Chapter Text
Robby’s breath hitched as the door swung open. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen Abbot without a shirt, the sight never failed to ignite that familiar, crawling heat up his neck, the same way it had the very first time. The sculpted lines of muscle, the subtle flex beneath pale skin, the faint freckles scattered everywhere, made it impossible to look away.
But there wasn’t time to linger. His eyes snapped to the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around Abbot’s arm, and the heat in his chest curdled into something taut and urgent. The kind of tension that lived in his ribs whenever someone came into the ER with that much red staining through gauze. This was why he was here.
Jack leaned against the doorframe like the injury was an afterthought, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked maddeningly unbothered, as if he weren’t dripping blood onto his own floorboards.
“Okay…what the hell did you do now?” Robby asked, voice tight despite his best attempt at calm.
“Wouldn’t stop bleeding,” Jack said, pushing off the frame with his uninjured arm. “Figured I’d call the best doctor I know to take a look.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Robby muttered, but the smirk on Jack’s face didn’t fade, it deepened, like he knew exactly what kind of effect it had.
Robby dropped his bag with a dull thunk and shrugged out of his jacket, his scrubs clinging damply to his skin from the drive over. He hadn’t even changed out of them, hadn’t stopped to glance in a mirror. The second Jack’s text came through, he knew it was bad. If Jack was asking for help, it meant the situation had already gone too far.
“Come on,” he said, scooping up the bag again. “Get your stupid ass in the bathroom.”
Jack sighed theatrically but followed, his steps slow and deliberate. He always moved like that, half confidence, half challenge, as if daring Robby not to notice the flex of muscle under his skin or the faint tremor of strain in his shoulders.
Robby bit down on a curse and forced himself to focus. This wasn’t about the way Jack’s body looked in the dim hallway light. This was about keeping him from doing something even dumber like bleeding to death because he’s too damn stubborn.
The apartment smelled faintly of smoke and soap, a mix that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. Robby remembered being here once before, for a game night with the rest of the station. Back then, it had been all mismatched furniture and takeout boxes. Now the space looked different, cleaner, more deliberate. Fewer rough edges. Like Jack had finally decided to make it his.
“What happened?” Robby asked, snapping on gloves as Jack sat on the edge of the bathtub, the porcelain creaking faintly under his weight.
“Nothing big,” Jack said, nonchalant as ever. “Caught it on a jagged bit of metal. Some rookie forgot to check the paneling before we started cutting.”
“Uh-huh,” Robby muttered, reaching for Jack’s arm. He peeled back the bandage with careful precision, the blood tacky and dark against the pale of Jack’s skin. “How long ago did this happen?”
“I haven’t bled out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
That was exactly what he was worried about. The fact that Jack dodged the question told Robby everything he needed to know, it had happened hours ago, and instead of going to the hospital like a normal person, he’d waited until the pain got bad enough to make him call. It was so very Jack that Robby wanted to scream at him.
He nudged Jack’s legs apart with his knee, stepping in close until he was standing between them. The bathroom wasn’t ideal, too cramped, too dim, smelling faintly of soap and iron, but it would have to do. There was no way Jack was going anywhere now. At least he’d had the sense to dig out his first aid kit, and set it open on the edge of the sink like an offering.
“Your first aid kit is better than mine,” Robby muttered, eyeing the array of bandages and antiseptic. “Trying to impress me?”
Jack smirked, leaning back slightly on the tub. “Is it working?”
Robby ignored him, or tried to. He focused on the bandage, fingers working carefully at the edge of the tape. When it came free, he peeled it back slow, and his breath caught.
The dried blood clung to Jack’s skin and arm hair, pulling with a faint, sticky sound that made him wince in sympathy. Beneath it, the cut was angry and raw, a jagged tear running from just above the wrist nearly to the inner elbow. Deep. Too deep. How Jack had managed not to hit an artery was beyond him.
“You should’ve come into the ER,” Robby said quietly, reaching for the sterile gauze. His tone was steady, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him. “You could’ve—” He stopped himself before the words bled out slipped free.
Jack shrugged with his good shoulder, looking anywhere but at Robby. “Didn’t want to make a scene. Besides, the rookie already felt bad enough.”
“So instead you decided to bleed all over your apartment?” Robby pressed the gauze against the wound, firm and efficient. Jack hissed, muscles twitching under Robby’s hands.
“Guess I figured you’d come running,” Jack said through gritted teeth, but there was a flicker of a grin there, deflecting, as always.
Robby didn’t rise to the bait. He focused on cleaning, on keeping pressure steady. The sound of their breathing filled the small room, punctuated only by the faint rustle of gauze. The air between them was thick, part adrenaline, part something else entirely.
When he finally looked up, Jack was watching him. Really watching him. Eyes darker than they had any right to be in this light.
“Hold still,” Robby said, voice lower than he meant it to be.
“I am still,” Jack murmured. “You’re the one shaking.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. “Because you’re an idiot.”
Jack’s smirk softened, just slightly. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot right now, aren’t I?”
Robby didn’t answer. He just reached for the lidocaine, pretending that his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat. He drew in a slow breath, pushing the distraction down where it belonged. “This is going to sting,” he said, his voice settling into that professional calm he’d practiced for years. “Try not to move.”
Jack tilted his head back against the tiled wall. “I’ll be good,” he said, the words carrying a lazy drawl that made it clear he wouldn’t be.
Robby ignored that too. He uncapped the lidocaine and loaded the syringe, the faint click of the plunger the only sound in the small bathroom. He’d done this a thousand times before but somehow, with Jack sitting there shirtless and bleeding, it felt different. Every motion felt too precise, too aware.
He swabbed the area again, making sure the skin was as clean as he could get it, then positioned the needle.
“Deep breath,” he said.
Jack complied, though his jaw tensed as the needle slid in, the local anesthetic blooming under the skin in small, raised welts.
“Christ,” Jack hissed, flexing instinctively.
“Don’t.” Robby pressed his hand just above the wound, steady and firm. His fingers spanned Jack’s forearm, his thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist. “You’ll just bruise yourself.”
Jack’s eyes flicked up, catching his. “You always this gentle when you patch people up?”
Robby didn’t look away. “Only the ones who make me drive across town after a double shift.”
That got him a grin. “So…special treatment then.”
“Something like that,” Robby muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
He waited a few minutes for the anesthetic to take effect, checking sensation along the edge of the wound with the tip of the needle. “Feel that?”
Jack shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Good.”
Robby threaded the suture needle with practiced efficiency, the nylon catching the dim light. He braced Jack’s arm against his thigh for leverage and started with the first stitch, a deep, even bite through the skin, pulling the edges neatly together. His motions were steady, clinical, though his heartbeat thudded a little too fast for comfort.
Jack watched him the whole time. “You do this a lot?”
“Every shift.”
“Bet they don’t all get the bedside manner.”
Robby tied off the first stitch and cut the thread. “You talk this much when you’re bleeding, or am I just lucky?”
“Depends on the company,” Jack said, smirking even as a bead of sweat traced down his temple.
Robby moved to the next stitch. The wound wasn’t pretty, it was ragged, the kind that wanted to gape, but the closure was clean. He worked in silence for a few minutes, the rhythm of the sutures pulling him into focus. Bite. Pull. Tie. Snip. The kind of repetition that calmed him, even with Jack sitting too close, radiating warmth and the faint smell of smoke and aftershave.
When the last stitch was tied, Robby leaned back slightly, flexing his sore fingers. “There,” he said. “You’re lucky you missed anything vital. Another inch and you’d be in surgery right now.”
Jack flexed his fingers experimentally, watching the skin pull tight. “Guess I’ve got good aim.”
“Guess you’ve got dumb luck,” Robby countered, wrapping the wound in fresh gauze. “Keep it clean. No heavy lifting. And for once in your life, follow instructions.”
Jack’s grin turned sly. “You gonna stick around to make sure I do?”
Robby taped the bandage down a little too firmly. “Don’t test me.”
Jack hissed at the pressure but laughed, low and warm. “You’re cute when you’re bossy, doc.”
Robby gathered the bloody gauze and tools back into the kit, shaking his head. “You need rest and probably a psych eval.”
Jack leaned forward, catching his wrist before he could turn away. His grip wasn’t hard, just enough to make Robby stop. “Hey,” he said quietly, eyes softer now. “Thanks for coming.”
Robby hesitated, the warmth of Jack’s hand sinking through his skin. “Yeah,” he said finally, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Next time, just come to the ER like a normal person.”
Jack’s smile tilted crooked. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Robby didn’t have an answer. He just shook his head, exasperated.
Robby exhaled, finally letting his shoulders drop as the adrenaline drained out of him. The stitches were neat, the bleeding stopped, the bandage clean. Mission accomplished. Except for the part where he was still standing between Jack’s knees, their bodies close enough that he could feel the ghost of his breath against his collarbone.
He cleared his throat and stepped back, busying himself stripping his gloves. He gathered everything into a bio bag he’d brought.
Behind him, Jack flexed his bandaged arm experimentally. “Feels weird,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve got more than a dozen stitches holding your arm together,” Robby replied. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t stretch it. The tension could tear them.”
Jack nodded, still testing the motion. “You really think I can’t handle a little pull?”
“I think you’re an idiot.”
Jack’s laugh was low, genuine. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Robby rolled his eyes, tossing a bloodied gauze pad into the bag. “You’re lucky I like your stupid ass enough not to report you for stealing my evening.”
Jack grinned. “You like me, huh?”
Robby froze for half a heartbeat, then turned to face him fully. “I said you were lucky. Don’t push it.”
“Sounds like splitting hairs to me.”
Robby sighed, shaking his head as he reached for the sink to wash his hands. The water ran pink for a second before clearing, and the sound filled the silence that had settled between them.
Jack watched him the whole time, lazy, curious, unguarded in a way Robby wasn’t used to seeing.
When he turned the faucet off, Robby caught that look and tried to deflect it the only way he knew how. “You need to eat something,” he said. “Your blood sugar’s probably tanked. I’ll order takeout before I head out.”
Jack tilted his head. “Who said you were heading out?”
Robby blinked. “You think I’m staying?”
“I think you look like you haven’t slept in two days,” Jack said, nodding toward the scrubs, the open medical kit, the tired set of his shoulders. “Sit down for five minutes. I’ve got beer. Or water, if you’re still on duty.”
Robby hesitated, glancing toward the doorway. The responsible thing, the smart thing, would be to leave. To get home, crash for a few hours, and show up for his next shift pretending this hadn’t happened. But Jack’s tone was softer now, stripped of the teasing edge, and the offer didn’t feel like a trap.
“Five minutes,” Robby said finally.
“Scout’s honor,” Jack replied, smiling as he pushed himself up from the tub. He wobbled slightly, blood loss, fatigue, or sheer stubbornness, and Robby instinctively reached out, a hand against his chest to steady him.
Jack’s heart beat fast under his palm, strong and steady. Too steady for someone who’d lost that much blood. Or maybe Robby’s own pulse was the one racing.
“You good?” he asked.
Jack’s eyes met his, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Better now.”
Robby dropped his hand like he’d been burned. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Jack chuckled, stepping past him toward the kitchen grabbing a tee that had been left draped over the back of a chair. “No promises.”
Robby followed after a beat, the faint smell of antiseptic trailing behind them both.
Jack’s apartment was small but lived-in, the kind of place that revealed its owner in small details.
A battered leather couch. A shelf cluttered with mismatched mugs. A plant in the window that looked like it had somehow survived on neglect and good luck. The kitchen opened right into the living room, a single overhead bulb throwing a warm, uneven light across everything.
Jack moved slowly, his bandaged arm held stiff against his side. He opened the fridge with his good hand, the door groaning on its hinges.
“Beer or water?”
“Water,” Robby said automatically, setting his bag down on the counter. He leaned back against it, arms folded. “You need water too.”
Jack shot him a look over his shoulder. “You always this bossy in the ER? No wonder your satisfaction scores are shit”
“Fuck you.”
That earned him a grin. Jack grabbed two bottles of water and nudged the fridge shut with his hip. When he handed one over, their fingers brushed, barely there, but enough to send a spark straight through Robby’s chest.
He cleared his throat. “You should sit down before you pass out.”
Jack didn’t argue, which was a first. He dropped into the chair at the small kitchen table, leaning back with a quiet exhale. The faint tremor in his hand as he twisted the bottle cap didn’t escape Robby. Adrenaline crash. Typical.
“You losing color,” Robby said. “You need food. Something with carbs.”
Jack gave a half-hearted shrug, motioning vaguely toward the fridge. “There’s leftover pasta. Or chips in the cabinet. Gourmet choices, all around.”
Robby leveled him with a flat stare. “Something that hasn’t been sitting in your kitchen for days would be ideal.”
“That brings your options down to, what, zero?” Jack muttered.
Robby huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I bet that moldy Tupperware in the station fridge when I left is still there.” The words came out under his breath as he dug his phone from his pocket.
“I think someone threw that out whole,” Jack said, voice dry. “Like, didn’t even open it. Just—a burial at sea.”
“Shut up and pick something,” Robby said, sliding his phone across the counter. The screen glowed between them, a small, warm rectangle of light in the dim kitchen.
Jack hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. “Are you…staying over?”
Robby tilted his head. “For dinner?”
Jack nodded, lips pressing into a little pout of thought as he scrolled through the takeout list. The glow from the phone caught on the curve of his jaw. Robby found himself watching the way Jack’s bottom lip jutted out when he concentrated, the way his hair fell forward, soft and messy.
Jack’s thumb hovered over the screen longer than necessary, scrolling with an infuriatingly casual rhythm. He wasn’t really looking at the menu, Robby could tell by the unfocused look in his eyes, the faint curve still ghosting across his mouth.
“You want Thai or pizza?” He asked, though his tone made it sound like the question was beside the point.
“Something with protein,” Robby said. “You lost enough blood to feed a baby vampire.”
“Pizza it is,” Jack said instantly.
Robby sighed. “That’s not—”
“Doctor’s orders. Carbs and protein. Cheese has both.”
“Cheese is not—”
Jack was already tapping confirm, smirking. “Order placed.”
Robby shook his head as he took his phone back. But the faint amusement tugging at his own mouth betrayed him.
He took a long drink, cold and grounding, passing his eyes over Jack’s pale face. “You should be horizontal. Your blood pressure’s probably low.”
Jack quirked an eyebrow. “That an invitation?”
Robby nearly choked. “To lie down, Jack. Jesus.”
“Hey, you’re the one setting the mood in dim lighting, all gentle hands and medical authority.”
“Keep talking and I’ll sedate you.”
Jack’s laugh was quiet but genuine, low in his throat. He pushed back from the table, wincing as he stood. “Fine, fine. Couch it is.”
Robby followed him automatically, hovering close enough to catch him if he swayed. When Jack sank down into the couch, the leather creaked under his weight. He rested his good arm across the back, eyes flicking up to Robby.
“I’m gonna change out of my scrubs. Please stop flexing your arm or I’ll drag you to the hospital.”
Jack smirked, tipping his head back against the couch cushion. “You threatening me with a good time again?”
“Threatening you with Dana,” Robby shot back, already turning toward the hallway. “Stay still.”
“Doc’s orders,” Jack murmured, voice soft but threaded with something warmer, heavier.
Robby didn’t look back, couldn’t. He ducked into the bathroom, grabbing the clean T-shirt he’d brought as an emergency spare, the one that had lived in the bottom of his bag for weeks. He stripped out of his scrubs, tugged the shirt on, and caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a mess, his eyes hollowed by exhaustion, but the thing that unsettled him most was the flush in his cheeks.
When he came back, Jack was half-dozing, one hand resting on his stomach, the other bandaged and still, propped against a pillow. The light casting stripes across his face. He looked less like the cocky firefighter who never knew when to stop, and more unguarded, quiet, almost peaceful.
Robby hesitated, caught in the doorway. He should’ve left already. Should’ve made sure Jack ate, and then gotten out before the edges blurred any further. But his feet didn’t move.
“You’re staring,” Jack said without opening his eyes.
Robby blinked. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“Hard to rest when I can feel you hovering.” Jack cracked one eye open, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth. “Sit down, Robby. You’re making me nervous.”
Robby snorted, grateful for the momentary reprieve from his own thoughts. “You? Nervous?”
“Yeah, well.” Jack gestured lazily with his good hand, patting the empty space beside him. “Even I have my limits.”
Robby hesitated for another beat, then sighed and crossed the room. He sank onto the far end of the couch, careful to keep some space between them. The cushion dipped slightly under his weight, and Jack’s body shifted with it, the faint brush of his knee against Robby’s thigh like static under the skin.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. The hum of the city filtered in through the window, distant sirens blending with the low rumble of traffic. Robby leaned back, eyes half-closed, the fatigue finally catching up to him. His pulse was finally slowing, though the awareness of Jack sitting inches away made it hard to unclench completely.
Even more so when Jack shifted again, the leather couch creaking in protest. “Thanks,” he said finally, his voice low. “For coming. And…for worrying. I know I can be an ass sometimes.”
Robby’s mouth twitched, something between a smile and a grimace. “Sometimes?”
That earned a soft laugh, quiet and a little sheepish. Jack tilted his head toward him, his lashes casting faint shadows across his cheek. “Fine. Most of the time.”
Robby turned his head, meeting his gaze. The space between them felt suddenly smaller, the air denser. “If you’d bled out, it would’ve been my fault,” he said. “It’s not like I had a choice.”
It was a joke, an attempt to pull the moment back from the edge, but the way Jack looked at him under the dim light made the words stick in Robby’s throat. There was something in his eyes that wasn’t teasing anymore. Something steady. Knowing.
“Still,” Jack murmured, voice roughened by exhaustion or something else entirely. “You came anyway.”
Robby swallowed hard, eyes flicking away. “You called.”
“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “And you came.”
For a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. The city noise faded into a kind of hush that felt like a held breath. Robby’s chest ached.
Robby wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was Jack, maybe it didn’t matter. The space between them was gone in an instant, that small, fragile distance collapsing like it had never really existed.
Jack’s hand came up, the uninjured one, fingers curling at the back of Robby’s neck. His touch was warm, grounding, and it stole the breath straight from Robby’s lungs. For half a heartbeat, he froze, every rational part of him screaming that this was a terrible idea.
But Jack’s thumb brushed against the edge of his jaw, slow and deliberate, and the thought disintegrated.
He leaned in before he could stop himself. The first brush of their mouths was barely there. Jack tasted like water and adrenaline and something distinctly him, and it was enough to make Robby’s pulse stutter.
Jack exhaled softly against his lips, a quiet sound that might have been relief, or confession, or both. And then the second kiss came, firm and certain, sweeping away hesitation. Jack tilted his head, fingers tightening just enough to draw him closer, and Robby surrendered, letting himself fall into the warmth and weight of him.
Robby’s hand blindly darted to Jack’s injured arm. His fingers wrapping around his biceps to push it out of the way. Allowing him to fully press against Jack’s chest without worrying about hurting him.
He’d wanted this, Jack, for so long that it almost felt unreal. Jack’s lips moved against his, soft and insistent, a rhythm that made Robby’s chest ache. He could feel the rise and fall of Jack’s heartbeat beneath him, steady and grounding. Jack’s hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, warm and claiming, and every nerve in Robby’s body hummed with it.
Robby pulled back, his lips glistening from the kiss, breath trembling in his throat. For a heartbeat, he could only stare at Jack, wide-eyed, pulse roaring in his ears, as if the world had tilted off its axis. His tongue flicked over his lips once, tasting the fading warmth, reminding himself that he was still breathing, that this was real.
He jerked as though struck. The moment shattered. He blinked, the room snapping back into focus. He’d kissed Jack. Or Jack had kissed him.
“I, uh—” His voice caught, raw and thin. He pushed up from the couch, fumbling for his backpack with hands that wouldn’t stay still. His thoughts spun too fast to catch. “I should go.”
“What?”
Jack shot to his feet. Robby resisted the instinct to reach out when he swayed slightly. Instead, he busied himself, retrieving his scrubs top from the bathroom, gathering up gauze wrappers and empty antiseptic packets, focusing on anything that wasn’t Jack.
“Robby, hold on.” Jack’s voice cracked just enough to make Robby’s hands still. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” The word came out too sharp, too fast. He shook his head and started shoving everything into his backpack with more force than was necessary. The zipper bit at his fingers, but he didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Not with Jack standing there.
“Then what is it?” Jack asked, stepping closer. “Do you not want this? Me?”
Robby’s chest tightened. “What? No. Of course I do. That’s not—” He broke off, exhaling hard. None of it sounded right. He could hear how stupid it all was, running when he wanted to stay, pushing away what he’d spent months pretending he didn’t want.
“Then what is the issue?”
Jack’s body filled the doorway now, the last inch of escape blocked. Robby froze, staring at the broad line of his shoulders. The bandaged arm.
“You should get a script for antibiotics,” Robby said finally, voice low. “Clean the wound every day.”
He moved past Jack before he could lose his nerve. Jack didn’t stop him. Didn’t grab his arm or ask again. Just stood there, silent, as Robby brushed by.
He opened the door to a kid barely out of high school holding a pizza box, earbuds dangling from his ears. The delivery guy’s brows lifted slightly, gaze flicking from Robby’s flushed face to the quiet apartment behind him. Robby didn’t meet his eyes and sidestepped him in one motion.
Cold air hit him the moment he reached the hallway.
“Robby—wait!” Jack’s voice chased after him, rough, uncertain.
But Robby didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. His chest felt too tight, his heart thundering like it wanted out. He took the stairs two at a time, barely seeing where he was going, the echo of Jack’s touch still alive under his skin.
The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and rain. The air outside had shifted while they’d been inside, gray clouds rolling in, the first drops spattering against the windows. Robby hit the ground floor and shoved through the front door, gulping in the cold. The wind bit at his arms, and only then did he realize he’d left his jacket at Jack’s apartment.
His fingers fumbled through his backpack, searching for his car keys. They jingled somewhere under his notebooks. His pulse wouldn’t slow. Every breath scraped his chest like it was trying to make room for something that didn’t fit.
The rain thickened, tapping against his hair, his face, his bare arms. His scrub pants were already damp. He finally found the keys and stood there on the curb, staring at them in his palm as if they might tell him what to do.
Thunder murmured somewhere distant. Robby blinked hard, jaw tight, and forced his legs to move toward the car.
But even as he reached for the door handle, his hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
He yanked open the car door and slid inside, the slam echoing louder than he expected in the small, rain-slick parking lot. The quiet that followed felt too heavy, too close.
Robby tossed his backpack onto the passenger seat and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. His breath fogged the glass, his chest still tight, every inhale catching on something jagged.
He could still feel Jack’s hand at the back of his neck, the warmth of it, the slow, unsure pressure that had pulled him in. The memory hit like a punch, and his grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went white.
“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath. The word came out thick, broken.
He turned the key in the ignition, but the engine’s low rumble only made the silence louder. The wipers swept once, twice, smearing rain across the windshield. He could barely see the steps up to Jack’s building, but that didn’t stop him from looking, half hoping, half terrified that Jack might appear in the doorway.
He shook his head hard, as if that could knock loose the ache sitting behind his ribs. The phone in the cup holder buzzed to life, Jack’s name lighting up the screen in harsh blue.
Robby stared at it.
Then he ignored it.
He shoved the gearshift into reverse, tires crunching against the wet asphalt. His chest felt tight again, like he’d swallowed something heavy and sharp. The rain had turned steady now, drumming against the roof, drowning out everything but the pounding in his own ears.
The phone buzzed again. And again.
“Stop,” he whispered, voice cracking in the empty car. He wanted it to stop. He wanted Jack to stop calling. To not care. To forget what happened between them, just like he was pretending to.