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He’s in the staff lounge during a rare moment where he can actually take a minute for himself, hip propped against the counter, the smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaner clinging to the air. Perlah is at the coffee machine, eyebrow arched as she watches him flick through his contacts with the kind of focus he usually reserves for STEMIs.
“Calling a girlfriend?” she teases, reaching for the pot.
Robby snorts. “Something like that.”
She hums, and he steps aside so she can fill a paper cup; she glances at the name he taps.
“Tell him to buy a home cuff like a normal old man,” she says, blowing on her coffee.
“I’ll add it to his list of sins,” Robby replies. “It’s been never ending since oh-four.”
Perlah pats his arm, heading for the door. “Don’t let him give you too much grief, Robby.”
“Please,” he says. “I invented his grief.”
She laughs and leaves him alone with the humming fridge and the drip of the coffee machine. He shifts his weight, his shoulder brushing the cabinet, and hits FaceTime before he can talk himself out of it.
The phone rings once. Twice.
On the third ring, the screen jolts, tips sideways, then rights itself. Jack’s face fills the frame.
The CPAP mask covers most of his features, all plastic, straps, and clear tubing. His curls are mused in three different directions, a crime scene of flattened gray and stubborn coils. Only his eyes are truly visible, heavy-lidded, hazel, glaring, and so familiar that some old muscle in Robby’s chest relaxes without permission.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “There he is. Darth Abbot. How’s the Death Star this morning? Any attacks from the rebels?”
Jack squints, hazel narrowing to sharp slits as sleep bleeds into annoyance. The machine wheezes on his inhale, doing nothing to make him look or sound less ridiculous.
“Why,” he says at last.
Just that. One word, flattened and distorted by the steady pressure forcing air into his lungs.
Robby grins. “What can I say? I missed your face, and I’m a sucker for silver foxes with hypertension.”
Jack just stares at him, CPAP hissing on the exhale.
“Michael,” he says finally, voice low under the plastic. “It’s my day off.”
He hasn’t called him Michael since Adamson used to bark it across the Pitt before chewing them both out. It lands heavy, decades attached.
Robby’s mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.”
“It used to,” Jack counters. “You used to respect my boundaries.”
Robby snorts. “No I didn’t. I used to bang on your on-call room door at three AM because you misread an EKG.”
“That was your EKG,” Jack shoots back. “And it was fine.”
“You had inverted T-waves.”
“You had anxiety.”
“Still do,” Robby agrees. “And guess what spikes it? Your blood pressure. Did you take your meds?”
Jack closes his eyes like he’s negotiating with God. The straps dig little grooves into his cheeks.
“You remember when we used to talk about interesting things?” he asks. “Women? Football? How much we hated Dawson?”
“We still talk about how much we hated Dawson,” Robby says. “He’s just dead now, so I win by default.”
Jack’s eyes narrow further, two-odd decades of rivalry and friendship colliding in the look.
Jack inhales and exhales. “I’m fine. I was going to take them.”
“Sure,” Robby says mildly. “Right after ‘five more minutes’ turned into two more hours and a funeral I had to attend.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “You are not giving my theoretical funeral a time slot.”
“I’ve already written the eulogy,” Robby shrugs. “It’s three words long. He was warned.”
That gets the ghost of a smile, the barest crease at the corner of Jack’s eyes. Robby feels stupidly victorious, his heart doing that traitorous thump.
He lets his tone soften. “Come on,” he adds. “We both know your pressure doesn’t drop on good intentions alone.”
Jack watches him. It’s that same look from fellowship, when Robby would shove a coffee into his hand after a thirty-six-hour shift without a word and Jack would accept it, like they hadn’t spent the entire month competing for the chief’s praise.
“You’ve always been a sore loser,” Jack remarks. “Just can’t stand the idea that I might outlive you.”
“You won’t if you keep treating Lisinopril like a suggestion,” Robby says. “Pill, Abbot. Or I’m calling Dana to follow up with you in person.”
Jack winces. “That’s a war crime.” He pauses, muttering, “And I know enough about war crimes to say that.”
“Then comply with the Geneva Convention of Cardiology.”
“You haven’t been this insufferable since the Bush Administration,” Jack mutters. “You call all your colleagues about their antihypertensives, or am I just special?”
Robby snorts. “Oh, you know. Just the ones who hit ‘call cardiology and try not to panic’ numbers last week and thought a double espresso would fix it.”
“It was a decaf.”
“Sure it was.” He nods at the screen. “Meds.”
“Michael,” Jack growls.
The sound explodes like a landmine somewhere under Robby’s ribs. He pretends it doesn’t—very poorly.
“Jack,” he rumbles back, matching the tone.
Jack glowers. “I’m going to take them.”
“I know,” Robby agrees. “With me watching.”
“You, a voyeur? Shocking,” Jack retorts, but his hands are already moving, fingers working the clips.
He unhooks the straps and peels the mask off. The machine lets out a final hiss. Without it, Jack looks older and somehow younger at the same time, crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, sleep mused curls, the faint imprint of straps on his cheeks. Like he did when they were fresh attendings, elbowing each other out of the way for the first traumas that came in, but with thirty years of weather on him.
He rubs the side of his face where the red lines groove into skin and shifts higher against the headboard, fumbling along the nightstand. Robby hears the familiar rattle of a pill bottle before Jack brings it into frame, uncaps it, and shakes one tablet into his palm.
He pops it into his mouth and dry swallows, throat working.
Robby grimaces. “No water. What are you, a masochist?”
Jack exhales through his nose. “If I drink water during the night, I have to get up to pee.”
“Hell getting old, isn’t it?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t the same,” Jack retorts.
He settles more firmly against the headboard, rubbing his face again. A sliver of morning light cuts across him from the window, painting shadows along his cheekbones and jaw, catching the silver in his hair. Robby remembers a time when neither of them had gray, when their knees didn’t creak, and ‘night shift’ meant bragging rights instead of indigestion.
Back then, it was just two, cocky thirty-something year olds seeing who could stay on the floor the longest before they had to pee.
“What’re your plans for the day?” Robby asks.
Jack blinks, like the question wasn’t the one he expected. His eyes flick toward the window, and Robby watches with that flutter as the light catches the gold flecks in Jack’s hazel eyes.
“Grocery shopping,” he says. “Go for a run. Might get a dog.”
“A dog?” Robby echoes. “What am I? Chopped liver?”
Jack snorts.
“Man’s best friend is supposed to be a canine, not an old bastard with a nagging problem.” His throat works. “My niece told me the house was too quiet without my wife,” Jack replies softly. “Said I needed something to brighten up the place.”
Robby knows Jack’s wife is still a sore subject, will always be a sore one for him, so he reaches for the one thing that has never failed them.
“Well, nothing brightens up the place like dog vomit on your rug at two a.m.”
Jack snorts, pulled back from the edge of grief.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “if anyone else called me to check my meds, I’d block their number.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen you puke in a trauma bay and cry in a stairwell,” Robby says, gentling it with a crooked half-smile. “We passed ‘block-able offense’ sometime around oh-seven.”
Jack’s gaze holds his, something bare and fond flickering there so quickly anyone else would miss it.
“Stairwell doesn’t count,” Jack murmurs. “My dad had just died.”
“Exactly,” Robby replies quietly. “And you let me sit with you. Which means I’m grandfathered in.”
There’s a beat where neither of them say anything. The memory settles between them with the ease of something well-worn now, Jack hunched on cold steps, white-knuckled around a cup of terrible vending-machine coffee; Robby on the step below, close enough to shoulder-check the world until Jack could breathe.
Jack exhales. “What’s it looking like today?”
“Oh, I’m not telling you that,” Robby says immediately. “If I did, you’d show up with your bug-out bag ready to go.”
Robby shakes his head. “Curry messes with your reflux.”
“Italian?”
“Still messes with your reflux.”
“Everything messes with my reflux,” Jack gripes. “Pick something or we’ll both starve.”
“Fine, we’ll do curry. But I’m bringing Tums.”
“You and your Tums,” Jack says, rolling his eyes.
“Hey, they’ve saved us more times than we’d like to admit. Remember the conference last year when they served us chili and forgot to mention it had jalapeños?” Robby shudders. “We were both miserable until seven AM the next morning.”
“We could just split a Prilosec and call it a day,” Jack mutters.
Robby snorts. “Remember when we used to joke about old men like this? We’ve come full circle.”
“Back pain, reflux, hypertension,” Jack says. “The Holy Trinity.”
“Hallelujah,” Robby chuckles.
The corner of Jack’s mouth curls up, that soft, rare little half-smile he only ever lets Robby and Dana see. It hits Robby dead center. He lifts his coffee to cover the feeling he refuses to name.
“You coming in tomorrow?” he asks.
“As far as I know,” Jack replies. “Unless my heart explodes from the stress of your concern.”
Robby grins. “In which case, I’ll crack your chest myself and slap your coronary arteries around a little for wasting my time.”
“Romantic,” Jack says dryly.
The word hangs there between them for half a breath too long.
Robby’s mouth quirks. “I save the real sweet talk for special occasions. Like the anniversary of our meeting. It’s coming up, you know. Next month.”
Jack holds his gaze, steady, measuring. They’ve stood on too many edges together for him not to recognize when they’re near one now, even if this isn’t the kind they’re trained for.
The edge where something more is on the other side, if one of them would just take a step.
“Go back to sleep,” Robby says finally, lifting his mug again like a shield. “You look like hell.”
“I learned it from you,” Jack says, but he’s already reaching for the CPAP, picking the mask up and fitting it back over his face. “You going to call tomorrow, too?”
The question is breezy. The thing underneath it is not.
Robby pretends to think about it, even though the answer settled in him the night Jack’s diastolic hit numbers that made his stomach drop.
“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep scaring the nurses with your numbers?”
“I’ll try not to,” Jack offers.
“Then I’ll call anyway,” Robby says. “Just to be annoying.”
“You’ve been ‘just to be annoying’ since oh-six,” Jack reminds him, adjusting the strap.
“And yet,” Robby replies, “you’re still here.”
Jack’s mouth curves under the mask, soft and real enough to reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I am.”
Robby’s throat feels too tight all of a sudden, so he covers it the only way he knows—humor.
“Don’t make me train some fresh-faced hotshot to replace you, Abbot,” he says. “I don’t have the patience or the desire to hate anyone new for another decade.”
“You don’t hate me,” Jack says, like it’s simple fact. “You’d have stopped calling years ago if you did.”
Robby meets his eyes. There are a dozen true responses lined up behind his teeth. None of them are safe for a FaceTime call at nine AM.
“Yeah, well, don’t make me regret my poor judgment.”
Jack’s eyes warm, just enough that Robby can feel it through the glass. “I’ll do my best,” he says.
Robby nods, forces his thumb toward the End button. “Sleep, Abbot.”
“Work, Robinavitch,” Jack returns. “Try not to get fired before I come back.”
“They’d never survive without me,” Robby says.
“Neither would I,” Jack murmurs.
Robby’s thumb stutters but he doesn’t let it show. “Yeah,” he says, voice gone rough. “I know.”
He hits End.
The staff lounge feels smaller without Jack’s sleepy scowl taking up half his vision. The fridge hums, the coffee pot drips at that slow, steady pace. Robby stands there for a moment, phone slack in his hand, watching the blank screen like it might light up again.
He hopes, somewhere deep down, that it will.
Across town, Jack sets his phone back on the nightstand, staring at it for a beat. Then he sinks into his pillow, CPAP hissing softly, feeling the echo of Robby’s voice settle warm and tight under his ribs in a way he knows isn’t two decades of friendship.
Rivals once. Then colleagues. Then the only person either of them would answer a one AM or nine AM call from without question.
One day, they’ll name the rest of it.
For now, it’s enough that Robby calls annoyingly, and Jack takes his meds begrudgingly. And that neither of them is going anywhere without the other noticing.
Eames doesn’t give two fucks about anyone here, least of all the mission. He’s on a timer and he intends to go back in one piece. Being a team player ends here, and the second everything begins to fall apart, he will cut the losses and move up. No regrets, even for the billionaire mark or the billionaire client, the father yearning to get back to his two kids or sweet little ariadne. Eames doesn’t care about the happy endings, but only his own safe exit.
on the other (lovable) hand,
A plea. A begging. Eames is not the one who controls the kick here so he has to tell Arthur, who might press the button even at the cost of his own life, to come back before the eleventh hour. Eames knows how self-sacrificial Arthur can be, so he is desperate for Arthur to know that he wants Arthur alive, no matter what. Like it doesn’t matter to him whether they win or lose, whether Arthur outruns the security or whether the inception is achieved, he just needs Arthur to come back. Just come back. Come back at any cost. Just do that, cause Eames’ only happy ending is Arthur.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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can we just talk about the way robby's reading jack's letter to the dead vet's family? like. he is literally holding a piece of jack's soul there and he's so careful about it and does his absolute best to deliver it as heartfelt as it truly is and to make the sister understand just how honest jack is in his condolences... like, please can we??
Oh my god i need to change my life NOW i need to be something else i CAN'T keep living like this (Does nothing) (Does nothing) (Sits there) (Does nothing) (Doesn't move) (Does nothing) (Does nothing) (Does nothing) (Does nothing)
non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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