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Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre is 12 floors of concrete and glass and claustrophobic desperation. It’s fair, Jack thinks, to swim to the surface every once and a while. Getting some air, as they say. Up on the roof the breeze feels kinder, somehow, without the tunnel-making downwash to push and suck at the grit and debris.
It’s been a treading water kind of morning at the Pitt– No mass casualties, nothing his team couldn’t handle, just the same old cycles of tragedy lapping at their doors. Half of the night shift has gone home already to their cereal dinners and blackout curtains, but Jack’s always been the loitering type.
In any case, there are some perks to dragging his feet.
Jack’s sharing the view with a couple of pigeons when he hears the rooftop access door unlatch from behind him. He shifts his weight, a vague attempt at dislodging the warm knot of tension that settles in his chest at familiar footsteps. His hands tighten against the metal guardrail. The birds disperse, and he watches them go, disappearing over the ledge.
“Morning, Jack.”
“Hey.” Jack doesn’t turn, but he feels the corner of his mouth twitch, involuntary. In his periphery, he sees Robby lean his forearms up against the railing, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway to his elbows. His hands wring together unconsciously, and Jack’s eyes catch briefly on the flexing of his knuckles. Jesus, he’s tired.
He turns his back on the Pittsburgh skyline with a sigh, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning back against the guardrail. He succumbs to instinct, tilting his head in Robby’s direction. He can’t help it, can never help it, and especially not like this– with the morning light settling bright across his cheekbones, the swoop of his nose.
Robby shoots a glance his way, eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Decent shift?” he asks, nudging at Jack’s elbow. “The board didn’t look half bad.”
Jack scoffs, tearing his eyes away and upwards. The sky is a crisp kind of blue. “Don’t say that, man, you know not to say shit like that.” He’s only half joking, but he meets Robby’s gaze again in time to watch him chuckle, ducking his head. He lets himself look.
It’s been a long couple weeks of weird, staggered hours that wouldn’t have seemed half as draining if it hadn’t been Robby’s shifts he’d been working parallel to. They’d barely seen that much of each other for handoffs, let alone gotten dinner or caught a game together all month. Jack’s missed him, damnit. He’ll let himself linger.
“So you- you’ve got a couple days off after tomorrow,” Robby notes, an affected nonchalance. He glances at Jack briefly, then back towards the streets below.
“Yup.”
“Monday to Thursday’s a decent stretch." He scratches his beard. “Wanna come over?”
Jack does, Jesus he does, but- “You’re on until Friday, Robby, I checked yesterday.” Which is, you know, probably a little revealing, but Robby folded first.
“No I, uh, switched with Shen, actually. I’m off for three days after Tuesday.”
“You did, huh? Any reason in particular?” Jack teases, pleasantly surprised and delighting in the rosy blush staining his friend’s cheeks. He knows that his ribbing will only fluster the man more, but he can’t help it. It’s been a long night. A long month.
Robby scrubs one hand over his reddened face and pushes away from the guardrail. “Come on, asshole, run me through the handover and you can get out of here.”
Jack laughs and follows him towards the stairs, a pace behind. He stops him as he’s opening the door with a hand on his elbow. “I’ll meet you after your shift Monday- we can get takeout and go to yours.”
Robby’s mouth twists in one of those pleased little smiles of his. “You gonna walk me home? Carry my books, too?”
“You know it, honey.” Jack pushes him towards the stairwell, his hand maybe lingering a little too long on the broad expanse of his back, warm through the hoodie. His chest swims with a pleasant buoyancy all the way home.
True to his word, Monday evening finds Jack back in the ER, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans and craning his neck for Robby. He figured he’d meet him at central where his friend usually capped off his ships with some charting, but the guy is nowhere to be found. Jack knows from experience that if he starts poking around in exam rooms he’s more than likely to get dragged in to consult, and he has a plan for this evening that does not involve overtime pay.
Even after sleeping clear through ‘till the afternoon, Jack still feels a kind of bone deep weariness that is as much emotional as it is physical. All he wants is to find Robby and get the hell out of dodge.
Jack gestures for the attention of a nearby med-student hunched over a monitor and looking bored out of his mind. “Hey, you, have you seen Robby?” The kid startles a bit and straightens his posture, and Jack suppresses a smile.
“Uh, yeah- he was in North four a couple of minutes ago.”
“Thanks kid,” Jack taps the desk in thanks and heads off in that direction, unsurprised. As much as he wishes he could be out of here already, he’s familiar with Robby’s uncanny ability to get wrapped up in cases. Jack dragging him out of work is not actually that uncommon for the two of them.
Sure enough, Jack finds Robby where the lanky med-student directed him, overseeing Doctor King who appears midway through a lumbar puncture. Robby looks up when he enters, expression crinkling into an exhausted smile. It’s always an ego boost, the way Robby’s body seems to greet him unconsciously. The line of his shoulders relaxes and he takes an immediate step away from the patient and towards Jack.
King looks up as well, also smiling. “Oh, hi Dr. Abbot!” Jack’s willing to bet that if she didn’t have her hands full she’d be waving.
“Dr. King,” Jack nods, “Mind if I steal Robby from you?”
King nods, turning her attention back to the work at hand. “I’m just wrapping up here. I can send the fluid up to the lab myself, Dr. Robby, not a problem.”
Jumping in before Robby can protest, Jack nods and replies, “Great, make sure to follow up with Dr. Shen about the results, okay?” He steps forward to grab Robby’s shoulder, tugging lightly to direct him out the door. He still looks like he wants to protest, maybe to offer to stick around for continuity of care or something equally bullheaded, so Jack just throws a salute King’s way and marches them both out of the exam room.
Robby sighs, longsuffering, but leans into the hand Jack’s got on his shoulder so he counts it as a win. “Relax man, King’s an R2, I’m sure she’s done like, fifty spinal taps by now.”
“Yeah, I know,” Robby allows. It’s the kind of amicability bred from a long day and the relief of a shift closing out in relative peace. Jack smiles to himself as he walks with Robby to fetch his backpack, pleased.
They pass by central again, and Ellis catches Jack’s eye above her monitor. She raises an eyebrow in Robby’s direction with a smug little grin, and Jack shoots her the middle finger. Business as usual.
The cool night air greets them like an old friend, and Jack watches out of the corner of his eye the way Robby’s posture unwinds the further they get from the hospital. His gait morphs from an authoritative stride to something tired and shuffling. Jack is seized, as he so often is, with the overwhelming urge to tuck him into his bed.
“I ordered us some dinner from Max’s Tavern, by the way, so we should take the long way ‘round to pick that up.” Jack glances sidelong at Robby, then, so that he can watch as a smile breaks across his handsome face.
“Ooohoho!” Robby hoots, clasping his hands together, “Did you ask for stuffed pretzels?”
“Man, of course I asked for stuffed pretzels,” Jack responds, mock-scandalized.
At the promise of food, Robby quickens his pace just slightly. He ducks in a bit closer, letting their shoulders brush companionably as they walk. Robby's smiling, humming a happy little nonsense tune to himself, visibly lost in thought. Jack is very, very fond of him.
At last, arms laden with warm, delicious smelling takeout, the pair clamour into the foyer of Robby’s charming brownstone townhouse with twin sighs of relief. Jack, who is mid-rant about the dismal ongoing construction in his neighborhood, leads the way into Robby’s kitchen.
“...as if we need more fuckin’ condos anyways!” He punctuates his point by dropping the food dramatically onto the counter before spinning to collect a couple of plates. After so many years of friendship, Robby’s cupboard layout is as familiar as his own.
Jack glances up at Robby as he plates their dinners– hearty sandwiches and soft, cheesy pretzels– to see him leaning against the counter, watching him with a faraway half-smile.
“Hey, Major Tom, you even listenin’ to me?”
“Hm? Uhh… yeah, man,” Robby says sheepishly, a hand coming up to scratch at his neck in a familiar tick. “Loud drilling noises. The housing crisis. I gottcha.”
Jack smiles, affectionate despite himself. “A-plus, chief. C’mon, let’s eat before this gets cold.”
They amble over to the big L-shaped couch, where Robby stretches out with a groan, resting his plate on his lap and digging into his meal immediately. Jack grabs the television remote, shuffling through the saved channels briefly before landing on something that looks vaguely 90s. An old X-Files episode, maybe. He detaches his prosthetic, rubbing over the residual limb with practiced ease before settling into his own corner, content.
They eat their food in comfortable silence, Jack breaking every so often to crack a half-assed quip to make Robby’s eyes crinkle, his mouth twitch. In the dark of the living room, illuminated only by the T.V. and a single warm lamp, Robby looks impossibly soft. His hair, tousled from a day of running his hands through it, sticks up in a delightful mess of angles, and his dark brown eyes are unfocused and rimmed with exhaustion.
Jack wishes he could be closer, wishes he could tuck himself into his friend’s side and rub his cheek along the broad curve of his shoulder.
“Jack.”
Jack’s gaze shoots up from where it was tracing a thoughtful trail along the place where Robby’s beard gives way to the delicate skin of his throat. Shit.
“Mike.”
Robby rubs his neck self-consciously, as if Jack’s eyes had left a phantom itch. He leans forward, placing his plate on the coffee table. Jack mimics him, heartrate ticking up a notch. The air between them suddenly feels too thick, and he feels sweat prickle at his palms.
“Brother, has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a staring problem?”
Jack swallows. “Yeah, once or twice.”
Robby chuckles, and it sounds off. Strained.
“Yeah,” he meets Jack’s eyes for a second, before looking away. “No kidding.”
“Sorry,” Jack says, and it’s weak and more gravely than he intends it to be. He clears his throat, awkward, suddenly very unsure of how they got here and how the hell he’s gonna talk them out of it.
He looks at his hands, rubs them over his knees. He wishes he had both legs on, that he could unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He can tell his ears have gone a bright, hot red, and he feels horribly, humiliatingly transparent.
“No, don’t-” Robby lurches forwards, and Jack sees him extend a hand towards him in his periphery. “I didn’t mean- I’m not upset, Jack, I’m just. I’m curious, I guess.”
Jack raises his head, looks to where Robby’s hand is hovering awkwardly in the space between them. Traces the gesture up to his face, which is open and bleeding with sincerity. Those goddamn eyes of his are going to be the death of him.
“Curious,” Jack repeats, hesitant.
“You look like you-” Robby starts, before cutting himself off sharply. His brows knot together and his hand drops to rest on the cushion between them. He tries again, “You look like you want something, man.”
There’s nothing Jack can say, really, in his defense. He’s been made. Caught– obvious– and screwed. His throat is too tight to do anything but nod. It’s true. It’s maybe the most true thing about him these days– the wanting.
Jack screws his eyes shut and turns his face away. It’s what he should have done in the first place– what he should have been doing this whole goddamn time. He takes big, deep breaths, and counts to ten nice and slow in his head.
He doesn’t see when Robby shuffles closer, is too fuzzy with anxiety to notice the way the couch dips. The hand on his jaw is shocking enough, though, and his eyes fly open when his head is turned gently back in Robby’s direction.
“Jack,” Robby breathes, and he’s close enough that Jack can feel it, warm on his chin, on his lips. “Whatever you want, Jack. Whatever you want.”
Jack is helpless to lean in, to close those last couple of inches between them. Robby said he could. Whatever he wants, he said. Jesus Christ.
Their lips brush hesitantly, unbelievably. Jack pauses, waiting for rejection, giving Robby time to push him away. He doesn’t– just lets out a soft, shaky rush of air– so Jack kisses him again, for real this time.
Robby is warm and solid where Jack reaches to grab his shoulders, and his mouth is soft and wet and perfect. He tastes like salt and coffee underneath that, and like something implacable that Jack realizes must just be Robby, and he feels his stomach drop to his knees.
They’re both out of breath when they part, ridiculous for men of their age.
“Holy shit,” Robby laughs, breathless, and ducks in to kiss him again, again, until they're both grinning too hard to continue.
Jack’s hands are shaking slightly when he raises them to rub over Robby’s beard, cupping cheeks that have turned a hectic, charming red. “Whatever I want, huh?”
Robby rolls his eyes, pushing forward until Jack is resting against the armrest and he’s bracketing his face with his forearms. He’s everywhere, surrounding him, and Jack is dizzy with it. His cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Yeah, Jack, anything. I should’ve- I thought you knew that.”
Jack leans back, shaking his head in disbelief.
He holds this big, sweet man between his palms; marvels at him. Traces the paths time have etched, the light freckles dusting his cheeks.
Those big soulful eyes, open and warm and staring right back.