Work Text:
I.
"I'm pretty sure Dr. Cassel recommended no screens." Frank's voice isn't loud, but it carries all the same. Robby flinches anyway, eyes fixed on the tablet in front of him.
"It's a Kindle," Robby protests mildly, squinting at the dim screen half cradled between his hand and the couch cushion.
"Pedantic doesn't suit you."
Robby ignores him in lieu of a response, feeling more than seeing as Frank takes in the uncomfortable looking curl of Robby's body on the couch, and the blinds, still pressed open and letting in the late summer sunlight. He doesn't say anything, but he's methodical, moving around the room and shutting everything down until the room is dark. He finally slows, and pauses to tug open a window to let in a little fresh air as the evening cools.
"AC is still on," Robby mumbles, pointedly not looking at Frank. He hears him snort, a few quiet footfalls, and the thermostat beeps quietly as Frank adjusts it. The quiet whirr of the vents are still spooling down when Frank wanders down the hall into their bedroom, a familiar figure in Robby's peripheral vision.
The book Robby is reading is good, or at least he remembers it to be. He's spent the last half hour trying to make the letters on the screen stop swimming in front of his eyes, with little success. It's not until Frank returns and tugs it out of his grip that Robby finally looks up and actually meets his gaze.
Frank had shed his scrubs when he'd walked into the bedroom, swapping them for soft looking sweats and a shirt Robby recognizes as one of Jack's. The expression on his face isn't quite amused, but as he sets the Kindle down on the coffee table, there's a hint of a smile on his lips.
"Move." Frank's voice is quieter now, warm and low and even, but no less insistent.
"Where to?" Robby says, even as he shifts, following the soft prodding of Frank's hands.
It's a slightly awkward shuffle, but it's worth it by the end when Frank is left reclining against the arm of the couch and Robby can settle between his thighs, pillow his head on his chest, and let his eyes slip shut as his arms come to wrap around the thin, hard waist of the other man.
"Stubborn." Frank muses, even as his hands settle on Robby's back. "You know what's great for migraines?"
"Quiet?" Robby mutters, half muffled against Frank's chest.
Frank huffs out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh and not quite chastisement, either. He brings one hand up to card through Robby's hair, pushing the strands back off his forehead.
"Did you at least take your meds?"
Robby nods, at least until the movement makes him moan, a soft noise that trails off into a hard exhale at the sharp pain in his temples. "When I got home, and then again a couple hours later."
Robby doesn't have to look up to know that Frank is frowning. His hand comes down to grip Robby's arm and he tugs it up, enough to glance at the watch on Robby's wrist.
"How are you feeling now?" He doesn't use his dealing-with-patients voice on Robby, but it's a close imitation. The realization makes Robby sigh, a little put upon.
"My head hurts."
Frank doesn't let it go. "And?"
"No nausea, no auras." Robby presses a little more firmly against Frank's chest, and when he stops talking, he can just barely feel the pulse of his heart under his cheek. He listens for a long moment, takes in the quiet pulsing whoosh of its rhythm, atrium-ventricle, atrium-ventricle. After a pause, he adds, "Some vertigo."
Frank's hand is steadying, sunk into his hair and warm against his skin. It keeps his head still, pinned against his chest, and Robby's eyes have only just slid shut when Frank moves again, urging him to shift.
"This alright?" Frank asks, prodding Robby gently to twist his neck, until his chin rests against the hard surface of his sternum, and Frank's hands can cradle both sides of his head.
Robby hums. "Pinches my neck a bit."
Frank's lips curve down, and he adjusts him again, until Robby is pressed face first into his chest.
"Better?"
"Mmmf."
Frank's laugh is soft, but Robby feels it, jostling him slightly. It doesn't last long, just until Frank's hands move to stroke up the sides of his neck, palms pressing firmly into the tense muscle, and then coming up to rub slowly and deliberately over Robby's scalp.
"Fuck—" Robby exhales, and warm pleasure seems to fill his chest as Frank slowly, methodically, and so carefully, rubs over the tense muscles in his temples, the tight clench of his jaw, and the back again, until his fingers press into the knots in his neck.
Robby loses track of time quickly enough. His head still hurts, but like this, his focus narrows to the scent of Frank, laundry detergent and deodorant and the slight scent of musk after a day running around on his feet; and the warm, tender stroke of fingers through his hair, like he could coax the migraine out of Robby if he was careful enough.
Robby's not sure how long it's been when the rhythm of his movements change. Frank's hands slide down the back of his skull, to the small dip where the muscles meet the nape of his neck. He winces, minutely, and Frank makes a soft noise. Smoothing his hand over the back of Robby's head, he slows.
"Quit moving," he chides, like Robby's been anything other than obedient to the quiet nudges of his hands. Still, he can hide his eye roll against his chest and twist his own hands until he can push them under the edge Frank's shirt.
"Yessir," he mutters, and he thinks it's only his headache that keeps Frank from tugging on his hair in retribution. But as he lays there, fingers tracing the soft curve of Frank's back, the man drags the knuckles of his thumbs over the tendons in his neck in a hard press.
Robby moans, unexpectedly, something between pleasure and pain making his fingers spasm against Frank's skin and his spine tense, even as for a brief moment the pain in his temples recedes.
It takes a second for him to process, and he can't decide if he feels better or worse for it.
"What the fuck, Frankie," Robby breathes, pivoting his head up to look at Frank. The other man looks smug, and his fingers drift back to Robby's scalp, petting through his hair with less methodical focus than before.
"Pressure point." He smiles, a cat-who-got-the-cream smirk, and pushes Robby's hair back off his forehead and bends to drop a soft kiss to the skin of his temple. "Did it help?" He breathes it against Robby's skin, sending a small shiver chasing up his spine.
"A bit," he admits, begrudgingly. "I think I lost motor control of my toes, though."
It makes Frank laugh, a short, bright thing, head thrown back and a grin sweet enough to make up for the spike of pain the sound inspires in Robby. When he looks back down, meeting Robby's eyes, his expression has lost the smug edge to it, replaced entirely by fondness.
"An ex had migraines. I used to do this for them." Carefully gender neutral, even as the soft smile melts into a pensive look, a little guarded.
"Abby," Robby says softly.
"Abby." Frank shrugs, unabashed. His fingers slip back over Robby's scalp, and rest there, cradling his head against him.
It's not a sore point. Not anymore. A decade together and two kids, he'd be crazy to expect her not to come up occasionally. Between him and Jack, Robby has learned how to read their moods, figure out when to drop the subject of those who've come before versus when to tease out a little more thread from them, loosen the tension he can see and feel in the other men.
"Do you think it says something, that two of your partners have had debilitating chronic migraines?"
Frank laughs again, and the tension that Robby had seen pinching the corners of his eyes, making crows feet where the other man usually had none, dissolves. He sends a wry look down at Robby, and raises his eyebrows in slight challenge.
"Hey, Jack doesn't." He slips one hand down Robby's neck, gently letting his fingers tuck under the neck of his shirt and rest on the skin of his back. It's warm, and a little possessive, and Robby dips his head to press a kiss to the fabric covering Frank's chest.
"Jack went to war. He's got the experience to withstand you."
"Should I be insulted or flattered?" Frank asks, but it's clearly rhetorical. He hums softly, and nudges Robby's chin back up. "Hold on, I've got one more trick."
Robby rolls his eyes, visible to Frank this time, and lets himself be moved. Carefully, Frank tilts his chin up, then lowers the pads of his middle fingers to either side of the bridge of Robby's nose in a soft, pressing pinch.
"Another pressure point?" Robby asks needlessly, watching Frank's tongue poke out between wet lips as he focuses. Frank nods, and presses softly, making tiny circles against the ridge of bone. He tries to relax into it, half braced for the same nauseating response as before, but eventually—
"It's not doing anything," Robby finally exhales.
"I know," Frank says. He drops his fingers with a guileless look. "I didn't expect it to. It's just fun to make you go cross eyed."
It's Robby's turn to laugh, and even though it makes his head throb, he can't make himself regret it.
"Do I need to let you up to eat?" He asks, once they both calm. He doesn't know what his expression is, but Frank cups his chin for a moment before scratching over his beard.
"Eventually." His fingers don't stop the gentle movement, and Robby leans into the touch, chasing the pressure and reassurance it brings. "But I'm not going anywhere yet."
II.
"You're gonna fuck up your hips doing that," Frank comments as he watches Jack move through their apartment.
Robby snorts from the other end of the couch, glancing over the edge of his readers to watch the other man move. He's stepping unevenly, not quite a hobble, and he sends a glare at Frank over his shoulder.
"Me and my hips are no one's business but my own." He's shed his scrub top, and his undershirt clings to the broad span of his back, the fine layer of sweat making it stick to the small of his back like spandex. He pauses long enough to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and downs most of it in one long draw.
Robby carefully doesn't make a comment, nor does he meet Frank's gaze. He wasn't going to be the one to point out anything regarding Jack's hips, teasing or no, not when he was clearly wound tight with stress. He does let his gaze linger over the other man's shoulders, his arms, the line of his throat as he swallows. It's certainly a sight worth looking at.
When Jack steps back towards them, though, the cause of his odd gate is obvious. One bare foot presses into the carpet, along with the boot still on his prosthetic.
"How was work?" Robby asks instead, and fights down a smile at the aggravated look that chases across Jack's face. It's all the warning he has before Jack crosses the living room, and with a grunt, drops onto the couch, his head bouncing off Frank's thigh and his bare foot dropping into Robby's lap.
"Shit—" Frank grunts, curling forward at the impact and catching Jack's shoulder. "Melodramatic, I swear—"
"Bite me." There's no real venom in the words, and Jack presses his head more firmly into Frank's thigh, his eyes slipping closed. It takes a moment for the three of them to settle, particularly after Jack's less than graceful addition, but they've got increasing amounts of practice moving around each other. It's never exactly effortless, certainly not with three grown men on a couch not quite big enough to accommodate them all, but it's getting there.
Like this, looking down the lines of Jack's body, his guard down as he presses his head into Frank's lap, the exhaustion in his face is more obvious. Robby spares a quick glance at Frank before reaching for Jack's other leg.
The first time Robby had done this, he'd been more than a little nervous, fingers fumbling and heart pounding at the unexpected intimacy of the action. The trust. He'd met Jack's eyes when he was slipping off the liner, and blurted out, "I feel like I'm taking off your bra."
Jack had laughed until he nearly cried. Robby wishes some of that levity was in his face now, as he tugs up the hem of his pants, and slides his hands over his prosthetic. Pressing the release, tugging softly as he feels it lose suction, and pulling it free of the liner feels second nature now, and he slips his fingers a little higher along his leg to find the top of the compression liner.
"Buy me dinner first, hot shot," Jack murmurs at the brush to his thigh, and Robby's relieved to see the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. Of the three of them, Jack may have the dubious honor of being the most well adjusted. It isn't a hard race to win, given his competition. The smile, though, makes Robby feel better.
"Want to talk about it?" Frank asks, and to his credit, his voice is almost free of a tease as he looks down at the other man. In the face of Jack's closed eyes, his expression shows some of the concern his voice lacks.
He doesn't need to clarify what he's talking about. Jack coming in, dropping his backpack on the ground and toeing off his boot in total, stony silence was enough to clue them into his mood. It was hard, sometimes, to get a word in edgewise when Jack and Frank got on a tear. His silence stands out.
Jack snorts, and his eyes open up to evaluate the younger man.
"Not really." He finally answers, sounding like he might have actually considered it.
There's a moment where Frank opens his mouth, and Robby wonders if he's going to needle Jack. He does, sometimes, knows better than Robby when to press him and see if he could get the cracks to grow a little more, actually get an honest response out of him. He was annoyingly good with doing the same thing to Robby. Instead, Frank closes his mouth, and tries to shove his fingers under Jack's head to rub at his thigh.
"I bet you left a bruise," Frank mutters, and the start of a smile on Jack's face grows just a little more obvious.
"I could make sure I leave one, if you keep whining." He doesn't move his head, and eventually, Frank gives up, his hand pulling away and dropping on Jack's chest.
"You two make it hard to focus," Robby says mildly, even as he tugs Jack's now unencumbered leg into his lap to join the first. Like this, he can drop a hand on his ankle and rub his thumb over the point of the joint, and brace the book he'd been reading against Jack's leg.
"We could really distract him," Frank mutters in a faux whisper to Jack. Jack doesn't respond, but his smile gets a little wider. It's a little sharp edged.
"Is that a no?" Frank asks, as Robby watches the slow movement of Frank's hand across Jack's chest. Jack slaps his hand away before he can find whatever target he was after.
"Y'know, I know for a fact you're perfectly capable of relaxing quietly." Jack stares up at Frank, who only raises his eyebrows mildly at the chastisement.
"I am," Frank agrees.
"But just not tonight?"
The silence extends long enough that Robby lifts his gaze from his book to glance over at the silent stand off happening at the other end of the couch. It's not uncomfortable, but it has the potential to be if it goes on much longer.
"Let me go get dinner together." Frank finally offers, an olive branch and diversion all in one. He's shifting to stand, when Jack makes a quiet noise.
"In a minute." Jack's words aren't a request, and Frank drops back down. He spares a glance at Robby, a silent request for help navigating this mood. And if Robby had a good idea of how to tackle it, he'd be glad to help.
This time, when they settle on the couch, Frank is quiet, and Jack's eyes slip closed once more.
It takes a while longer, spread out between them, for Jack to unwind. His legs eventually go loose in Robby's lap, save the occasionally twitch of his socked toe. Robby knows if he were to set his hand on the end of his limb, he'd feel the twitch and flex of muscle, Jack silently pantomiming the movements in both legs. It had taken Robby a while to figure out it was a way to relax, calm himself down when the phantom nerve pain wasn't quite manageable. It helped when Jack had told him so, too.
When Robby spares a glance to the other end of the couch, he's grateful to see Jack's lips relaxing, an open mouthed expression that had as much to do him thinking through things as it was to do with Frank's fingers buried in his curls, scratching and tugging lightly as the man worked on what looked like a sudoku puzzle on his phone. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he focuses, and when Robby looks back down at Jack, his eyes are open again.
"Three year old." Jack's voice is quiet, his soft rasp a little more obvious from the odd angle of his neck, propped against Frank's thigh. Frank doesn't stop moving, but it would take someone who didn't know him to miss the quiet shift of his attention from his phone to the man in his lap.
"Mom insisted the dog was fine around kids. Nipped at her and her husband occasionally, but always was sweet around the kid."
Robby's gut sinks, but he doesn't interrupt. Frank's hand in Jack's hair slows, but doesn't stop moving, methodically separating the curls then twisting them back together. Jack will look insane by the time Frank's done. He's never once complained about it.
"And Mom hops in the shower. Lets the dog 'babysit'." Jack lets out an angry, derisive snort. "Doesn't realize anything's wrong until she hears a scream."
"Idiot," Frank murmurs, but there's genuine anger in his voice. Jack's eyes flick up to meet Frank's, but he doesn't stop speaking.
"So the kid'll end up needing half a dozen cosmetic surgeries to fix the bite, she might be able to keep the eye, the dog dies, and the parents deny all wrongdoing and insist it was a freak accident." Jack's voice is bitter and harsh, and Frank finally pauses, his hand cupping the back of Jack's head.
They're all silent for a moment, Jack's frustration and grief palpable and hard to ignore. Eventually, Frank speaks.
"You're a good doctor." He has to dip his head to catch Jack's eye, back curving in a painful bend as he does. He holds it without complaint, gaze intent. "However, even you cannot fix all the stupid in the world."
Jack lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, and Robby closes his book, a little harder than he intends to. Neither man startles, but Frank does cut him a look out of the corner of his eye.
"I don't need you two to coddle me," Jack says, even as he holds Frank's unblinking stare. "Or whatever you want to call what you're doing right now." It makes Frank snort softly.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Course not." Robby agrees.
Jack sends a long glance between the two of them, disbelief obvious on his features. He's opening his mouth to respond when Frank cuts him off, gently.
"Now will you let me up to make dinner?"
The words die on Jack's tongue, whatever they are. It's a process as he thinks, one that flickers behind his eyes and plays out in the tiny muscles around his mouth, and Robby can see the moment he decides to shelf his frustration, his anger, his indignation, and save it for a better moment. He's good at that. Or, at least the part where he'll go and deal with it instead of leaving it to fester.
He's the most well adjusted of the three of them. It's a process. Robby might get there, eventually.
"Okay."
Frank has to shimmy a bit to lower Jack's head without jostling him, and he pauses long enough to press a quick, soft kiss to his lips before he straightens and heads towards the kitchen. When he pulls away, Robby is relieved to see a faint smile on Jack's lips.
They'll all get there, he thinks. Eventually.
III.
"We could have gotten that three bedroom," Jack mutters against Robby's lips, his hands making fast progress up under the hem of his shirt as he grinds down thoughtlessly on his lap. "A couple blocks over. Then we wouldn't have this problem."
"It's not a problem." Robby's eyes slip shut at the increasingly heated touches, his own fingers slipping up to cup Jack's jaw. It's rough with stubble, and Robby rubs his fingertips over it in a tiny, soft caress, even as he presses back in for another kiss, chasing after his mouth with a single minded focus. It's only when Jack pauses just out of reach that Robby opens his eyes again.
"Me and Typhoid Mary in the master suite and you on the couch? How is that not a problem?"
Robby sighs. When Frank had mentioned Tanner having a fever, he'd been concerned for the boy but not overly worried. When Frank had subsequently brought that fever home with him after spending an afternoon with his kids, it had changed things.
"Couch will fuck up his back," Robby says, and has to bite his lip when Jack shakes free of his grip and drags his mouth away from Robby's, pressing a kiss to the curve of his throat, just below where Robby trimmed the edge of his beard. When Jack's lips keep moving, dropping soft, open mouthed kisses to the thin skin of his pulse point, his Adam's apple, and back again, Robby has to focus a little harder. "You've said your leg cramps if you sleep on something too soft."
"We could have gotten a firmer couch." Jack counters, even as he pauses long enough to tease, sucking softly on his throat and laving his tongue to make blood rise quicker and stoke the heat in Robby's chest. Robby's fingers slip into his hair and tugs, a little harder than he means.
"I can deal with the couch. You can risk infection with him."
"Bedroom, office, and a guest room." Jack pulls back enough to meet his eyes, his gaze dark but amused. "Three bedrooms."
"Didn't your therapist talk to you about dwelling on the past?" Robby shifts his hips under Jack, aiming for curtness as he speaks. It comes out breathless, instead.
Jack's eyes flash with something between amusement and irritation before he leans forward to capture Robby's lips in a heated, thoroughly distracting kiss.
Like this, the other man pressing down on him and his hands, endlessly clever, finding bare skin and teasing, it's hard to remember what they were doing. Why they were out here, instead of getting ready to crawl into bed together. Still, Robby groans against Jack's lips, and deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth and tightening his grip on the other man.
It would have stayed like that, Robby more than content to spend hours necking on the couch like teenagers, if Jack hadn't ground down again, the hard ridge of his hardening cock pressing into Robby's stomach, and Robby hadn't shifted his leg to get better leverage to grind up against him in return.
His foot knocks against Jack's forearm crutches where they're leaned against the coffee table and balanced a little precariously. The bump is enough to send them tumbling, falling to the ground with a clatter of plastic and metal.
Jack and Robby freeze in tandem, breaking apart with matching wide eyed looks. There's a moment of silence before the sound of coughing comes from down the hall, where Frank had been asleep.
"Nice going," Jack grumbles, even as he presses forward to kiss Robby again. It lacks the heat of a moment ago, and Robby pulls a face, helping as Jack twists to shift off his lap.
"Poor kid." Robby frowns as another round of coughing starts up. Frank had been fine, at least while he was sleeping. He ignores the minor twist of guilt at waking him up, and leans down to grab the crutches for Jack.
"I'll tell him you called him 'kid,' maybe he'll come in here and cough on you." Jack says as he stands, adjusting his shirt and ignoring the slight tent to the front of his pajama pants.
"I could only be so lucky."
Jack snorts at him, and pivots easily on the crutches. One of them dangles from his elbow and knocks softly into Robby's knee as Jack leans forward to push his fingers through Robby's hair in a gentle, easy caress.
"Sure you're alright out here?" Jack's voice isn't soft, but Robby knows him well enough to spot the honest question hidden in his tone.
"Short of spontaneous hemorrhage, I should be alright."
Jack snorts again, and uses the grip in his hair to tilt his head back, and press a brief kiss to his temple, before following it up with a more lingering one to his lips. When he pulls back, they're both breathing a little heavier.
"G'night, Robby."
"Goodnight."
Jack doesn't linger. The sound of his crutches on the hardwood, the old house creaking slightly under his weight, and finally their bedroom door swinging open tracks his progress through the house, and away from Robby. He doesn't envy him his rest, curled away from a feverish and crabby Frank, and doing his best not to get sick. This way, at least one of them might be able to avoid the contagion that Tanner had unleashed, bred in the biological thunderdome of a pre-K classroom, but he strains to listen anyway, like he might feel a little less isolated if he could just hear them bicker as they got settled.
For all Jack's gripes, the couch isn't excessively soft, and not terrible to sleep on. Set up with sheets and blankets, it's not the worst place Robby has ever spent the night. Once he shuts down the house, starting the dishwasher and double checking the doors are locked, he walks back over to his makeshift bed.
He's not sure how long he stands there, looking down at the made up couch, in the dark of the living room. He can hear the quiet sound of traffic on the busier street a couple roads over, the click of the heating kicking on, and when he swallows, it sounds loud in his own ears.
Frank coughs, twice, in the other room.
Robby can't hear Jack's response, but he can practically see it happening, the way he knows Jack. His easy reach to grab a shoulder, how he'd encourage the other man against his side, and the thoughtless way he'd drop a kiss on Frank's forehead, heedless of the sweat that coats him like a second skin.
Robby leaves the couch. Jack's right, it is too soft. He'll take his chances with them, instead.