now as he leaned forward to his desk. "There are also structured aggression management programmes specifically for cats with Franklin's... profile. We actually have a new intake starting next week that would be perfect timing."
Jack's left eyebrow moved approximately two millimetres.
"An aggression management program," he said, measuredly.
"It's very effective," David said encouragingly, flicking up two thumbs to match. "Most cats show significant improvement after just a few sessions."
“We don’t need to suspend his attendance in the meantime,” David added quickly, perhaps correctly interpreting something in Jack’s face. “As long as we can see owners are actively engaging with the behavioural plan and making a genuine effort to address the aggression, we’re usually very happy to continue working with them.”
Jack stared at him for a second.
“So Franklin’s essentially on probation,” he said.
David considered this briefly.
“…That is not the official terminology we use,” he admitted.
Jack thought about Franklin destroying his crutches with what could only be described as methodical intent. He thought about the broken mugs. The doorway standoffs. He thought about Franklin biting Butterscotch during free enrichment.
"I'll look into it," Jack said, with the controlled diplomacy of a man who had talked people into and out of significantly more dangerous situations than feline anger management. "Next week is...," Jack exhaled as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Our schedules are complicated. We work opposite shifts. I'd need to coordinate with Robby before we could commit to a specific intake date."
"Of course," David said solemnly, before tilting his head. "What do you both do, if I may?"
"Emergency department," Jack said. "We're both doctors at PTMC."
Something shifted in David's expression. "Pittsburgh Medical Centre?" He was quiet for a moment. "My uncle was seen there recently," he said, in a tone that had moved away from professional and toward something more careful. "Waited about four hours to be seen."
Jack held very still.
He had been on the receiving end of this conversation before. It went several different ways depending on the person, and he had learned over the years that the first sentence rarely told you which way it was going to go.
"Four hours is a long time," Jack said, which was borderline honest. Most people wait up to seven.
"He said the doctor who finally saw him was, " David seemed to be choosing his words, "— thorough. Explained everything. Didn't rush him even though the department was clearly under enormous pressure." He looked at Jack directly. "He's okay now. Fully recovered." A pause. "He talks about that doctor a lot."
Jack nodded once.
"I'm glad he's well," he said, and meant it.
"I imagine it's a difficult environment to work in," David said, something having shifted in the room now, the professional distance between them recalibrated slightly into something warmer.
"It has its moments," Jack said.
David glanced briefly at the way Jack had settled in the chair, the angle of his leg, the particular stillness of someone who had learned how to be still a specific way. "Were you military?"
"Army medic," Jack said.
"My dad was Navy," David said, quietly. "He passed a few years back." He looked at the desk for a moment. "You remind me of him. In a good way."
Jack didn't say anything to that. He just nodded, and let the silence be what it was.
After a moment David straightened slightly, retrieving his professional register along with the clipboard.
"So," he said. "The behaviourist program. I really would encourage you to look into it. We genuinely don't want to ask Franklin to leave." He glanced toward the carrier with something that might, generously, have been described as fondness. "He has his own distinct personality and the staff have become quite fond of him."
Jack followed his gaze toward the carrier. Franklin was pressed against the mesh now, staring at David with an expression of unreadable intensity that Jack strongly suspected David was interpreting as attachment. Jack had been stared at by Franklin enough times to know it was almost certainly not attachment.
But he kept this to himself.
"We'll sort it out," Jack said, standing. He picked up the carrier in one hand, the strap settling across his shoulder. "Thank you for your patience with him."
"Of course," David said, rising and extending a hand. "Please do give us a call once you've had a chance to speak with your husband. We're happy to work around your schedules where we can."
“We really are sorry to call you in during the middle of your day,” David added as Jack shook David's extended hand with one hand, and adjusted the carrier strap higher onto his shoulder with the other. “Normally we try to manage minor behavioural incidents internally before involving owners directly.”
Jack glanced down toward the carrier where Franklin had already settled back into the blanket with complete confidence in his innocence.
“No,” Jack said honestly. “That seems completely fair under the circumstances.”
He was almost to the door when it hit him.
Your husband.
He stood there for a moment with Franklin's carrier in his hand and the lavender diffuser doing its best in the corner and the motivational posters all saying things about trust and patience and growth, and he thought about the last time someone had said that to him.
The last time it had been true.
Angela had called him that once. He had loved being her husband, in the ways he'd known how to be. He hadn't thought about being someone's husband again until approximately forty seconds ago.
And now a man in a pet daycare had said it again, easily, like a fact that required no examination.
The thing was, it didn’t feel wrong.
That was what stopped him in the doorway with Franklin’s carrier still hanging from one hand and the lavender diffuser humming softly in the corner. He was also absolutely not going to unpack any of this while standing in a pet daycare holding a cat carrier.
They were six weeks in.
He didn't want to spook Robby. He didn't want to make this into something it wasn't ready to be yet. He was turning fifty in a few months, with a prosthetic leg and a complicated history and a cat with anger management issues. And Robby was — no, they had taken thirty years to get here, and were still learning the vocabulary for this.
Robby was still learning how to stand inside this with him too.
Jack was patient. He knew how to wait for things.
He stepped out into the hallway.
The carrier went onto the passenger seat.
Jack stood there for a second with one hand still resting lightly against the handle while Franklin shifted once inside the blanket, orange fur barely visible through the mesh panel. Then Jack reached for the seatbelt.
“You are absolutely not dying in a low-speed collision after surviving whatever the hell happened before Robby picked you,” he informed the carrier while dragging the belt across carefully. “That would be embarrassing for both of us.”
Franklin blinked at him.
Jack clicked the seatbelt into place loosely around the carrier and gave it one small testing tug out of habit before finally climbing into the truck himself.
The door shut heavily behind him.
For a moment he just sat there with the engine off and both hands resting low against the steering wheel while Pittsburgh did what Pittsburgh always did in November outside the windshield. Grey skies, wet pavement, traffic lights reflecting long and distorted across rain-dark streets.
The truck ticked softly around him as the engine cooled.
From the passenger seat Franklin regarded him through the mesh with his single amber eye. The purring started approximately thirty seconds later.
Jack looked over slowly.
“You little shit,” he said, with as much affection as he could reasonably allow into the sentence. Franklin purred louder. Jack leaned back against the headrest briefly before dragging one hand tiredly down across his mouth.
“You bit a dude called Butterscotch,” he said conversationally. “Who does that?”
Franklin chirped once.
Jack pointed at him immediately.
“No. No backtalk. You are one behavioural incident away from parole violation.”
He reached for the ignition then, the truck rumbling slowly to life around them while rain streaked across the windshield in soft grey lines. A second later he pulled carefully out onto the street, wipers dragging rhythmically across the glass.
“You know most people get called to pick up their kid because they’ve got the flu,” he informed Franklin. “I got summoned because you apparently turned daycare into Fight Club.”
He reached over absently to straighten the edge of the blanket bunching slightly against the carrier zipper while Franklin watched him with complete unconcern.
“I’m going to assume whoever you assaulted first had an equally aggressive name. Peanut. Mochi.” Jack considered this seriously while pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bet you looked Mochi directly in the eye while you did it too.”
Franklin gave another tiny protesting noise.
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing the anger management thing,” Jack informed him. “Can’t imagine life’s riveting walking into walls all day but you cannot keep beating people up, man. That’s just not cool.”
Another chirp, lower this time. Jack adjusted the heat gently upward and checked Franklin’s carrier strap again despite already knowing it was secure.
“You’re lucky David thinks you have potential,” he muttered. “God knows I don’t.”
Franklin blinked slowly.
“Could’ve been Brenda,” Jack continued, one hand resting loose against the steering wheel now. “Brenda respected boundaries. Could’ve been Gigi - she liked me. Gigi didn’t bite me for attempting basic acts of kindness.” He shook his head once. “Nope. Robby had to pick you. You, with the criminal record and undocumented violent tendencies.”
Outside the windshield Pittsburgh slid past in damp streaks of brick and headlights while Franklin’s purring settled into a low steady vibration beside him. Jack could actually feel it faintly through the center console whenever the truck stopped at lights.
“I am still finding crutch rubber in the carpet three weeks later because of you.” Jack glanced over, one eyebrow lifting despite himself.
Franklin stretched one paw lazily against the inside of the carrier mesh. Jack glanced over to see Franklin looking back at him calmly, like this was a perfectly normal father-son conversation to be having.
“Your dad thinks you hung the moon,” Jack said finally, quieter now. “You destroyed a plant older than our relationship and you look at people like they owe you money.” He paused briefly at a red light, thumb tapping once against the steering wheel.
“And Robby’s going to hear about this and be absolutely appalled by the accusations.”
Franklin blinked slowly with the smug serenity of a creature fully confident he would, in fact, survive the allegations.
Jack huffed a laugh under his breath and turned onto the bridge.
The city stretched damp and silver around them while Franklin purred steadily on the passenger seat beside him and the word husband lingered quietly at the back of Jack’s mind the entire drive home.
By the time Jack got back to the brownstone the afternoon had collapsed fully into that particular shade of Pittsburgh grey where the entire city looked cold and vaguely exhausted. Rainwater slicked the narrow Allegheny streets silver beneath the overcast sky while bare-branched trees rattled softly against old iron railings in the wind.
Jack parked at the curb and killed the engine.
Franklin was asleep again by the time he reached across the passenger seat for the carrier.
Of course he was.
The cat had spent the better part of the afternoon committing acts of violence against the general public and was already asleep again by the time Jack reached the front steps.
“You’re lucky you’re old,” Jack informed him while climbing out of the truck. “People expect emotional regulation from younger offenders.”
Franklin continued snoring into the blanket.
The brownstone greeted him the way it had started doing lately; warmly, and with a faint smell of coffee that had been sitting in the pot too long.
Jack noticed it the second he stepped inside. The hallway light was still on from this morning, which meant he'd left in more of a hurry than he'd thought. He could picture it clearly enough; the phone ringing at two-fifteen, the carrier already half-packed because he'd learned after the monstera incident to keep it accessible, his jacket grabbed off the hook and his keys already in hand before he'd fully registered that he was awake.
The hallway light went off.
Somewhere upstairs old pipes knocked softly behind the walls. The dishwasher hummed low and rhythmic from the kitchen — he'd run it before he crashed, apparently, which was news to him. One of Robby's records was playing faintly from the living room, something with warm brass and unhurried piano that had been cycling since morning, drifting through the quiet house beneath the steady patter of rain against the windows.
Six weeks ago none of this had belonged to him.
Now half his clothes lived folded upstairs inside Robby’s dresser beside sweatpants Jack had owned since the Obama administration. His shaving kit permanently occupied one side of the upstairs bathroom. There were groceries in the refrigerator bought specifically because Robby liked them. Franklin’s increasingly aggressive collection of toys had annexed most of the living room rug.
And somehow none of it felt temporary anymore.
Franklin woke the second Jack lowered the carrier onto the kitchen floor. One amber eye opened slowly through the mesh, followed by a lazy hiss. Jack pointed at him immediately.
“Don’t you fucking start,” he said, as he bent down to unlock the latch on the carrier and nudged open the door with one finger.
Franklin held the look for another second before apparently deciding the interaction wasn't worth his energy and settling his chin back onto his blanket instead.
Jack straightened slowly, one hand settling against his hip as he looked around the kitchen. The digital clock above the stove read 5:08PM. Robby wouldn’t be home for at least another couple of hours.
Jack exhaled quietly through his nose. He could probably go back to sleep. He should go back to sleep. Instead his eyes wandered toward the refrigerator automatically while his brain started assembling ingredients before he’d consciously committed to the idea.
He had taken out the lamb this morning before he crashed onto the sofa. There were potatoes in the pantry, fresh rosemary in water beside the sink. Broccolini that needed using before tomorrow.
Jack rubbed one hand tiredly across the back of his neck.
The thing about emergency medicine was that eventually your life stopped resembling normal civilian time. Meals happened at midnight, sleep became negotiable. Entire relationships lived or died based on whose shifts aligned long enough to sustain eye contact. For years both he and Robby had let the job consume every available inch of space around them because it was easier than figuring out what else to do with themselves.
Now, though, now they actually tried.
Jack had traded two shifts next week so he and Robby would have the same Sunday off. Robby had started blocking out post-call mornings instead of immediately picking up extra hours like he usually would. Three nights ago they’d both sat half-asleep on the couch eating takeout at one in the morning because it was the only time their schedules overlapped that day and somehow it had still felt like a date.
It was ridiculous how much Jack loved that.
His mouth softened slightly before he caught himself doing it.
“Congratulations,” he muttered toward Franklin while reaching for the refrigerator handle. “You’ve manipulated us into joint custody.”
Franklin stretched slowly before climbing out of the carrier with the exhausted entitlement of a man returning home from international conflict. He headed immediately toward the water bowl in the mudroom corner and drank for a solid thirty seconds straight without once acknowledging Jack’s presence.
Jack leaned one shoulder briefly against the refrigerator and watched him. The thing weighed maybe twelve pounds and somehow still managed to carry himself like a retired dockworker with unresolved labour disputes.
Once Franklin finished drinking, he lifted his head, blinked slowly at absolutely nothing, then padded with complete confidence across the hardwood toward the front windows.
Toward the hammock.
One of three.
Three, because Robby had attempted to order a single window perch via Instagram one time while half-asleep after a shift and somehow panic-clicked checkout multiple times instead. Jack had come home two days later to find Robby standing in the living room surrounded by enough suction-cup-mounted cat furniture to open a small franchise.
Franklin, thankfully, used all of them.
The cat launched himself upward now with surprising grace for something elderly and vaguely arthritic, landing heavily into the nearest hammock beside the front window before circling twice and collapsing into it like melting bread dough.
Rain streaked softly down the glass behind him.
From the hammock Franklin stared out toward the grey Pittsburgh street with the solemn intensity of a war veteran reflecting on difficult campaigns.
Jack looked at him for a long moment.
“You thinking about Butterscotch?” Jack asked. “Could at least pretend to feel bad."
Franklin twitched his whiskers once without turning around, no remorse whatsoever.
“You got kicked out of daycare today,” Jack reminded him. “Not exactly a position to be sassy here, man.”
Jack shook his head once under his breath before crossing back toward the kitchen island.
He was talking to a cat.
At some level, that was concerning behaviour.
He crossed to the kitchen, reaching up to pull the chain on the pendant light above the island because the grey outside had made the whole room dim. The warm light pooled across the counter and immediately made the space look more like an evening than an afternoon, which was either depressing or cozy depending on how hard he'd worked the night before.
Tonight it was cozy.
He rolled one shoulder beneath the Pitt sweatshirt he'd been wearing since the daycare and decided that was coming off before he started cooking. He ducked upstairs, pulled a clean grey henley from the dresser drawer (his drawer, third from the top, which Robby had emptied out sometime in week two and which Jack had not commented on because some things were better received silently) and dragged it over his head while coming back down the stairs.
Back in the kitchen, he pulled the lamb out and set it on the counter, then went back in for the broccolini and the block of feta he'd spotted yesterday and bought on instinct. A lemon. The good olive oil from the back of the pantry that Robby bought specifically for cooking and used approximately twice a year.
Tonight it was getting used.
Rain tapped softly against the kitchen windows while oil hissed low into the pan. Somewhere upstairs plumbing groaned briefly through the old pipes again. Franklin relocated silently onto one of the dining chairs where he sat supervising with the grim concentration of a union representative monitoring workplace safety violations.
He was halfway through pressing garlic when a small sound from the doorway made him look up.
Franklin had suddenly frozen still. Both ears lifted sharp and forward, his single eye locked on the front of the house with an intensity that had nothing to do with the vegetables.
Jack already knew what was coming. He closed his eyes briefly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
Because apparently Franklin possessed some kind of supernatural awareness regarding Robby’s approximate distance from the house.
The yowling escalated.
Franklin launched off the chair, hit the hardwood floor at speed and began yodelling toward the front door with startling emotional urgency, his entire body thrown into the performance.
Jack abandoned the pan and crossed the room quickly, prosthetic clicking softly against hardwood while Franklin continued yowling near the front hallway like somebody announcing the return of a lost king.
“You can't wait twelve seconds?” Jack asked the cat while intercepting him halfway to the door. “This level of emotional instability is unnecessary.”
Franklin twisted immediately around his legs anyway, yelling louder, circling with increasing speed.
"I understand you're happy," Jack said, sidestepping him on the second pass, a smile creeping up his face whether he liked it or not. "The whole neighbourhood understands you're happy. I still need you to move, buster."
Headlights swept briefly across the front windows.
Right on cue.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Jack muttered as the yodelling escalated.
Jack moved before he could think too hard about it, bending quickly to intercept Franklin just as the cat made another dramatic attempt toward the front door. To his genuine surprise, Franklin actually let himself be picked up.
Well.
Tolerated was probably the more accurate term.
Jack barely had time to adjust his grip before Franklin settled with deep visible offense against his chest, back legs dangling heavily while one paw planted squarely against Jack’s chest like this entire situation remained beneath him spiritually.
Jack stared down at him.
Franklin stared right back.
“Huh,” Jack said.
Franklin yowled directly into his face.
“Right," Jack said, jerking his head back for safety. "Forgot yourself for a second there.”
Jack shifted him carefully higher against one arm and deposited him onto the nearest cat tower beside the window just as the lock finally turned.
Franklin launched himself off it immediately.
Robby stepped inside still in his scrubs, jacket damp at the shoulders from the rain outside, bag hanging from one arm. His shoulders dropped almost immediately at the smell of dinner drifting through the brownstone, something in his face softening before he’d even fully shut the door behind him.
Franklin lost his mind.
The yowling reached a pitch that Jack was fairly certain constituted a neighbourhood violation as Franklin launched himself at Robby’s feet, circling wildly between his legs while chirping with escalating emotional urgency.
Robby barely got the door shut.
“Oh my God,” he laughed softly, already bending down while his bag slid halfway off his shoulder. His keys jangled uselessly in one hand as Franklin continued winding frantically around his ankles like he’d been abandoned for several fiscal years instead of a standard hospital shift.
“Hellooo,” Robby said warmly, the word dissolving immediately into a grin as he finally crouched properly to scoop the cat up against his chest.
Jack felt something inside him give way a little at the sight of it.
One arm automatically supported Franklin's weight while the other hand settled broad and warm between his shoulders, thumb stroking once through orange fur. “Hello, baby,” Robby murmured, low and affectionate in that voice Jack had never once heard him use inside the hospital. “I know. I know, I’m sorry I’m late. We got slammed today.”
Franklin answered by shoving his entire face hard against the side of Robby’s neck and purring loud enough to carry clean across the entryway.
Robby huffed out another quiet laugh against the top of Franklin's head.
His hair was still flattened slightly from the rain. His scrubs were wrinkled from twelve hours of movement and exhaustion and fluorescent lighting. There was a faint crease between his eyebrows that usually only appeared after difficult shifts. One sleeve had ridden halfway up his forearm while he held Franklin, exposing tired tendons and the imprint left behind from his watch.
Somehow the whole picture of him standing there juggling keys and bags and a deeply codependent orange cat hit Jack hard enough that he had to look away briefly toward the stove before Robby noticed it happening.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway and watched them for another second longer than strictly necessary.
Watched Robby press one absent kiss against the top of Franklin’s head.
Watched Franklin immediately close his single eye like this was the greatest moment of his life.
Jesus Christ.
Robby looked up over the top of Franklin's head and found Jack watching him, and the expression on his face shifted into something warmer and more specifically directed.
"Hi," he said.
Jack smiled before he could stop himself.
"Hi," he said back.