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Andrew moves in with Jack and Robby at the beginning of October.
It’s kind of a long story. He recounts it for his parole officer, requesting a transfer, and another time for Deran and Craig because they won’t stop pestering, and another for Baz, and another for Lena. Lena gets the most complete—or, at least, honest—version.
Smurf doesn’t get to hear any story. Andrew got sick of telling it, anyway.
Pittsburgh is too cold for Andrew’s liking—he'll miss the ocean, and the idea of snow makes him suspicious—but the house is nice enough. It’s a run-of-the-mill brick home close to the hospital Jack and Robby work at. Smurf would scoff at the mediocrity, but Andrew never cared for grandeur in the first place. There’s no pool, but he likes the overgrown garden out back. Jack says they might clear some space in the yard and install a skateboard ramp the next year.
Having Jack back is… strange. Like a dream where you're granted your heart's most dear desire. Andrew used to get these a lot when he was younger and missed his twin brother all the time.
Back when they were teens, Jack was always on about how he’d run away and join the Army. Jack and Smurf and her endless boyfriends fought viciously, shouting match after shouting match, but that didn't mean much. In their house, everyone fought. Andrew didn't expect anything serious to come out of it. Should have known. Jack was serious about everything. He cared about grown-up things, things that were Smurf’s domain. He wanted to know why they had to keep moving places as kids. He wanted to know exactly where their money was coming from, and what they were to do if Smurf, Manny, and Jake got caught.
He wanted Andrew to get tested for special ed—Andrew didn't speak to him for two whole days for that, the longest they'd ever gone without talking to each other as children, and then Andrew crawled into Jack’s bed, and Jack said sorry, that he was going to help Andrew study, and that he loved him.
Jack wanted Smurf to throw Billy out and get Julia help.
And then one day, when they were sixteen, Jack woke Andrew up to say goodbye. The mental image is still as sharp as a photograph: Jack in the middle of a dark bedroom, fully dressed, a packed duffel slung over his shoulder.
They weren’t to see each other again for two decades, until Andrew got mail while doing time for that botched bank robbery. The envelope, signed in a tight, measured hand, contained a letter and a photograph for proof.
Jack’s disappearance was, in a way, a betrayal. Jack had asked Andrew to go with him, but he had been asking for the impossible. Deciding between his twin, his other half, and the rest of his family was like choosing between his heart and the rest of his innards: no choice at all. Andrew stayed—not because he thought it better, but because walking away required courage, a certain ruthlessness to deal the severing blow yourself instead of taking one.
Andrew has always been good at taking blows. He was born a fighter; that’s what Smurf used to say.
And what about the others? What about Julia, who was always high and only ever getting worse? What about Craig and Deran, who were only little kids then?
Jack never wrote, never called. Smurf didn’t bother with a search; she was pissed off that Jack managed to have the last word. She didn’t think he’d have the guts, but Andrew should have known better.
Over time, he just figured it served them right. Jack was the clever twin, the only Cody who was ever going to amount to anything more than a criminal record, and he never got along with the rest of the family. Andrew had betrayed him, too—Jack had asked him to escape together, and Andrew had thrown it away, so he had no right to be upset when a second chance didn’t follow. It only made sense that Jack'd have wanted to slam the door closed and never look back. Jack used to say he’d change his name, too. Take his father’s, if he ever found out who he had been.
(Andrew has never met any Abbots in Oceanside. In the end, Jack admits he made the name up.)
Even resigned as he was, Andrew couldn't help a flash of white-hot fury at the letter. He could never help getting all worked up. Jack was a coward and a traitor, and he could fuck right off to his fairytale life with his college degree and his medals and his fucking husband; wasn’t that what he had always wanted? Jack didn't write much—a quick update on his life, a tentative question or two. He probably didn't mean to brag, but he sure sounded like it. Wanted to get it all out of the way at once, maybe, to spare himself another goodbye if any of it turned out to be a dealbreaker later.
Andrew wasn’t going to answer at first, but then everything was just so shitty. Prison was a nightmare; Julia was gone, chased away by Smurf, and Andrew was making up these stories about Cath and Lena, but they were both Baz’s, and Baz was never gonna let him have any of it. Jack wanted him enough to post the letter; that was something. Andrew read the stiff lines so many times he’d learned them by heart.
He composed a response. Jack wrote again, and again, and again. That’s the part of the story that’s just theirs, so Andrew didn’t tell any of the others what they talked about. It’s not like they cared all that much, or bothered to visit—so he felt justified keeping Jack a secret then. Smurf wouldn't have liked that they were talking. Felt pretty good, doing something she wouldn't have liked.
Before long, he wasn't just writing back to spite Smurf anymore, although his miniature secret rebellion still gave him a thrill. Above all else, though, he just wanted Jack back. Jack wrote that he wanted that, too. Letters turned into stilted, awkward calls; it wasn't like Andrew had anyone to save them for.
Then he got his parole. Home was dull as ever, except Smurf had Andrew’s room cleaned out. Baz’s new job had no part for him. It's like they hadn't been waiting for his return at all—not even a little bit.
Jack sent another stack of photographs and an address, hastily added in a nervous scrawl.
Andrew stuck around the house for a while, listless and confused. Deran was barely ever home, engrossed in some bar thing he wanted to set up all on his own to stick it to Smurf. Baz was annoyed at Andrew for scaring Cath, albeit he never meant to, and scaring Cath meant no seeing Lena much, either. Craig was busy being high. Smurf was never too busy, but her attention wasn’t much of a consolation. She’d have found the letters sooner or later, and Andrew didn’t feel like giving Jack’s pictures away.
Leaving then wasn't the same as leaving as a kid. Nobody wanted Andrew at home, and the grief of letting Jack go had never eased, so it wasn't as hard a choice as it seemed at first.
The flight to Pittsburgh took five hours. His belongings fit into a backpack. Jack helped work things out with his PO and everything, and met him at the airport, and just like that, they were two again.
They’re still making sense of the separation. Jack says he regrets not coming back for Andrew earlier. He says they might reach out to the others when the moment is right—to Deran, at least, whom Andrew kind of misses. That Jack and Robby have been talking about looking into Julia and her kid, too, to see what might be done, and that Jack is so fucking sorry it had to turn out this way. He might mean all that, too. He has a certain way of saying these things.
Andrew wishes Jack hadn't had to go away in the first place, but he’s not angry anymore. Being left behind still hurts, but he’d rather feel pain than any more anger.
They get along easy when he moves in. You’d think things would be awkward—they’re effectively strangers with good reasons to resent each other to the end of their days—but it’s like all these years never happened at all. Jack is still Jack, just bigger and older. Used to be scrawny, like a weasel. He still laughs the same, though, the skin around his eyes and nose wrinkling all funny. Getting to see it again makes Andrew feel the closest to happy he’s been in a long time.
Jack seems just as happy with their reunion. Andrew didn't think he would be. His new life really is picture-perfect: a career that won't culminate in getting shot by cops or put away for life; enough money to be comfortable without the luxury he grew up resenting; someone who loves him with no strings attached. Jack has everything. What would he need Andrew for?
Jack takes him to a room upstairs and says, Do what you want with it. Go wild. It’s yours for however long you want it. Andrew is not the wild-going kind, at least not when it comes to interior decorating, but he appreciates the sentiment.
Jack and Robby’s house is well-kept—they don't throw lavish parties, don't do drugs, and don't drink enough to stop caring that the place is turning into a health hazard. But they're both doctors, and doctors work long hours. It's never bad enough to make Andrew’s skin crawl, but it’s far from pristine.
At least that's something Andrew has control over.
Robby tries to talk Andrew out of cleaning, but Jack speaks with him, and he stops. Andrew knows he doesn't have to. He didn't have to at Smurf's, either—nobody ever really enjoyed his neat freak tendencies. It's the permission to continue he wants, not the permission to quit.
Jack says they might ask around later, pull a few strings to get Andrew a job so he's not trapped at the house all day. Andrew doesn't feel especially trapped, but he doesn't mind. He's not attached to the idea of breaking the law—money is nice, and he’s never had the opportunity to entertain the idea of going legit before, but he won't miss the rush too badly. It’s not worth going back to prison for. Jack promises that he and Robby are doing well for themselves, and they can look after Andrew fine. The job would be just to keep busy. Something to do with his hands—that doesn’t sound too bad.
Andrew would still cross the line—any line—to protect his family, but Jack and Robby don’t seem to need much protecting. Nobody really bothers them. They’re a respectable family, doctors and all. Andrew feels a little weird about the whole respectability thing, but nobody bothers him by association, either.
Jack talks about trying therapy, too, but Andrew isn't too keen. People who are paid to talk about everything wrong with you never help; they aren't family; they have no reason to care. All they want is to sneak into your head and rearrange everything in there. It’s not that the way it’s put together now works especially well, but Andrew hates the thought of a stranger rifling around, judging and writing things down into their mean little book. Being wanted by Jack helps. Not being pointed like a gun to hurt people helps. Having a room where everything is Army-neat—that’s what Jack calls it; Andrew wouldn’t know the first thing about the Army—and spotless, that helps too. Not some shrink.
If Jack insists, Andrew might reconsider, though—if only because he knows Jack won’t be putting crushed pills into his food behind his back. If he wants Andrew to go so bad, he’ll give it to him straight.
Well, that’s about the story. Big changes like that always leave him muddled. Andrew keeps going over it by himself, bit by bit.
None of it does much to explain how he ended up in Jack’s bed.
It’s wide and comfortable, more than enough space for two; the mattress firm, the pillows soft and inviting. The linens smell faintly of detergent—a clean scent that brings Andrew comfort—with something woodsy mixed in. Two matching aftershaves; Jack and Robby. The master bedroom bed.
Jack keeps the thermostat on high, but there’s still a hot water bottle in bed with them. Jack says it helps him relax when his leg is sore. The heat is seeping into the blankets, mixing with the warmth of their bodies and making Andrew sleepy.
They’re alone now. Robby is working his day shift, which means Jack and his undivided attention belong to Andrew.
"Probably shouldn't be doing this in the middle of the day," Jack hums, making no move to get up. His eyes are crinkling at the corners. That means he's only joking. Andrew cannot read most people, but he can always figure Jack out.
Andrew buries his face in Jack's shoulder and wraps his arm around him. He knows all about touch feeling weird and wrong, and being close to Jack isn't like that. Just feels like they're kids again.
They used to do this a lot as children, long past the age where it was considered acceptable, even for twins. Smurf alternated between indifference and amusement for a while, and then they grew into their teens, and it started getting on her nerves. She liked them better when they fought. Andrew didn’t mind having a tussle with Baz or Craig so much, even Deran was fair game when he was being a little shit, but he never touched Julia, and he never wanted to roughhouse with Jack.
Jack has an adult smell to him now—the remnant of the hospital clings on no matter how much he showers. It’s a clean scent, too: antiseptic and rubber gloves, and soap over that. Grounding.
"Feels good," Andrew mutters back, shifting closer. "Don't think your husband would approve, though."
Jack freezes for a second and then settles. "It's okay," he says softly. "He understands that we're twins and it's... a little different for us. He's not the jealous type." Admittedly, it's not just that they're twins. They both have problems—maybe that's why they're so clingy.
Andrew still hasn't made up his mind about Robby. He doesn't feel any particular way about his being a man—Deran dated guys, so why can’t Jack do the same? It makes sense for it to run in a family. Robby seems like a proper match, too—a department chief at a big hospital, so it’s not like Jack is slumming it. Or the other way around. Robby is even handsome, although Andrew probably wouldn’t know. Tall and broad, but not formidable-looking. An oversized teddy bear build, that’s what he looks like. Soft over natural bulk. Andrew could take him in a fight. That’s a comforting thought, even though he’d rather be hurt by Robby than hurt Jack’s person.
Robby and Andrew are still a little wary around each other. Taking stock. Andrew gets it—it's not every day your spouse drags home his crazy felon of a twin. If anything, Robby’s too fine with it. Andrew doesn't trust people who go out of their way to seem nice.
Jack seems happy with him, though. Andrew can't remember Jack ever seeming that happy when they lived at home, so that's got to mean something.
They’re serious about each other, too. Married thirteen years, that’s what Jack said. You have to be a real item to still be into each other after that long. Andrew hasn’t been around married couples much, and Baz and Cath weren’t like that, even at their most infatuated. They were all about attraction, never really affection; they wanted each other, and then they fought, and then they made up in bed. Robby fixes Jack’s tie for him when they have to go out dressed all fancy. Jack calls Robby on the phone when they're apart too long—he has a preternatural sense of when Robby might have a minute to answer while he's out working.
Andrew listens in on a few of those conversations. They talk about absolutely nothing important.
All in all, Andrew supposes Robby’s all right. But it’s nice to have Jack to himself for a little bit. He liked that about being twins as a kid—how much Jack was just his. He wasn’t allowed much else—no hobbies, no choices, no stuff Smurf didn't pick out—but being halves of a whole was indestructible. Even Smurf couldn’t steal that. She didn’t understand what to grasp for. You gotta be a twin to know.
Under the blanket, their legs tangle, and Jack suppresses a shudder when his stump makes contact with Andrew’s shin. Andrew doesn’t know why Jack worries; he wishes he had the words to explain how little he minds. He wishes he had the language to articulate a great many things, but words never come naturally. Even less so when they’re supposed to describe feelings.
Andrew tucks his head under Jack’s chin and exhales until there’s nothing left in his lungs, and everything feels a little floaty.
“All right?” Jack says above him. His voice is so soft that his breath barely makes Andrew’s curls flutter, although he’s speaking right into his hair.
They have the same hair, only Jack’s is greying faster. Doesn’t seem right, for him—with his happier life, plentiful with love—to go grey first, but maybe they dish out enough suffering upfront when you join the Army. They haven’t talked about the war much, but losing a piece of your body in some foreign shithole sounds fucked up. Jack was already a doctor then. He was probably just trying to help somebody when he got all messed up for his trouble.
It sounds like something that should have happened to Andrew, instead.
“Want me to read to you for a bit?” Jack murmurs.
Andrew makes a wordless noise for no, although the idea has its appeal for later, when he's not so drowsy. He remembers reading to Lena—he could never do the voices, just couldn’t figure out how, the cheerful little affairs of the characters steamrolled by his habitual monotone. She still asked him to do it every time Baz let them hang out.
Maybe he could see her again sometime. Jack and Robby could probably help arrange it. He’d apologise to Cath, too. He never wanted to scare her—he rarely does; intimidating others doesn’t feel good. There’s release in working things out with your fists, like draining a bruise under a crushed nail—blood spurting all over the place, and it helps with the pain. Making others afraid when you didn't mean to just feels like being despised.
Jack tangles his fingers in Andrew’s hair, stroking up and down, up and down. He remembers to keep the rhythm steady and predictable, and it makes Andrew warm inside to think that Jack would still want to touch him like that.
Jack's never been afraid of Andrew—not once. Not even during the first days and weeks after the reunion, when they were just relearning each other, and Andrew’s hair was still cropped prison-short. One of these days, Andrew might tell Jack about prison. Jack will understand.
Robby isn't afraid either. Not because he’s big—he has the good sense to know he’d make a lousy fighter. Andrew can always tell if someone is worth a damn in a brawl and if they think they are, which aren't the same thing. Robby is not the kinda guy who gets in your face, but he’s still not overly concerned by Andrew’s presence. Worried, maybe, but about the wrong things—whether Andrew will screw up his parole, and whether he should see a bunch of oddly named doctors, and whether Jack is making smart choices. Never about violence.
Andrew used to figure the smart choice Robby was getting at was Jack bundling him up and sending him back to Oceanside, but it’s been months, and Andrew is starting to think it means something else. Jack says so, too, and Jack’s the clever twin. If anyone’s worth trusting, that’d be Jack.
Neither awake nor asleep, buoyed by the feeling of Jack’s chest rising and falling under his cheek, Andrew drifts—eyes half-lidded, mind a lazy merry-go-round, spinning through every memory of sharing a bed with Jack when they were little. He felt so very safe then; cradled, hidden from the world. No one to fight, and nothing to fear.
A long-ago feeling, but he recognises it as it washes over him now.