Chapter Text
Robby padded quietly through the hallway, the walls lined with family photographs; one of an eight-year-old Frank perched proudly on top of a younger Robby’s shoulders at a Steelers game, both their grins stretched impossibly wide, Frank missing his front two teeth. It had been Frank’s first game, and Robby and Jack had always said it was that day that truly instilled the boy’s love of football.
Another showed a younger Jack and a six-year-old Samira, both their faces smeared with slime after a science experiment had gone spectacularly wrong. Robby remembered taking that photo, laughing hysterically behind the camera whilst Jack looked like he wanted to murder him, and also probably Samira. He remembered Jack trying to gently correct Samira moments before the pot exploded, when it had already been obvious she was doing something wrong. But even then, Samira had been so stubborn, insisting, “I’m six now, I know what I’m doing, Daddy.” She had always been that way, her way or no way, and it was both her greatest gift and her biggest downfall.
Another photograph captured Trinity, only last year, dressed in her skates, helmet, and team jersey. She had only been ten, but she had been playing an age group up, and the boys on the team had given her a hard time. Still, she had never let it bother her; she had been better than half the boys on the team. She was still better than half the boys on her team now, but the boys were getting bigger, and Trinity—confident, brash, and strong-minded as she was—was still an eleven-year-old girl up against boys a good head taller and considerably stronger. Robby found himself secretly glad that, starting next season, the teams would no longer be mixed and would instead split into boys and girls.
Then there was the one of Dennis, about eighteen months old, only a couple of months after they had adopted him. He was settled comfortably on Jack’s lap, poking curiously at Robby’s face with wide, fascinated eyes, while Robby and Jack looked down at him in awe, completely, utterly taken with their baby boy. It was hard to believe he was nine now, when it felt like only yesterday he had still been learning to talk—a skill he now used absolutely non-stop.
The last one on the wall was a photograph of the whole family, taken about a year ago. Jack stood in the middle with his arms wrapped tightly around Samira and Trinity’s shoulders, both Jack and Samira grinning brightly into the camera while Trinity stared on, unimpressed as ever. Frank stood beside them, fifteen then but already the same height as Jack—and now even taller, which he never let Jack forget. And then there was Robby, standing slightly to the side with Dennis balanced on his hip. He had been almost eight then, far too old for it by most standards, but Robby knew how quickly time slipped away, and so he and Jack made a point of holding their kids for as long as they possibly could.
Jack looked ridiculously handsome in the photo, as always, brighter, younger, and healthier than Robby remembered him being when he had first returned home from war around twenty years earlier. Back then, Jack had been in a dark place, struggling to come to terms with being an amputee. He had worked the night shift at the hospital and spent his days locked away in his house, not sleeping, or throwing himself into work with the SWAT team just to fill every possible moment of his time so that he never had to sit still, never had to think, never had to feel.
Now, Jack worked the day shift alongside Robby, and had done so ever since they had formally adopted both Frank and Samira ten years earlier. Robby had always known Jack was good with kids, had always known he wanted them, and their children had given Jack a new reason to live, a new sense of purpose that nothing else ever quite had.
And, apparently, a new reason to go grey. Which Jack definitely had.
And Robby wasn’t far behind.
Robby glanced at the clock, 9pm on Sunday. School tomorrow. They had a routine: one of them made sure the teenagers were getting ready for bed, and the other put the younger ones to bed. Trinity didn’t really need putting to bed anymore, not at eleven, but the habit was ingrained, and neither Robby nor Jack seemed particularly interested in breaking it.
Jack had taken the younger kids tonight, which meant Robby had drawn the short straw, the peril of the teenagers.
He knocked three times on Frank’s door. There was no answer, but he could hear the unmistakable sounds of a PlayStation game blaring from inside. With a quiet sigh, he pushed the door open.
Frank was sitting in his gaming chair in front of the TV, headphones on, completely oblivious to the world around him. Robby’s gaze shifted to the desk, where he immediately noticed a half-finished essay open on the laptop screen—an essay that, if he knew his son at all, was due tomorrow.
Of course it was.
Robby stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Frank still didn’t notice him, too immersed in whatever game he was playing, fingers flying over the controller, posture tense with concentration. It wasn’t until Robby moved directly behind him and reached down to pull one side of his headphones back that Frank reacted.
“PS5 off, Frankie,” Robby said calmly.
Frank jumped, nearly dropping the controller as he whipped around in his chair, eyes wide before narrowing into a glare. “Papa! Don’t just barge into my room! You ever heard of privacy?”
“Privacy?” Robby echoed, unimpressed. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Not a fan.” He tapped the headphones again for emphasis. “I mean it, everything off. It’s a school night. Is your homework done?”
Frank muttered something under his breath as he stood, dragging himself reluctantly out of the chair to turn off the PS5. Robby wasn’t entirely sure what he said, but he was fairly certain he caught a curse word in there somewhere. One raised eyebrow from Robby was enough to have Frank straightening slightly, his hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants.
“I don’t have any homework,” Frank said, far too quickly.
Robby didn’t even need to respond verbally. He just turned his head and looked pointedly at the half-written essay glowing accusingly from the laptop screen.
Frank groaned, loud, dramatic, and entirely over the top, his voice so much deeper now than it had been even a year ago. “God, fine, I have one essay, but it’s basically done.”
Robby folded his arms. “And what does ‘basically done’ mean?” he asked, his tone edging toward irritation now. “Because it’s 9pm on a school night, Frankie, and you’re on your PS5, so ‘basically done’ had better mean it’s finished.”
“I’ve got, like, one paragraph left, I swear, Papa!” Frank shot back, crossing his arms over his chest in full moody-teenager fashion. It was almost comical, really, how much he still looked like his seven-year-old self mid-sulk, just stretched taller, sharper. The baby softness in his face was gone now, replaced by defined cheekbones and a stronger jawline, and his dark hair was styled in that deliberately messy way kids seemed to like these days. But his eyes, bright, crystal blue, were exactly the same as they had always been.
Robby exhaled slowly through his nose, too tired to fully engage in the argument. He hadn’t been on shift today, that had been Jack, but that didn’t mean he’d had a restful day. He’d spent it ferrying kids all over the place: Trinity to hockey practice, Samira to a study group, Dennis out to the woodlands so he could hunt for spiders and take photos with his camera. It had been non-stop from morning until now, and his patience was wearing thin.
“Get it done, Frank. I mean it,” Robby said, his voice firm. “If your dad and I get one more email from any of your teachers telling us you haven’t handed in homework on time, then you’re taking a break from football. I don’t care what Coach says.”
That did it.
Frank’s mouth snapped shut immediately, the argument dying on his lips. For all his attitude, his priorities in life had remained remarkably consistent since starting high school: football, friends, food, and PlayStation, in that exact order.
Frank huffed, rolling his shoulders before finally nodding and dropping into his desk chair, pulling the laptop closer. “I might actually have about three paragraphs left,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, the fight gone. “But I know what I’m doing, so it’ll be done in an hour.”
“Good,” Robby said, reaching out to squeeze his son’s shoulder, solid and firm under his hand, built up from years of football training. “Bed after that, alright?”
Frank nodded, already turning his attention back to the screen. “Night, Papa.”
“Night, kid,” Robby replied.
He lingered for just a second longer, letting his gaze sweep around the room. It was a mess, as always. Clothes half on the floor, half draped over furniture, empty snack wrappers shoved into corners, a general chaos that seemed to follow teenage boys wherever they went.
Robby considered saying something about it.
Then decided he absolutely did not have the energy.
Instead, he just shook his head slightly, stepped back out into the hallway, and shut the door, firmly blocking the disaster zone from his mind, for tonight, at least.
The door opposite belonged to Samira’s room, and Robby already knew it would be spotless. He knocked once, and there was an immediate, sharp, “What?”
Robby rolled his eyes to himself. There had been a time when Samira would have thrown the door open wide for him and Jack, dressed in a princess gown two sizes too big, practically vibrating with excitement as she invited them in for a tea party. But Samira was fourteen now. She had started her sophomore year three months ago, and she was full of attitude. Worst of all, her stubbornness had only intensified, she was absolutely convinced she knew better than Robby and Jack about everything. And her siblings? She barely entertained their opinions at all.
Still, she also happened to be the smartest kid Robby had ever known. She had skipped a grade in middle school, too far ahead of her peers to stay where she was, and had started high school early. Now she was the youngest in her year. Robby knew it wasn’t easy for her, not academically, never academically, but socially. She had never made friends easily, not like Frank, who was a natural athlete—charming, relaxed, effortlessly likeable—or like Dennis, who was sweet and enthusiastic and had always managed to gather a small orbit of kids around him without even trying. Samira and Trinity reminded Robby of each other in that way: both lone wolves, both excelling far beyond their peers in what they loved, academics for Samira, hockey for Trinity.
Robby pushed the door open, and just as expected, Samira was sitting at her desk. The surface was covered in an organised chaos of open textbooks, neatly arranged sticky notes, a coffee mug, thankfully not containing coffee, because Jack had delivered a full fifteen-minute lecture about developing brains when he had caught their fourteen-year-old trying to pour herself one, and her laptop, glowing brightly in front of her.
“Bedtime, kiddo,” Robby said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You’ve been studying all day. Time to put it away.”
Samira didn’t even look up, her fingers flying across the keyboard with impressive speed. “In a bit. I’m just finishing an extra credit assignment.”
“Extra credit?” Robby repeated, amused. “How is there any more credit for you to get?”
The joke went completely unnoticed. Samira wasn’t listening, she was too locked into whatever she was doing, her focus absolute.
Robby sighed, pushing himself upright and stepping closer. He leaned over her, gently but firmly lifting the laptop out of her reach. He made sure to click save on the document, he wasn’t about to deal with a meltdown tonight, and then snapped it shut.
“Not ‘in a bit,’” he said, straightening again. “Now. Time to get ready for bed, young lady.”
Samira finally looked up, brown eyes flashing with irritation. “Papa! I literally need twenty more minutes! It’s not even ten yet!”
“Don’t care,” Robby replied lightly, though there was a clear edge of finality in his tone. He placed the laptop down on the desk for a moment, then immediately reconsidered and picked it back up. There was a very real chance she would reopen it the second he left and stay up half the night.
“Shower, teeth, bed,” Robby recited, the familiar mantra rolling off his tongue after years of repetition to four different children, all of whom had always been equally unimpressed by it. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Samira’s forehead. “Love you, Mira.”
Samira let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but she stood anyway, stepping forward to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head briefly against his chest. “Love you too, Papa,” she muttered, her voice softer now. “Even if you’re bossy.”
“Me? Bossy?” Robby scoffed, laughing. “Your dad is bossy. I’m the easy-going one.”
That only made Samira pull back and raise a perfectly arched eyebrow at him.
Robby smirked. Yeah, fair enough. Their kids had definitely ended up with two very bossy, overbearing, overprotective parents.
Samira stepped away from him and began tidying her desk, stacking books neatly and aligning her notes with precise movements. Robby watched her for a moment, a quiet fondness settling in his chest as he took in how grown-up she looked now, so far removed from the little girl who had once caused a science experiment to explode in the kitchen.
Then he left her to it.
Robby headed downstairs to the middle floor, where the master bedroom and the younger kids’ rooms were. He ducked into his and Jack’s bedroom first, opening the sock drawer and tucking Samira’s laptop safely inside. Hidden. Secure. Just in case she decided to sneak in later and retrieve it, something he absolutely would not put past her.
Closing the drawer, he stepped back into the hallway and moved toward Dennis’s room. Before he even reached the door, he could hear Dennis’s voice, high-pitched and animated, climbing even higher in pitch whenever he got particularly excited about whatever fact he was currently sharing.
Robby smiled to himself, pausing just outside the door.
Dennis’s newest obsession was spiders. Last week, it had been rivers. The week before that, the moon landing of Apollo 11. And the week before that… cemeteries, which had been a slightly concerning phase, even for Dennis.
He pushed the door open and saw exactly what he had expected.
Jack was sprawled across Dennis’s bed, one arm draped over his eyes, nodding along and making the appropriate hmm and oh sounds, a tired grin tugging at his lips. Dennis, dressed in his Avengers pyjamas, was sprawled across Jack’s chest, talking incessantly into his ear.
“What are you doing awake, young man? Bedtime was an hour ago,” Robby said, before raising an eyebrow at Jack. “You give up on bedtime, Abbot?”
“The kid never stops talking,” Jack moaned, though he was still smiling, dropping his arm from his eyes but keeping them firmly shut.
“Papa, I was telling Dad about the spiders I saw today and my new facts!” Dennis all but shouted, bouncing slightly on the bed. Jack’s arm automatically found his waist, even with his eyes closed, steadying him before he could topple backwards, military instincts always. Dennis, completely oblivious, kept chattering. “Papa, did you know you are never more than ten feet away from a spider? Ever. The Earth contains an average of one million spiders per acre of land!”
“I did know that one, you told me in the car, remember?” Robby said, recalling the very, very, very long conversation about spiders and how some types can make someone’s skin fall off in the car.
Dennis looked briefly put out, his expression flickering with disappointment, but it didn’t last long. His face lit up again almost immediately, clearly ready to launch into another fact. Robby stepped in before he could.
“It really is bedtime now, kiddo, and not just for you. For Dad too,” Robby added with a smirk, nodding at Jack. “Look at him. The poor man’s exhausted.”
Dennis turned his head, studying Jack critically. Jack remained sprawled on the bed, entirely unbothered by being inspected.
“Dad’s old.”
Jack cracked one eye open. “Old, am I?” he asked, faux-stern, pinching Dennis’s waist just enough to make him giggle.
“You are! You and Papa both are! Frankie said so. He said you’re 148, Dad, and that Papa is 151!” Dennis dissolved into giggles again, clearly delighted by the numbers, even if he didn’t fully grasp just how cheeky the statement was.
“Remind me to talk to your brother,” Jack muttered, groaning as he pushed himself upright. He took a second before standing, moving more carefully now. Robby knew that after lying down for a while, his leg tended to stiffen, the prosthetic becoming uncomfortable until he adjusted again.
Dennis’s gaze dropped instantly, his wide eyes locking onto Jack’s prosthetic where his cargos had ridden up slightly. The fascination was as strong as ever. Dennis had been obsessed with it since he was old enough to understand what it was, full of questions, endless curiosity. Jack had always indulged him, answering everything, sharing stories about learning to use it. He hadn’t told Dennis exactly how he’d lost his leg yet, though, and Robby was quietly grateful for that. Some stories could wait a few more years.
Jack stretched his arms above his head with a quiet yawn, catching Dennis staring and smirking slightly as he reached out to ruffle his hair. “No more questions or facts tonight, spider-boy. It’s bedtime. Your talking box needs a rest.”
“It’s called a voice box, Dad,” Dennis corrected immediately, rolling his eyes in a way that had clearly been learned from his older siblings.
“Oh, is it?” Jack asked, feigning exaggerated surprise as he glanced at Robby. “Did you know this? How have we been doctors for decades and never realised it was called a voice box?”
“I think you’ll find, Doctor Dennis,” Robby said, stepping forward to sit on the edge of the bed as he pulled the covers back, “the scientific term is the larynx.”
“The larynx?” Dennis repeated, eyes widening again, the way they always did when he learned something new.
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” Robby promised gently. He reached over to switch on the nightlight, the soft glow filling the room, before leaning down to press a kiss to Dennis’s forehead. “Night, baby.”
Dennis snuggled down under the covers almost immediately, the day finally catching up with him.
Jack leaned in next, pressing kisses to both of Dennis’s cheeks, then his nose, then his forehead, drawing soft, sleepy giggles from the little boy. “Night, kiddo,” he whispered, ruffling his hair one last time.
Robby slipped an arm around Jack’s shoulders as they stepped out into the hallway. It was instinctive, affection, habit, but also something more practical, in case Jack needed the support after a long day on his prosthetic.
Jack leaned into him without hesitation.
Robby didn’t comment on it. He just tightened his grip slightly.
“Everything alright with Frankie and Mira?” Jack asked quietly as they made their way toward Trinity’s room.
“Frankie’s still writing an assignment that’s due tomorrow,” Robby replied. “And Samira was doing extra credit work. Her laptop’s in our room.”
Jack hummed softly.
Business as usual.
Trinity’s bedroom door was shut, as it usually was. A sign she had made about a month ago was taped to it, written in bright pink marker pen.
Feminists only!
Jack knocked on the door, and a second later they heard, “You can come in, you’re both feminists, you said so!”
They smirked at each other before pushing the door open.
Trinity’s room was exactly what it always was: both an absolute mess and somehow very organised at the same time. Her hockey medals and trophies were lined up perfectly on the shelf, polished and symmetrical, but her clothes were scattered all over the floor like she’d just given up halfway through tidying.
“Bedtime, Trin,” Jack said. He looked like he was considering sitting on the bed, but clearly thought better of it, leaning back against the closet instead, probably realising that if he sat down, getting back up again would be far more effort than it was worth.
“Okay, I’m tired anyway,” Trinity replied easily. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrapbooking photos she had printed out of the Pittsburgh Penguins women’s team, carefully arranging them across the page.
She was, without question, both their easiest child and their most difficult, sometimes within the exact same minute.
“You want a story?” Robby asked, stepping forward to gently take the scrapbook from her hands and place it on the shelf beside her trophies, careful not to disturb any of the loose photos. “Bit later tonight, but your little brother was talking your dad’s ear off again, so he missed his.”
“I don’t need a story, Papa. I’m eleven,” Trinity said, her tone dripping with superiority.
“Oh, we’re sorry, your highness,” Jack teased. “Such an old lady these days.”
Trinity rolled her eyes, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up herself.
Robby and Jack stepped forward together, ready to press their usual goodnight kisses to her forehead, the same routine they had followed every single night since the day they first brought her home.
But before they could, Trinity looked between them, her expression shifting as her eyes landed on Robby.
“Papa, why do people call you Robby if your name is Michael?”
Robby blinked, caught completely off guard by the sudden question. No one had ever really asked him that before. People had just accepted it. They had never questioned why he introduced himself as Dr Robby.
The truth was simple, he had heard people butcher his last name too many times, and it had just been easier this way.
He glanced at Jack, who was already smirking, clearly thrilled not to be the one under interrogation for once.
Robby exhaled quietly and decided to go with honesty. Trinity was eleven now, and, frankly, far smarter than he had ever been at her age.
“Because when you’re a doctor, people tend to call you by your last name,” he explained, “and Robinavitch can be difficult for some people to pronounce. So, Robby sort of became a nickname.”
Trinity frowned immediately.
“It’s not a very good nickname,” she said bluntly. “And it’s not a hard name to pronounce at all.” She said it slowly and clearly, like she was demonstrating something incredibly obvious. “Robinavitch.”
She looked between them both like they were the most ridiculous people she had ever encountered.
“It’s racist, Papa,” she added matter-of-factly. “You having to say your name is Robby so people can pronounce it is racist. And dumb. We let white men rule this world.”
Then she side-eyed Jack.
“Dad, you call Papa that too. Why are you racist to your own husband?”
Jack spluttered immediately, eyes going wide as he looked at Robby and then back at their daughter. “I am not racist!” he said, horrified. “Your papa told me to call him that when I first met him, I call him that at work!”
His eyebrows had drawn together, and he had started pacing slightly, which was always a clear sign he was getting worked up.
“It’s a nickname, sweetheart,” he added, trying to regain some composure. “That’s all it is.”
Jack shot Robby a look, clearly expecting backup.
Robby should have backed him up. It was a serious topic.
But it was also, unfortunately, hilarious.
And it was nearly ten o’clock.
So instead, Robby leaned down and pressed a kiss to Trinity’s forehead.
“Night, sweetheart,” he said lightly. “Thanks for having my back against my husband.”
Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes, but the look he shot Robby promised payback later.
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Trinity’s bedside table so he could lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead too. When he pulled back, he narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Just so you know,” he said, pinching her cheek, “I am not racist. Racism is a very serious topic.”
Trinity nodded, completely unfazed by his tone. “I know,” she said. “That’s why I was calling it out.”
She settled back into her pillow.
“Night, Michael. Night, Jack.”
Robby and Jack both froze.
Then they slowly looked at each other, and then back down at their daughter.
Apparently, tonight she had decided to be their most difficult child.
Which was really saying something.
“Michael and Jack?” Robby repeated, somewhere between exasperated and amused. “Since when are you on a first-name basis with us, Trinity?”
“You call me by my first name,” Trinity shot back immediately.
Robby opened his mouth to argue, but Jack shook his head slightly.
Robby exhaled, shoulders dropping in defeat. It was late. They were tired. And their sixth grader was far too clever for them both.
“Try that again tomorrow, Trin,” Jack warned, though he was clearly fighting a grin. “When I’m not as tired, and see what happens.”
Trinity smirked back at him.
Jack winked.
The next morning came far sooner than Robby would have liked. He and Jack were both on shift, which meant Frank had to drive himself and Samira to school, Jack needed to drop Trinity off at the middle school, and Robby had to take Dennis to the elementary school.
“Frankie! Get down here! You need to leave in ten minutes!” Robby called up the stairs.
Samira was already at the kitchen counter, books spread out in front of her despite the fact she’d only be sitting there for less than half an hour, and was supposed to be eating breakfast.
Dennis was spooning cereal into his mouth, perfectly content as he hummed to himself.
Trinity was scraping peanut butter off her toast because, apparently, Jack had put too much on it, despite the fact he made it that way for her every single morning.
“Eat, Samira,” Jack said, or rather, ordered, his eyes dropping to the untouched toast in front of their oldest daughter.
“Not hungry,” Samira replied distractedly, not looking up from her book.
Jack reached over and pulled the book clean out of her hands, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask if you’re hungry. I’m telling you to eat. You’re a clever girl, you know how important breakfast is.”
“I hate toast,” Samira snapped, immediately reaching to grab her book back. Jack held it just out of reach.
“You really want to argue with me, Mira?” Jack asked evenly.
Samira glared at him.
Jack glared right back.
Robby looked between them, silently begging one of them to just give in. Jack and Samira’s stubbornness was legendary in their family—their arguments could last for days if left unchecked.
Robby still remembered the time Jack had told a five-year-old Samira she couldn’t have a popsicle until she said thank you. She had insisted she’d already said please, so she didn’t need to say thank you as well. Jack had held the popsicle out, refusing to hand it over until he got the magic word.
The ice lolly had melted down to almost nothing, sticky liquid dripping down Jack’s arm and onto the floor before Samira had finally, finally caved, only to be handed the tiniest remaining sliver on the stick.
Up until now, Jack had always won. He was the parent, and Samira had eventually given in.
But she was older now, fiercely independent, and probably already smarter than Jack.
Robby let out a quiet breath of relief when Samira finally sighed and snatched up the toast. “You’re so annoying, Dad.”
“So are you, sweetheart,” Jack replied evenly, ruffling her hair.
Trinity and Dennis didn’t even glance up, completely used to breakfast arguments by now.
Frank walked in just in time to grab the fresh round of toast from the toaster, batting Robby’s hand away with a smirk when he reached for a slice.
“Too slow, old man,” Frank taunted, planting himself beside Robby and very obviously sizing himself up next to him, the same ritual he’d performed nearly every morning for the past few months.
“Still a couple of inches to go, kid,” Robby said, amused, looking down at him from his six-foot-one height. Though, admittedly, Frank really wasn’t far off anymore. He had turned sixteen a couple of months ago and had hit a serious growth spurt.
“Whatever. I’m basically hitting the six-foot mark already,” Frank said, shrugging. “Guess I’m lucky to be adopted so I didn’t inherit Dad’s genes.”
He squeezed past Jack to grab juice from the fridge, and because he was an obnoxious, arrogant little brat, he patted Jack on the head like he was a dog.
“How’s the weather down there, Dad?”
Robby smirked, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t tease your father about his height, young man. You’d do well to remember he was an army ranger for a decade and could easily kick your ass.”
Frank scoffed, leaning back against the counter. “I’m on the football team. He’s like five-nine, he’s missing half a leg, and he’s forty-eight,” he said, before flashing Jack a grin. “No offence, Dad.”
“No offence taken, Frankie,” Jack replied dryly.
Then, before anyone could react, he hooked an arm around Frank’s neck, pulling him into a loose headlock and ruffling his hair.
“You were saying something about being able to kick my ass?” Jack teased, laughter breaking through as Frank tried, and failed, to shove him off. “Oh dear, your precious hair is getting all messy.”
“I’ll save you, Frankie!” Dennis shouted, launching himself at Jack’s back.
Jack let out an exaggerated groan, staggering dramatically. “Oh no, there’s a monkey on my back! He’s going to overpower me!”
He released Frank and reached back, grabbing Dennis around the waist and lifting him upside down.
“I’ve caught a monkey!” Jack declared, fingers skating across Dennis’s belly.
Dennis dissolved into high-pitched hysterics.
Samira and Trinity ignored the chaos completely, as usual.
Frank pulled out his phone, flipping the camera to fix his hair with quick, practiced movements, though Robby didn’t see the point, considering Frank’s whole aesthetic was effortlessly perfect.
“You’ve still got it, old man,” Frank said, smirking at Jack.
Jack grinned, flipping Dennis upright again and setting him back in his chair. “And don’t you forget it, kid.”
He reached over and deliberately messed up Frank’s hair again.
“Dad!” Frank groaned, collapsing onto the stool next to Samira, shoving her book aside so he could lean on the table.
“You need to get a life, Mira,” Frank said, flicking through her biology book, college level. “These books are your only friends. It’s sad, truly.”
“Watch it, young man,” Robby and Jack said at the exact same time.
They both paused, glanced at each other, and nodded slightly, still perfectly in sync.
Frank held his hands up in surrender, stuffing an entire slice of toast into his mouth.
“Michael, Jack, who’s picking me up from school today?” Trinity asked, looking between them.
Robby tipped his head back, searching the heavens for patience.
Brilliant. First-name basis was apparently here to stay.
“Who’s Michael?” Dennis asked, frowning as he looked around the room like a mysterious stranger might suddenly appear.
Robby was fairly certain he heard Jack mutter not this again.
“Papa’s Michael,” Trinity said casually, finally deciding she had scraped enough peanut butter off her toast and taking a bite.
Dennis looked up at Robby with wide, earnest eyes. “Your name is Michael? But Dad calls you Robby.”
“Because Dad’s a racist.”
The kitchen fell silent.
And then chaos erupted.
Frank choked on his toast, trying, and failing, not to laugh before completely losing it. Robby couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing too. Samira gasped like she had the day Frank told her Santa wasn’t real.
And Jack—
Jack looked murderous.
“Trinity Elena Abbot-Robinavitch, do not tell people I’m a racist!”
“Dad is not a racist!” Samira snapped, before narrowing her eyes slightly at Jack. “You’re not… are you, Dad?”
Jack looked like he wished he was back at war.
“Of course I am not racist!”
“You’re a boomer, and boomers are racist,” Samira said suspiciously.
“I am not a boomer!” Jack fired back. “I am Gen X! Your papa and I are both Gen X! We have told you that so many times, Samira, it is completely inaccurate to call us boomers. We’re in our late forties and early fifties, and if anyone is a boomer, it’s your papa, he’s older.”
He dragged a hand through his greying curls, which looked like they might turn even greyer on the spot.
Trinity, apparently bored of the generational debate, poked a finger into Jack’s chest.
“But you are a racist, Dad. You don’t even bother pronouncing your own husband’s surname, you just give him a nickname to make it easier for you. A pastey, white man.”
Robby stared at her, slightly dazed. When did their daughter become so damn woke and socially aware?
A pastey, white man. Well, he’s heard Jack called worse. He’s called Jack worse.
“What’s a racist?” Dennis asked, his cereal entirely forgotten now that the argument had taken centre stage.
“I swear, all of you are grounded,” Jack snapped, looking more exhausted than Robby had ever seen him.
Robby was just about to take pity on him—
When Frank, of course, made it worse.
“Prove it then, Dad,” he said with a grin. “Pronounce Robinavitch.”
Jack scowled at him. “This is absolutely ridiculous.”
And it was ridiculous.
Robby had heard Jack say Robinavitch correctly more times than he could count. The most important day being their wedding ceremony. Jack was the furthest thing from racist, the man had marched ten miles for Black Lives Matter on a prosthetic leg.
But when Jack said, “Fine. Robinavitch,”
He stumbled.
And said it wrong.
Trinity shot to her feet on her chair, triumphant. “I told you he was a racist! I knew it!”
“Everyone in the cars, now!” Jack snapped, his face flushed. “Or you are all grounded!”
The kids bolted, laughter echoing through the house, Frank, Samira, and Trinity because they understood exactly what had just happened.
Dennis because everyone else was laughing and Jack looked like he might combust.
Jack turned slowly to Robby, pointing a finger at him.
“Not a word.”
“Not even Robinavitch?” Robby asked innocently.
Jack grabbed him and kissed him hard.
“I’m divorcing you,” Jack muttered against his lips, pulling back.
Then, just to prove a point—
“Robinavitch.”
Perfectly pronounced. He winked.
Robby watched him walk to the cars, ready to shepherd their kids, and couldn’t help but think, Damn Jack Abbot has still got it.