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The 4th of July night shift was predictable in the end, after everything that happened to the day shift, it was enough that darkness fell and the weirdos came out, but weird is normal, and normal is good. Three hours of sleep isn't by any measure enough, but it was enough coupled with all the crutches at his disposal, sugar, caffeine, a good team and a thankfully predictable procession of burns and explosion injuries. In total 36 fingers were blown off, which isn't a record, but is a good showing for the fine people of Pittsburgh.
America's birthday is complete, and Jack hands over to Doctor Hsu at 7:08, and is out of the ambulance bay doors by 7:15 and inside the overheated cab of his truck by 7:22. He orders doordash from the driver’s seat, a big burrito, californian style, plus home fries and a bunch of other bullshit that looks good to his yawning maw of a stomach, and races it home.
He beats it and with a glance has enough time for a shower, so he strips as he goes, throwing the layers of the day off, striding into the cold water with the steely eyed fight, and stands under the spray. He should take off the leg, but it can take a few showers. He still has enough to do, and the thing feels alright, strong and stable. He had it fitted again last week, so there’s no better time for showing it who’s boss.
His phone pings to indicate the food is by his front door, and so he finishes up, applies curl cream and thinks about shaving but decides to leave it. It looks good at the moment. Maybe he should try that beard again, now it's less likely to be as luridly orange as the last time he gave it a go that wasn’t just depression neglect.
Jack takes his time getting dressed, sliding into sweats and a tshirt and then wanders towards the door just as there’s a knock.
He doesn’t really think about it, focused on the food. The food is knocking on the door. Obviously.
He opens the door, already bending down, and instead realises that there’s a person there.
“You're not my doordash guy,” he says to Robby, who is standing there, holding his food. “Also, aren't you supposed to be in Canada by now?”
“I needed sleep,” Robby answers, which is a totally normal response. “I tipped Marco for you.” He holds up the box of food, and Jack’s inner terrier perks up. “Can I come in?”
“Get in here,” Jack says, and takes the food, and then gives Robby a hug. He smells nice, fresh and clean, like he’s done all the right things, sleep and food and shower. Robby leans into the hug, the way he didn’t last night, and Jack feels the muscles of his back relax under the thin fabric of his shirt and feels something relax inside him in turn.
They stand there like that, the burrito warm between them, before Jack’s stomach growls loudly and they break and Jack goes to the kitchen, considers getting a pair of breakfast beers out for them, and decides on ice coffee instead.
The burrito is suitably enormous, more than enough for three, so Jack takes most of it and pushes the third part onto Robby with all the persuasiveness of his Italian and Irish ancestors.
“I was thinking about what you said last night,” Robby says, “about dancing in the dark.”
“Yeah?”
“Springsteen, right? Or Lady Gaga? I can’t decide which is more Jack Abbot.”
“The fact you are torn shows how well you know me,” Jack concedes. Robby’s been in his car enough to know that Jack has no shame about his music taste. He likes what he likes and if you have a problem with it, that’s on you. “I honestly don’t know. The spirit is true. I meant it. You need help, and I don’t mean that in a pejorative way. You need someone to help you get through this, and there’s a whole gang of us waiting for the call. I don’t think you realise that.”
Robby is quiet. “I don’t want to trouble anyone,” he says.
“It isn’t trouble. It’s service. It’s friendship. It’s the price of entry, man. You would do the same for us.”
Robby laughs, hollow. “Would I?”
“Hey,” Jack shakes his head. “None of that. Of course you would. You did it today for Al-Hashimi. You did it for Langdon last year. You’ve done it for me, more times than I can count.”
“It's different though,” Robby says. “I don’t know why. I know what I need to do, I just…can’t face it. I know the stitches I’ve got in suck, but I’m afraid of what will come out if I remove them. Some wounds can’t heal. We both know that.”
“But we know what happens when you let infection fester,” Jack counters. Robby looks uncomfortable all over again, like he did last night, like he’s already been flayed open and debrided.
“You don’t have to do it now,” Jack says. “This isn’t an offer with an expiry date. I’m here, we’re all here, we all want you to come back, but I understand the need to get away. More than you know.”
Robby smiles at that. “Yeah, I remember. Thanks, Jack. I mean it. You’re right. I have a lot to think about.”
Jack gestures for Robby’s dirty plate, and then stands up and walks into the kitchen, pulling open the dishwasher and loading the plates in. He hears the scrape of Robby’s chair on the wood floors, not enough to indicate that Robby has stood up, just that he’s relaxing, leaning into the carved backs the way he always does after a meal.
“When are you leaving?” Jack says as he walks back through. There’s some stuff on the coffee table that needs to go in, then he can put the dishwasher on, then go to bed.
“Probably after this,” Robby says, as Jack pads past him again, mugs and glasses in his hands. Jack notices how he’s flexing his knuckles the way Jack knows means he's thinking about something, working some process or procedure out, rotating it in his big brain, preparing a maneuver.
Jack doesn't say anything, instead finishes stacking the dishwasher, filling up the soap and rinse aid, but when he turns around, Robby is there. He can move quietly when he wants to, and god, there's nothing radiating from him right now more than want. Robby is determined, breathing deliberately steady, his face open and showing something Jack hasn’t seen before; the look of a man determined and still hungry despite being well fed.
Neither of them blink. Jack's heart rabbits in his chest, that old mischief rising. He can't blink, can't bear to blink. There has to be a witness to this, and it has to be him.
Robby raises his eyebrows the way he does at students who are slow on the uptake, but Jack isn't going to be cajoled and inferred into taking this step.
“Jack,” Robby says, all wheedle and plead, and Jack nods his head slowly.
‘You gotta do it,’ he thinks. ‘You have to do it, or I won't be able to live with myself.’
Maybe their psychic connection is back or maybe it's just the inevitability, but Robby gives a little huffy exhale, a kind of 'why do I gotta do everything about here' kvetch, and then leans in. His eyes are open, which is what lets Jack allow his own to flutter close as their lips touch, taking himself inside his own body, and really feeling it.
The kiss is gentle, barely a brush, but it doesn't stay that way. First there’s tongue, which is a little unexpected, and then the press of strong hands, hard and clenched, not in a fist but it feels like the closest thing to it. A kind of stiff-limbed fight stance. Fight or flight as a kiss, and somehow both at the same time. It's a mess, but beneath it all there’s earnestness, a kind of adolescent truth that feels so dear as much as it is jarring. Jack pulls his head back and looks at him, brow furrowed in silent query.
“You gotta relax.” he says, gently, touching Robby's cheek.
“I've never kissed a man before,” Robby admits, his chin drifting down, eyes focusing somewhere around Jack’s chin.
“You've kissed humans before, brother,” Jack says, softly, gently. “You know what to do. I've seen the way your girlfriends look at you.”
Robby blushes, then looks up, back on a surer foothold. “You were watching?”
Jack shrugs. “I'm always watching. The army drilled that into me.”
There's an innuendo there that he feels he could push, but it isn't necessary, because if anything Robby's blush gets deeper.
“Watch this,” Jack says instead, and leans in and takes.
Robby comes alive in his hands and now this is a kiss. Maybe that's just what was needed, maybe they were two poles with the same charge battling each other, and now whatever changed has made this smooth, made the tense horrible knifeness leech from Robby's body and bones. He doesn't bend or submit or anything like that, this isn't anything as crass as dominance, but he does take what he's given. He takes it like he does instruction, following the lead, taking the appropriate place in the sequence, and when his teeth offer a suggestion against the meat of his lip, Jack takes under advisement. When he applies a bit of teeth back, Robby makes a noise that is the definition of constructive feedback.
Jack jumps up backwards onto the kitchen counter and pulls Robby close in to him, wraps his legs around his kidneys and winds his hands in his hair and gently breaks their mouths apart. Robby is wet eyed with pupils blown wide, his lips red in the thicket of his beard. He's so fucking handsome that Jack feels his dick twitch just looking at him.
Jack smiles a small smile and dives back in, leaning forward so it's almost literal, putting his weight on Robby and trusting him to do his part. His dick is definitely coming online, fuck, yes, he loves kissing, always has done, and fuck it has been so long since he made out like this, probably not since…
Jack breaks the kiss again, panting, but not from arousal. He keeps his eyes open, because he knows what will be there behind his eyelids, but for all Robby is fully in it, he’s enough of an adult to know the difference between the different kinds of overwhelmed.
“You okay?” Robby asks, his turn to be gentle.
Jack shudders. “Yeah. Just, it's been a while.”
"What's a while?" Robby says, then leans in and bites on the thick tendon of Jack's neck, lightly, just an overture, a placeholder, an indication of continued interest.
“Two years, four months and seventeen days,” Jack gasps, knowing that Robby will know, and true to form, that's when Robby steps back.
“Not since?” he asks.
“Not since.” Jack confirms.
Robby deflates. “Jack...I didn't…I’m sorry…”
Jack’s been through a lot, he’s had a lot of therapy, he was telling the truth earlier that all he does is in the desperate need to keep living, to keep experiencing life, because to not do that is to give up, to die a little more than he already did, and it's already been too much for one life. Jack is emotionally horny and full of enough purloined energy drink, adrenaline and romantic promise to let a dead wife get in the way of this. Especially since she’d absolutely be loving this, if those stories he’d read out loud to her on her hospital bed about those Penguins guys were any indication. He keeps that in mind as he palms himself and feels his body rise and thrive, watching Robby watch him back. He might be able to get it up and keep it up enough to do something with it. He jumps down and pushes Robby backwards, fists his hand in his shirt, sees the flash of confusion spread over his face.
“No. Don't.” Jack says, shaking his head, going until they’re against the opposite wall, nose to aquiline nose. “I want this. I want this so much,” he says, and this time the kiss is thunder over the desert, loud and deep and passionate. There's hands moving everywhere now, and Jack's always been praised for his, and the shiver he feels when he gets his hands under Robby's shirt and traces the knobs of his spine is the kind of nervy praise he’s always valued the most.
It's looking like they're going to fuck here and while that is extremely nice in theory, the practice is something else. Jack needs accessories, he needs softness, he's 50 years old and didn't come this far to fuck it all up on his linoleum. He’s got shit to do today.
“I'm not going to get on my knees,” Jack warns, as he drags Robby through his house, “not to pray, not to apologise, and not to grovel. But I will get on the bed and take you apart,” and Robby picks up the pace, pushing back in turn.
The bedroom is cool and dark, ready for him to return to it. The covers are mostly fresh and virgin soft, and soon there's a sprawling Robinavitch on it, and Jack falls down and lets himself be devoured.
Now Robby has permission, he’s feasting like he’s not eaten for weeks, like he’s the one coming out of a two plus year dry spot and not someone who Jack knows has been very thoroughly laid in the last 48 hours. This was the promise though, the thing he’d always suspected from all that careful watching. That Robby would be as thorough and particular in this as in everything, that he’d check all the key spots for response, that he’d keep a running mental tally of all the places Jack bucked or groaned at the application of teeth and tongue. They get naked easily, and Robby releases the lock on Jack’s leg and peels off the inner and sets both carefully aside before licking up his thigh, eyes on the prize the whole time.
Jack’s hard, he can’t remember the last time he was hard, hard and proud, thick and ready, and Robby grins at it, looking ten years younger as he pops the head on his tongue and sucks, face thoughtful. He bobs a few times, and then breaks, takes a deep breath, and goes for fucking gold.
There’s a single, incredible moment where Jack feels the head of his dick catch and actually slide into the grasping impossible clutch of Robby’s goddamn oesophagus. There’s a moment where Robby’s throat seizes that is almost too much, but then he’s pulling off, coughing, flushed and red and embarrassed.
“There’s a reason we usually use sedate for this,” Robby complains.
“Maybe don’t try and stick it down on your first go,” Jack pants, seconds away from coming and trying so hard to hold steady. “Like, its really good just in your mouth, fuck. Fuck just your tongue, man, I don’t need much, I'm not going to last…”
“It's a point of professional pride,” Robby says, ignoring him, examining his dick like he’s solving a puzzle. “I’m the airways guy. I know how to do it, I used to practice back in residency, trying to intubate myself to see if it could be done, but you know, discovered some other things about myself instead. I know I just gotta get the angle right and then it’ll go down smooth as silk.”
Before Jack can query how fucking insane that statement is, Robby puts his head back down and does at least concede some tongue game to keep Jack onside before he starts his quest again, and to his professional credit, it only takes a few more tries and then Jack is helplessly looking down at the wide open mouth of one of the top airways doctors in the world effortlessly choking himself with Jack’s hard dick, his big brown eyes dilated and wet with the effort of taking Jack’s dick all the way down, framed in triumph.
“Holy shit,” Jack breathes, fists in the sheets, core fluttering hard with the effort of holding himself back. “Holy fucking shit you did it. You did it.”
It's so good, so good, too good, too good when it has been two years and the grief and everything, a long day, an unexpected boon. He doesn’t come immediately, but he also doesn’t stop Robby from staring into his soul and sucking his dick down his impossible throat, pulling off to breathe deep and refocus, all that famous concentration, and then he takes him down again, and Jack can feel the tongue, can feel everything, knows his anatomy well, hell, he’s no slouch at the airways himself. The slip and the slide, once Robby has it he has it, just massaging Jack's dick with his throat, swallowing and snuffling and sighing, and yeah, no one could last long against that. Jack puts his hands in Robby's hair and feels the whimper as he fucking unloads right down, feels it hit like a bullet, like a punch, no, like a taser, just you know, a billion times better, his whole being lighting up like a city after a power cut.
“Shitting hell,” he says, once speech returns, and Robby smugly falls down next to him and kisses the crux of his armpit. “Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck. Did you know you could do that?”
Robby’s smile is wide and smug. “Any critique?”
“Fuck off,” Jack laughs, and Robby laughs too and it sounds like the old him.
It takes a while for Jack to get his breath back, but when he does, he looks up at the flustered vision that is gently rocking against his hip.
“Let me do you man,” he says. “What you want? I can usually what you do faster and blindfolded, though you know, maybe we save the kinky shit for later…”
He feels Robby shake his head, and Jack frowns. “You come already?” he asks
He feels the shake again.
Jack's heart sinks. “Man, if you didn't want to…”
Robby finally raises his head at that. “No, no. I'm so fucking turned on man, I'm almost vibrating out of my skin, it's just my dicks kinda…” he saws his hand back and forth.
“Let me see," Jack asks, sliding down his body.
Robby's dick is nice, but yeah, sort of semi chubbed up, but also weeping steadily, which tells a story in itself. Hard to fake that, so Jack takes the head in his mouth and takes an experimental suck. The taste is fine, though the moans are better, but even after five minutes of the greatest hits of Jack Abbot’s spank bank, Robby still isn't getting anywhere near hard.
“Sorry man,” Robby says.
“All is not lost,” Jack holds up two fingers. “You ever?”
The look on Robby’s face is a picture. “Once,” he says shortly.
“Not for you?”
“Not for her,” he says embarrassed, and Jack grins, fascinated.
“Oh that sounds like a story,” and watches as Robby fucking squirms at the memory.
“I was a bit too into it. She thought it was weird.”
“What, she slipped you a finger and you went off like a fire hydrant?” Jack says, delighted.
“It was a long time ago,” he says, which is as good a yes as he’s going to get. Gesturing at his dick, Robby shrugs.
Jack takes him in hand, and Robby winces. “I dunno. We know the research. Yeah, you probably can’t fuck me. I could continue to suck you while it feels good, or we could see if your prostate still remembers the words.”
“Oh god,” Robby groans, covering his face, turning red between his splayed fingers. “I’m 54.”
“54’s the new 18, I read that somewhere,” Jack says, rolling over and opening the drawer. There's lube, and a glove tucked at the back, from God knows when. Probably the bad times, but he just pushes that down. Bad times become good through action and new memories.
They kiss for a while, to take the awkwardness off, and then Jack kisses down Robby's body, let's himself get lost in the taste and texture of skin, the warmth of life, the thankful mercy of another human against his naked skin, their mixed sweat, the grossness and the glory. Sex is exactly what life is about, it's the beauty and the hilarity and the respite. It's the slow and fast and the hidden depths and sensitive surfaces and the call and response.
Robby's dick is still half raised, but his balls are full and tight and he’s hairy in the way you get when you don't think anyone's going to see, just raw and unfinished, honest and wild. He has a spare, small ass, nicely muscled where it counts, and he shivers, thighs twitching as Jack strokes two sure, slicked fingers down his taint and smirks at the response.
The glove is on, though Jack wishes he could do this without, but that probably requires foreplanning rather than just foreplay. Still, Robby takes the curl of a fingertip with the shake of a saint and a garbled cry, a gasp that echoes.
His dick twitches. That's a good sign.
Jack's dick is also twitching, mostly in sympathy, brotherly encouragement. We can do it. We can get there together.
Enough of that. The prostate is located a couple of inches inside, and Jack's done thousands of exams in his life, even if it's not normally part of the core skills of emergency medicine, the army is very keen on a well rounded education, but it's never been like this. He's never had a man put his thighs up in anticipation, never watched his face as he does it, never smiled at the feeling of a healthy, swollen gland, and never done more than a quick exam, testing the borders and the response. The other thing the army is very keen on, that medicine is keen on in general, is transferable skills. Robby howls at the first experimental touch, not in pain, but in relief. His dick drools with it, and it's addictive, watching how it pulses, how it gives the feedback in a puddle on his belly.
“You're so hot inside," Jack says, pulsing his fingers. “Your dick is drooling, fuck, I'm drooling. I'm imagining feeling you come apart under me fuck.” He pulses his hand, and Robby whines, his head restless on the pillow. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he whispers, drunk on the wonder of it.
“Imagine this, brother,” Jack says, a good idea swelling up in his aroused, filthy brain. He shuffles up the bed, presses his thighs right up between Robby's, and thrusts, so it pushes his fingers deep, and then rakes them back over his prostate as he pulls back and fuck, this is fucking, this is just fucking and Robby goes feral beneath him, eyes tightly closed, entirely embodied as Jack flexes and fucks and massages him until Robby's dick is pumping between them white and creamy and it's owner is hollering and holding on to Jack, the bed, the world, with dear life.
It takes a while to stop, probably because Jack doesn’t stop, just massages him through it, encourages him to let it all go, and then there's nothing but the familiar sound of a glove being removed, and then Jack crawls up the bed and straddles Robby’s chest and watches him come back to himself with the fascination of a biologist with a brand new specimen under the microscope.
Finally, Robby opens his eyes, and it's like there's something back that had been lost for a while. A spark. A new process running that just needed a short quick reboot to restart.
“You okay?” Jack manages to say before Robby exhales hard and then rushes up and kisses him, desperately, the final piece of the puzzle, the kind of kiss that makes a grown woman melt half way across a room just at the memory, the kiss that he always knew was there, waiting for him.
“You ever do that before?” Robby asks, breathless and wild eyed.
“No,” Jack says, honestly.
“Hmm.” Robby says, kissing him again, then falls like his strings have been cut, and pulls Jack down against him, rubbing against him like a cat.
“Yeah,” Jack says, soothing. Fuck, he’s tired. It’s been a fucker of a day.
Jack feels the world start to fall away, sleep seizing him and dragging him down into her depths, but then Robby says his name, and it's got that serious tone, like he’s going to confess something deep.
Jack raises his head and looks at him. “Brother, I have had two hours of sleep in the last 36 hours. I'll fuck you when I've had a solid eight.”
He hears Robby laugh and press a kiss to his shoulder.
“I'll be here,” he says, and for the first time today, Jack believes him.