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Summary
Robby looks at him with a torn expression, eyes bloodshot, desperate, like a kid trying his damn best to be brave after scraping his knee.
“Right,” Jack says, and like that, with his tone, the expression hardens, extinguishes, as expected, but he persists. “You need to be monitored for that length of time. If you insist on discharging yourself, then you know that’s what needs to be done.”
“Yeah? Who’s doing the monitoring?”
“Cute,” Jack says at Robby’s playing dumb. “Who d’you think?”