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It was hard, damn near impossible, for a man like Robby to make himself small. Tall, broad-shouldered, wingspan of Michael Phelps, hands like bear paws. Robby didn’t shrink, didn’t hide, not usually.
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Jack was leaning in the doorjamb in a forest green and burgundy skirt suit with gold trim, complete with a cap on his head set at a jaunty angle. The top was a little too small, so his stupid jacked arms were busting out of the short sleeves. The skirt rode up over his knees to reveal freckled thighs and a dusting of hair rendered golden by Robby’s porch light. His flesh and blood ankle was crossed over his metal one, and he was slanting a shit-eating smirk at Robby.
“What the fuuuuck,” Robby’s mouth let out, independent of his brain.
“Can I interest you in flying Abbot Air?”
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A particularly tragic case has left Robby low. Jack comes over to raise his spirits, and though Robby is one secretive son of a bitch when it comes to his own feelings, everything seems like it will be okay.
Later, the unthinkable happens. The attempt leaves Robby in the hospital and Jack scrambling to make sense of it all. He would've preferred Robby shoot him stone-cold dead.
As he starts the long road to recovery, Robby and Jack wrestle with the aftermath. Not only dealing with the devastation of his partner trying to take his own life, Jack struggles with his moral obligations as a doctor, a friend, and a partner. Robby wants to continue to be a pillar for his family to depend on, but has to come to terms with the fact that he cannot be an island forever. -
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In which Jack can't get enough of the way that Robby smells.
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Robby has spent years filing his feelings for Jack away under safer guises— friendship, companionship, collegial affection— because those nomenclatures demanded nothing of him, required no explanation, threatened no irreversible shift in the careful architecture of their relationship, both inside and out of the hospital.
The term he kept coming back to, though, was brother.