Archive of Our Own ^beta

***

“C’mon lazy bones.” 

Jack’s thumb traced his collarbones.  Gentle kisses peppered his stubbled cheeks. 

“Time to get up.”

Being teased awake by his husband surpassed a series of annoying alarms on his phone. 

Something like joy warmed his brain to pre-functioning levels when he realized he and his husband had managed to spend the night together.  He was fortunate enough to have Jack to himself for the next forty-eight hours.

“Boom and I already rolled around the neighborhood.  He’s a couple turds lighter and I need coffee to make that happen for myself.  Care to join me?  We don’t even have to put on real pants.  In fact, I prefer your casual boxers-are-pajamas-look.”  Jack spoke with a deft speed, cramming as many words as possible into his commentary. 

He rarely shut up.  Chatty was Jack’s default setting.  If he was quiet, there was a problem. 

“’Kay, I’m up.”  Robby’s intent was to roll towards Jack, but all the muscles in his back and neck simultaneously rebelled.  A shrill alarm sounded by every nerve in his spine shrieked warning.  His brain echoed the concerns and abruptly stopped listening to directions when Robby tried to move anyway. 

The result was a strange shallow breathing as his torso twisted awkwardly on the mattress. 

“Ahh.” Robby exhaled slowly, hoping it would stop the spasms.  “That’s unpleasant.” 

Jack’s eyebrows knitted together, all mirth gone from his face.   Worry tugged his mouth into a frown.  “What’s wrong?” 

Boomer mirrored his human’s reaction.  His head popped into view; eyes alert and ears perked like a radio antenna.  Clearly, Jack’s elevated heartrate caught the dog’s attention. 

“Nothing, nothing.  I’m fine.”  Robby lied.  He laid as still as possible, trying to stealthily flip onto his back without tweaking anything else. 

His skeleton had a bone to pick with him, pun intended.  Notions of karma and natural consequences drilled through the fog of his mind as Robby debated the merits of leaving the bed.  His choice of volunteering to work a double at his age, was this; pent-up, pulsing pain that demanded his full attention on one of his precious days off. 

“Oh yeah?”  Jack argued.  “You’re holding yourself like you’re a Pharoh about to be buried in the pyramids.” 

“I’m not Egyptian.” 

“I know, we’ve been to the beach together.  You’re the whitest man I know, besides Whitaker.” 

“Fuck.”  He hissed.  “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Why?” Jack asked, a shit-eating grin on his face.  “Does it hurt?”

Arguing, like everything else, made it worse.  “Fuck you.” 

Jack quirked an eyebrow.  “That would be nice, but seeing as you can’t move, I don’t know how that’s going to work.  I’m willing to get creative, of course…” 

“Yeah, is that supposed to be motivating?”  Robby sighed.  “If I admit defeat, what do I get?” 

“You get me, taking care of you.”  Jack squeezed Robby’s arm.  The older man flinched at the contact. 

Jack retreated, giving himself a few moments to craft a plan.  Whatever he chose to do, he had to tread carefully and avoid cornering Robby. 

If he was too bold in his approach, his partner would bolt.  His notorious ‘Robinavitch shield’ would lock into place, and he would marinate in his emotional crap for the rest of the weekend. 

But Jack was nothing if not persistent.  “You know, like what we said at our wedding and shit.  Stop being stubborn.  Just let me be here and help.” 

Robby glared at the ceiling.  He clearly wanted to shake his head but wasn’t confident he could move without inciting another muscular riot.  “I don’t like being useless.” 

“Man, shut up.  Save that to unpack in therapy.”  Jack pushed off the bed, straightening his posture. 

He hopped over to his leg.  Balancing with Boomer’s help, he rolled on a fresh liner and slipped himself into the prosthetic.  He secured everything in place and found his way to Robby’s side of the bed. 

Robby turned his scowl to Jack, but it was void of malice.  “Well, Doctor Abott, what’s your treatment plan?” 

“Funny enough, it’s to get you up, old man.”  Jack smiled.  He wanted to fall back into bed and treat his husband to a morning of what the med students called ‘Netflix and chill’.  He could be wrong; hip vocab was ever-changing. 

He was better off guessing.  Anyway, back to the current problem. 

“I bet you have to piss real bad.  After all, your prostate is wiser than mine by a couple years.  Me first though, I’m standing under my own power, so I call dibs!”  Jack limped to the bathroom, tossing a shit-eating grin at his husband. 

Reluctant acknowledgement of his pain had him using his wheels for Boomer’s morning walk, but stubbornness intervened just in him for him to take on the irritating prosthetic.  Digging his heels into any, and all matters had been a strength in the military.  Less useful in civilian life, but Jack was slow to change. 

“Sure, yeah.  Flaunt your independent mobility while you can.”  Robby nodded, wincing as his neck spasmed.  “Moving is going to suck.” 

“Probably, but if we can get to the kitchen, I’ll make coffee.”  The toilet flushed and water ran as Jack washed his hands. 

He could get up.  For Jack, he could take care of himself.  But the moment Robby tensed his abdominals, his back caught fire. 

Nope, sitting up was impossible.  “I want creamer, none of that bitter black sludge is better bullshit.” 

“Yes, my liege.”  Jack hacked his way through a fake cough.  “I mean love.”    

“You’re a dick.”  Robby let his head drop onto the mattress.  Somehow, he had missed the pillow.  Great, the angle made his jaw tingle and pain creep towards his temples. 

“Yet, you love me!”  Jack laughed. 

Robby braced himself to rise like a dramatized zombie.  “We’ll see.” 

Jack chuckled but wrapped his arms around his husband’s lower back as Robby creaked upright. 

They wound up standing chest to chest, both breathing hard.  If standing winded them, what hope did they have for being productive, or heaven forbid, enjoying their time off work?

Jack transferred his weight from leg to leg and hoped the sock would settle against his skin in a way that didn’t make him feel like he wanted to chuck his prosthetic out a window. 

Distraction and deflection were among the oldest tools in his cabinet of coping skills.  Time to deploy the tried and tested methods. 

He cleared his throat and kissed his husband.  “Hello.  Fancy meeting you here.”   

Robby returned the kiss.  “Quit flirting and get me to the bathroom already.” 

“Geez, what happened to your manners.” Jack clucked his tongue. 

Robby swallowed audibly, his skin paler than usual.  “I’ll throw up on you.  Don’t test me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Privately, Jack stored this symptom and catalogued it with the pain and stiffness his husband had woken to. 

He was a mystery, his Robby.  He worked himself to burnout and then kept digging his own prison instead of asking for help. 

Figuring out what was wrong with him, required espionage-level skill.  Luckily taking care of his grumpy, stubborn husband was one of Jack’s talents. 

***

“Almost there.” 

“Don’t patronize me.” 

Jack swallowed his retort.  Now was not the time for sarcasm.  He could point to countless examples of how Robby treated him on his bad days and how sometimes needing help was normal. 

But platitudes would only fuel his husband’s frustration.  Gasoline added to his self-loathing would make them miserable company to each other.  Poor Boomer did not deserve that kind of vim and vigor in his home. 

The humans needed to get their shit together, which given their baselines, wasn’t entirely surprising. 

So, Jack channeled the last of his patience into easing his husband into their breakfast nook. 

The booth was custom-built, accessible with a long life in the house in mind.  The concept of ‘aging-in-place’ took on new meaning when you became disabled at twenty-three. 

Occupational therapy practices trumped interior design every time. 

“You want a double?”

Robby grunted, which Jack took to mean the affirmative. 

“Should I try my hand at foaming the creamer again?”  Jack glanced at Robby, his expression still mirroring that of a stone.  “Santos says oat milk is easier to whip up.  I’ve seen how many fancy-ass-latte-frappe-things she and Shen down in a shift, and it’s only going to lead to diabetes.  But maybe the caffeine will balance out the ADHD, who knows.”    

Silence settled the into a heavy tension as Jack tinkered with the details of breakfast. 

Fresh brewed cups of coffee, toast, and sliced fruit were added to the table in quick succession as he hummed along to one of his curated playlists. 

He stepped lightly across the floor, his shoulders relaxed acres away from his ears.  Lately, Jack’s mental health had plateaued into an imitation of normal, which guaranteed Robby was destined to stumble in his own recovery. 

For them, marriage meant alternating breakdowns.  Co-ordinating their lives, duties as attendings and their own personal health issues…took dozens more spoons that either of them had in reserve.  Shit, Jack resorted to knives even if he had a spoon or two on deck. 

Boomer wagged his tail as he watched Jack drop into the booth. 

“Water with meds, or do you want to be a rebel and take ‘em with coffee?” 

Robby tossed back his morning cocktail without protest and chugged his latte.  Bubbled bits of foam clung his beard. 

“Cheers.”  Jack speared a strawberry.  He dumped a palmful of meds into his own mouth, wincing as he downed them dry. 

Robby swallowed another mouthful of coffee and started box breathing.  He squinted at the food as if they dishes had personally wronged him. 

Jack could nag his husband about eating, but when had telling ones’ spouse that they needed to do anything, ever helped in the history of marriage? 

Bullying one another to make healthy choices led to some epic fights.  Nobody won, Jack’s chronic conditions flared, and Boomer struggled to ground both men. 

Taking all this into account, he did what Dana suggested.  Jack modeled the behavior.  He aimed to lead by example.  So, he started filling a plate with what he hoped was an adequate excuse for a balanced breakfast. 

Jack chewed through a cube of mostly ripe melon.  It didn’t taste like anything, which was an improvement over anything at PTMC.  “So, I’m going to plug in a heating pad for my poor excuse of a hip.  Want one?” 

Robby held up two fingers. 

“Coming up.”  Jack pivoted.  “Boom, stay with Papa.” 

Robby picked at Jack’s plate.  His smirk was barely visible as he turned his attention to the dog.  “Want some apple?”

“You spoil him!  He already ate.  I fed him the first time I got up to pee.” 

“Don’t listen to Dad.”  Robby nibbled a piece of pineapple.  He tossed half the slice on the floor, signaling Boomer to wait for permission.  “He’s just jealous of our relationship.  Okay, go ahead.” 

***

“I’m sorry.”  Robby rubbed his forehead with increasing force.  Using his knuckles would raise suspicions, so he kneaded his eyebrows instead. 

“Why?”

“There was…I had things to do today.” 

Jack glanced at the clock.  It was barely 8am.  For Robby to give in this early, that meant he’d been fighting himself all night. 

Jack shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant and unbothered.  “It’s alright.” 

“Laundry, grocery shopping.  I promised Dana I’d make banana bread.  They’re gonna go bad if I don’t use ‘em.” 

Jack wanted to shake him.  God, he could be dumb.  He married a self-sacrificing idiot.  How did it NOT compute that he had to take care of himself before he tackled anything else. 

But that was quintessentially Robby behavior.  He’d gladly drown to keep Jack afloat. 

Jack channeled patience and understanding as he spoke.  It felt weird, but maybe Robby would respond to his attempt at Zen.  “We’ll get to it.”

“I don’t want…ugh” He tugged at his right eyebrow, rolling the skin until the discomfort rivaled that of his pulsing migraine. 

Jack lifted his butt to reach the controls of the heating pad.  He flicked the switch from medium to high while considering his next words.  “Migraine?”

Robby closed his eyes, unable to make eye contact when he admitted the truth.  “Uh-huh.” 

“Hmm.”  Simple, straightforward language was usually the best approach with strangers in the ED.  Gloria said his honesty was ‘abrasive’ but look at how well his candor just worked with his husband.  “What do you want to try?  I’ll get it.” 

“No.”  Robby shook his head.  “Your hip is acting up.  I can do it.” 

Jack threw his arm out to prevent Robby from standing up, making both men flinch.  His hip protested Jack thrusting his body forward.  “Sorry, but hold on a minute.  Listen, we have a solution neither of us thought of.  Boom, come here bud.” 

“Really?  We finally have a couple days off together and now is when my body shuts down.  It’s not fair.  You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”  Robby sighed.  His next breath was measured, exhalations disjointed by pulsing pain. 

A quick look at his husband told Robby he wasn’t getting away with not answering the question.  He glared as best he could without moving any muscles in his face.  “Oh, I don’t know.  Ice pack, electrolytes, glasses?”

Jack held his breath.  He steepled his fingers and leaned forward.  All he had to do was exercise a bit of patience, and Robby would fold like he did on poker night.    

Robby’s voice dropped as his hands gripped his neck.  “Fine.  Knock out meds.” 

Jack suppressed his surprise.  Underreaction was key was dealing with vulnerable Robby.  He was as prickly as a sick hedgehog and sure to stab Jack if he pushed too hard. 

“Okay.”  He harnessed momentum to get off the couch.  “Boomer with me, brace.” 

Jack added a few things to Robby’s polite requests.  He doubled the size of the water bottle, ensuring the electrolyte tablet wouldn’t be too sweet.  Anything with a punch of flavor was liable to make him puke.  He got the ice cap, and the long cloth one from the freezer.  Mike’s migraines radiated down his neck, causing an endless cycle of tension and rebound headaches.

“Papa’s pillow.  Get Papa’s pillow please.”  Jack directed.  They left a laundry basket by their closet, filled with items either man might need when shit hit the proverbial fan.  Lots of lazy mornings passed by Jack requesting things for Boomer to bring to him in various places in the condo. 

The dog dragged Robby’s body pillow from their bedroom, while he collected the rest of the supplies. 

He grabbed the specialized red lens glasses from Robby’s nightstand, along with the gel eye mask. 

If he took his damn pills, he would be asleep within the hour.  Speaking of; Jack turned to Boomer.  “Get Papa’s med bag.” 

The dog wagged his tail and trotted off to the bedroom. 

“No Boom.  That’s his hoodie.” 

To be fair, they practiced skills for Jack’s PTSD and TBI.  All the tasks related to Robby could be categorized as works in progress. 

Boomer dropped the clothing on the carpet and hurried back to the master bedroom. 

“Papa’s med bag, please.”  Jack had a sneaking suspicion of how this would go.  Sure enough, when Boom came back, he was carrying Jack’s emergency grounding kit. 

“Thank you.”  He sighed.  “But that’s not what I asked for.” 

Boomer sat, anticipating another direction.  The game was fun!

“Please get…Papa’s meds.”  Jack squeezed what he could into an old plastic bucket (designated for flu or popcorn) and hauled everything into the living room. 

Boomer waltzed past him, a clear plastic bag of medications in his mouth.  He leapt onto the couch and dropped it on Robby’s lap. 

“Good boy.”  Jack praised.  “And it only took a couple tries.” 

Boomer barked. 

“Yeah.  That’s right, you’re a lifesaver buddy.”  Jack scratched his back.  “Now scoot, I called that cushion.” 

***

“Lunch?” 

Robby raised a middle finger from his spot on the couch. 

“That’s fair.”  Jack was about to ask how he was feeling, but decided the previous gesture encompassed everything Robby cared to share about his physical and mental state. 

“If I heat up some leftovers for myself, are you going to kill me?” 

Robby swallowed the nausea, pretending to weigh his options.  “Maybe.” 

“Maybe, maybe.”  Jack opened the fridge, joints cracking as he scanned the shelves.  “Is that worth the risk?” 

“Just knock me out, then do whatever you want.” 

“For the last time brother, I can’t render you unconscious.  That’s spousal abuse.” 

Robby tossed a pillow over the back of the sofa.  “Not if I asked you to do it.  I give you permission.” 

“I don’t think that’s how the law works, babe.” 

“Argh, what do you know anyway?  You’re a doctor.”  

Jack frowned, trying to work out Robby’s logic.  “I don’t know if that’s the argument you think it is or want it to be.” 

 Robby lifted a middle finger and waved it above his head.  “Don’t care.” 

“I’m going to make you tea.” 

“No.” 

“You don’t have to drink it.”

Whatever response he had planned, was muffled as Robby yelled into a pillow.  “I won’t.” 

“Ooh, when did I make the salmon?  Think it’s still good?”  Jack lifted a corner of the lid and sniffed the fish with skepticism. 

“DON’T YOU DARE.”  Robby yelled.  Boomer lunged at him, licking his face. 

Jack laughed from the kitchen.  He watched their dog sloppily execute a task trained to ground Jack after PTSD fueled nightmares and flashbacks. 

Boomer stuck his tongue under Robby’s glasses, across his eyelids, in his nostrils and one of his ears.  “Bud, buddy!  Please stop, I’m awake.” 

“You’re lucky I’m not recording this for Dana.  She could probably use a laugh.” 

“Do that and I’ll send her the TikTok dance you were practicing the other night.” 

“Ah, mutually assured destruction.”  Jack sighed.  “My favorite kind of foreplay.” 

***

“What time is it?”  Robby croaked. 

“Hey.”  Jack dimmed the screen of his laptop and paused the streaming service.  “Welcome back to the land of the semi-conscious.” 

“Am I late?” 

“That depends, what time do you want it to be?”

Robby shrugged, peeling off the ice pack that he been smushed under his eye mask.  “If I can sit up without vomiting, I’ll be happy.” 

“Wow.  Can I get that in writing?” 

“How about I show you?”  Robby reached for Jack’s hand.  He creaked upright, testing his nervous system as he fought to breathe normally. 

“Well damn.  That’s impressive.” 

Robby tilted his head from side to side.  His neck ached, but the pain had dulled to a thumping bassline presence.  “Let’s start today over, okay?  I’m sorry.” 

“Have you met me?”  Jack scoffed.  “I don’t have a natural circadian rhythm anymore.  Any hope of maintaining non-Vampire cycles ended somewhere between my third and fifth tours.”

“So…did I miss dinner?” 

“Oh, you’re perfectly on time for second dinner.  Tolkien-style.”    

Robby pressed his head into Jack’s chest, nuzzling the worn t-shirt.  It smelled like their body wash, hypo-allergenic detergent and coffee.  “Won’t a midnight snack at our age lead to nothing but heartburn.” 

“Ah-ah-ah, you’re not asking the right question.”  Jack kissed his forehead.  “Do you remember what I said this morning?” 

“To get my lazy ass out of bed.” 

“That I was going to take care of you.” 

“Hmm.”  Robby smiled as they kissed.  Jack was holding him gently, like he was made of spun sugar. 

No one handled him carefully.  He had proven to be durable beyond belief and fought to keep that persona at work.  It got harder after every shift to unmask, to relax and be himself. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Bullshit.  It was a trick question, don’t know why I asked.  Hunger doesn’t matter because if you don’t eat before you take your next dose, your stomach is going to dissolve.”

“Bold of you to assume that it hasn’t.” 

“Oh, you’re not as clever as you think.  I saw the antacids in your locker.”  Jack shut the laptop.  “Okay, you stay here and rest.  I know what to make.” 

“I can help.”  Robby said weakly. 

Jack nodded.  He stuffed his flesh and bone foot into a slipper and stood.  “Yeah, Boomer needs a buddy.  You’re just the guy to keep him company.” 

“That’s rude.” 

Jack ruffled his husband’s hair as he collected the lukewarm ice packs.  “Come on, how can you say no to that face?  You gave him apples this morning, he loves the extra couch time, and I got shit to do.”

Boomer turned partially on to his back, legs spread as he settled into the space Jack had vacated.  Robby played with his ears, smoothing the velvety skin as the dog relaxed against him. “Hey.  That’s my line.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll be back in your role as caregiver to my useless ass soon enough.”  Jack had meant for it to be a joke, but it didn’t come out as lighthearted as he had intended. 

“Thank you.”  Robby added, his voice quiet and laced with shame.  “I, um, appreciate it.” 

From the kitchen, Jack yelled.  “If you thank me again or apologize, I demand triple the contribution to our jar.  Brother, you make way more money than me, you can afford it.” 

“That’s not what that damn jar is for.”  Robby argued. 

The highly decorated mason jar gleamed from its’ spot between their coffee maker and mixer.  “Yeah, it’s for making passive suicidal statements, but I’m repurposing it!  And I think my therapist will be proud of me for that.  Sam’s helping me work on my rigidity.  Look at this flexibility!” 

“Yeah, yeah.”  Boomer licked Robby’s wrist and sneezed.  “We know you’re winning at therapy.” 

“Progress isn’t a contest.”  Jack handed Robby a fresh ice pack.  Bending down, he whispered in his husband’s ear.  “But if it was, I’m totally winning.” 

***

Robby sniffed his plate so intensely, that sugar granules skittered across the surface.  “Thank you.” 

“What good is leftover challah if we can’t turn it into French toast?”  Jack shrugged, settling his plate on his lap with a pillow. 

“This is…too much.  Smells excellent though.” 

Jack handed him a fork.  “That’s quite the compliment, but you haven’t even tried it yet.” 

Robby scowled at his portion like it was a threat to his wellbeing.  “But I know…I don’t have to try it.  You always make good stuff.” 

Jack sighed theatrically.  “Don’t make me feed you.  Because I will use ‘the force’ if I have to.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Jack made lightsaber sounds and swished an imaginary weapon through the air between them.  “Think about it.  Do you really want to go there?” 

Robby blushed.  Sometimes embarrassment was the quickest way to find his ‘wise’ mind.  DBT was making his mind more malleable after years of trauma re-informed walls.  “Fine.  Can I have more water?” 

“Yeah.”  Jack shook the mostly empty container.  “Finish that first.”  Robby hadn’t left the couch for hours, which led him to believe he must have been seriously dehydrated when they went to bed last night. 

Robby chewed like he had shards of glass in his mouth.  He groaned when his stomach growled and gurgled simultaneously.  “God, this tastes great.  But fuck, I’m still nauseous.” 

“I added ginger to the spice mix.” Jack noted with pride. 

“You’re too much.”

“In a good way?” 

“The best way.”  Robby wriggled his fork through another swath of toast.  “Because you took care of me.” 

“You don’t make it easy.”  Jack teased. He had finished his toast and was shredding the sheet of paper towel into neat piles on his empty plate.  “But I’m not going anywhere.”    

“I know.”  Robby tapped his chest, dislodging a quiet burp.  “That’s our dynamic.  Both of us are grumpy, old, traumatized doctors with unhealthy attachments to work, repressed childhoods and latent sexual awakenings.” 

“We’re a match pair, for sure.”  Jack smiled, rubbing the back of Robby’s head with a thumb.  “I heard Garcia call us a ‘power couple’ a while back.” 

“What?”  Robby laughed.  “Is that a compliment?” 

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to learn.”  Jack stuck his hand between the cushions, digging for the remote.  “Why don’t you pick something to watch?  Your eyes have been open and you’re keeping the French toast down.” 

“Don’t jinx me.”  Robby said, snatching the remote from his husband. 

***