Chapter Text
They were three months into their situationship. It wasn’t some rancorous, illicit affair. In fact, they hadn’t done more than a quick makeout session here and there.
When Robby had first arrived to PTMC, he didn’t have an opinion on Jack. How could he? He had been on medical leave for Robby’s first several weeks.
He had heard through the grapevine, Dana, that he was strict, ex-army, a lone wolf. The residents he talked to all said similar sentiments. Good mentor. Honest. Intense. Talks to himself a lot.
So when Robby walked into a trauma room and was met with his steely green eyes, just barely over his surgical mask, and hands literally dripping blood, he didn’t know what to think.
“What the hell are you doing?” Robby rushed to pull on his own PPE. He struggled with his sterile gloves as Jack disregarded him.
“Crushed pelvis. I initiated a massive transfusion protocol.”
Robby grabbed the ultrasound. “Negative EFAST. Retroperitoneal bleeding. He needs to be sedated.”
“I only have two hands.” Jack looked up at him expectantly.
“You didn’t happen to use one of those hands to page surgery, did you?” Robby used his back to call for reinforcements.
“I’ve been busy. You got a better idea to keep him alive until then? He is still hypotensive after the first round of MTP.”
“Crack the chest. We can cross-clamp the aorta—”
“You want to kill your patient on your first day, Dr. Robinavitch?”
“It’s actually my third week, which you would know if you were ever here, Dr. Abbot.”
The incoming staff shared looks between them, silently.
Jack shook his head in disbelief. A flash of something unreadable crossed his eyes before he returned to Robby’s gaze. “Pre-peritoneal packing. Simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack around and behind the bladder.”
The staff waited expectantly for Robby’s go-ahead.
“You heard, Dr. Abbot. Do it.”
+
Robby and Jack had developed a friendship after that. Sort of.
Jack would maybe grab a beer with him after work. Or he’d walk with him in the mornings. They never truly hung out outside of work.
Not until Jack’s wife died.
He had taken the hospital’s pathetic excuse for bereavement, three days. He had worked one shift, where he left early. Then he took a leave of absence for two weeks.
It was halfway through the first week that Robby had discovered how he was spending his time. Drowning his sorrows in the bottle.
Robby stood dumbly at the front door with a fruit basket when Jack opened the door. He was swaying. The leg looked worst for wear.
“What are you doing here?”
“I brought you real food. Well, fruit.”
Jack had let him in. Robby took in the state of the trash and garbage, the smashed glass and broken plates. He hadn’t said anything and just grabbed a trash bag from under the sink.
He sat with Jack for a while. After Jack’s fourth beer, Robby pled his case. But it fell on deaf ears. Jack’s hands were twitching, his eyes were closed but they were moving under the lids. His mouth kept moving, like he was talking but no sound came out. It was like he was having a million different conversations.
By the fifth beer, Robby was done playing around. He pulled his own bottle from the case.
“I’ll match you, beer for beer.” Robby chugged his first one. He had to catch up after all.
It was only when he twisted the cap to the second one that Jack’s hand shot out. “You made your point. You have to work tomorrow. I’ll stop.”
His voice was slurred. His movements slow.
Robby half carried him to his bed. While Jack slept, Robby started cleaning out the fridge. He took out the trash.
It was only once the dishwasher was running that he peeked into the closed room. It was clearly a home office. Nice desk, large bookshelf, decorated by someone with more taste than Jack.
He looked at the pictures on the walls. The memories. The army awards in their display cases. There was a small plastic dinosaur that was on one of the lower shelves.
Robby scanned the spines of the books lined neatly and tightly along the shelf. He was confused at first, the books were not in alphabetical order. Until he realized they were organized like a library.
Fiction was by author’s last name. Nonfiction by what he assumed was the Dewey decimal system.
Dana was right, Jack was almost obsessively organized.
A Tale of Two Cities. Pet Cemetery. Housemaid. War and Peace.
He went down to the nonfiction.
The Things They Carried. Blackhawk Down. The New England Journal of Medicine. Healing the Fragmented Selves of Trauma Survivors. When Rabbits Howl.
On the lowest shelf was a stack of coloring books, crayons, plastic toys. He tried to recall if Jack had any nieces or nephews.
“You looking for something?”
Robby spun around, fast enough his back tweaked a little. “Sorry, I was admiring your collection.”
Jack nodded. “You should go, Robby.”
+
It was almost a half a year after that, they had finally hung out after work. It wasn’t anything wild, just a walk through the park next to the hospital.
It was street food vendor night. All the food carts lined the main path until late night.
They sat side by side on the bench, people watching.
Robby had been looking at the sky, in the city, the stars were hidden. He turned to say something, but he stopped when he saw how closely Jack was analyzing him. Committing him to memory.
And so Robby kissed him.
Jack kissed back.
And so three months of car makeouts and late-night meetups commenced. Jack never invited Robby inside and Robby never asked Jack out on a proper date.
They kissed, they got a little hot and bothered, and then they went to work. They were still professional and adversarial at times.
But it had been three months now. Maybe Jack was asexual. Maybe he was still discovering himself. Or maybe he just didn’t like Robby that much.
“Are you seeing other people?”
Jack slowly took the spoon out of his mouth. They were eating at some noodle place Jack had begged Robby to try. Too many vegetables, Robby thought, but he ate it anyways.
“No…are you?”
Robby shook his head.
“Great, good talk.”
“It’s just,” Jack let his spoon clatter against the bowl, “weird that we never actually hang out or do coupley stuff.”
“Is that what you want? Coupley stuff?” Jack wiped his face with a napkin. He crumpled it and threw it in his bowl, suddenly not hungry.
“Well…I mean, I don’t know what we’re doing otherwise.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. He closed his eyes, tightened his fists. His eyes were doing that thing again where they shifted underneath the eyelids.
“Fine, come over Friday night, I’ll cook.”