something something Jack has scarring on his right eardrum
something something every time he gets on a plane he ends up with barotrauma -- the air pressure is torturous, and the pain gets so sharp it feels like his eardrum is about to burst
something something Robby eventually finds out during his relative's wedding, when they were both invited and Jack insisted he was fine to fly even though he just had a cold. The pain was unbearable, Jack got so dizzy he could barely speak, and Robby let him lean against his shoulder, quietly soothing him the whole time while calling him an idiot. After that, they drive instead of flying whenever they can
something something when flying is unavoidable, Robby gets Jack oxymetazoline/pressure‑regulating earplugs/earpopper to help
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Jack has a single postcard stood on the edge of their shared workstation. It's the only personal touch of Jack.
The postcard's old, faded pink lake under a washed-out blue sky, somewhere vaguely exotic. The corners are worn, scratched, smudged with mysterious oil stains that no one's dared investigate. It's been sitting there for years, mostly ignored.
Dana once joked about it during a handover a long time ago. Jack, polite but unmistakably serious, replied that the postcard was very important to him and anyone who messed with it would answer to him personally. Robby, for his part, had tried (gently, awkwardly) to talk Jack out of keeping it there. Said it was too easy to get damaged or lost. Jack just gave him a look and said, "It stays."
It sat there, forgotten again, until one day an intern's hand slipped and sent their 2L water bottle crashing across the station. Dana jumped in to the rescue while the intern scrambled to save the PC. She did her best to save the personal items: Jake's sketch of Robby and the ED staff, a photo of Dana, Robby, and Jack with Monty, a few stickers and scribbled notes.
And Dana managed to save the postcard.
That's when she saw the back.
Sent to Afghanistan. Recipient: Jack. No return address. Just one line, written in faded but unmistakable familiar handwriting:
"Watch over yourself, take care of your body, your soul if you can."
HC: Robby canonically grew up with his babulya. He was deeply loved but he never really got the chance to be a child. Jack clocked that pretty quickly once they were properly together.
There was something in the way Robby hesitated before do anything "fun," like he needed permission. So Jack started setting up little moments for Robby to be silly, to play, to indulge in the kind of joy that doesn't care how old you are. Jack didn't give a single damn that they were both middle-aged men.
Jack dragged Robby to the park to swing, usually during odd hours so they wouldn't hog the space from actual kids. They went snow tubing and tobogganing, laughing like maniacs as they crashed into snowbanks. Jack once booked them into a curling session under the guise of "cardio," and Robby nearly cried laughing when Jack splatted on the ice like a stunned starfish.
Sometimes, Jack took Robby out into the wild with nothing but a blanket, hot chocolate, marshmallows for s'mores, and a handful of glow-in-the-dark sticks. They lay under the stars, limbs tangled, breath fogging the night air, talking about everything and nothing.
Jack once dragged Robby into building a blanket tent in their living room during a snowed-in weekend. Pillows everywhere, string lights overhead, and a playlist of campfire sounds crackling through the speakers.
Jack kept a secret stash of googly eyes. He stuck them on random objects just to make Robby snort. The best one was Jack managed to sneak a pair onto Robby's hospital badge. Robby noticed, laughed, and wore it proudly for the entire shift. Didn't even try to peel them off.
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Robby had a collection of small gadgets and trinkets he's gathered from all over the world, like a carved wooden giraffe from somewhere in Africa, a tiny ceramic kangaroo from the outback, a wind-up painted pyrography box that doesn't close properly but still makes him smile.
They cluttered his bookshelf in a way that's quietly chaotic and deeply personal. When Jack first asked about them, Robby looked like he'd been caught red-handed doing something criminal. Embarrassed, he joked about being a hoarder of random, useless junk, said he knew it was a waste of money, and promised he wouldn't drag his little chaos into Jack's space if it ever bothered him.
Like he was confessing to a crime. Like sentiment was something to apologise for.
Jack wasn't having any of that. He told Robby that nothing was useless or waste, not if it meant something to Robby. There had to be a story behind each piece, and Jack wanted to hear every single one, whenever Robby felt like sharing.
So Jack built him a proper display closet (Ellis helped with the groundwork, gathering tools, wood, paints, and let Jack turn her garage into a makeshift workshop, because it had to be a surprise). Big enough to hold everything, and make room for more.
They spent a weekend migrating treasures from shelves and storage boxes into their new home.
Jack asked about nearly every item, and Robby smiled, soft, a little sheepish, but ready with a story. Jack knew Robby had a good memory, but oh, he had a good memory. He could recall exactly where each piece came from, what the day was like, who he'd met, what they'd laughed or cried about.
It was a slow process, but they weren't in any hurry. Some items Robby wasn't ready to talk about yet, and that was okay. They had time. A whole life to share those stories.
Then Jack found the blue box. Robby went speechless, fidgeting, blushing, looking like he might bolt.
Inside were all the little souvenirs Jack had given him over the years—tokens from random corners of the world.
A smooth blue stone from Afghanistan, with something like a bear carved into its surface, gifted by their translator after a medical emergency. A pressed edelweiss pin from a roadside market in Switzerland, bought on a whim, two beers too deep, because if Jack was being honest, it reminded him of Robby (Quiet. Resilient. A little wild).
Robby had kept them all.
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Robby sometimes got hit with strong and "ridiculous" cravings. Sometimes it's It's-It. Sometimes it's some weird fruit that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi movie. Sometimes it's gummy bears or jelly beans or Dunkaroos.
The problem is, Robby couldn't really stomach them. Too sweet.
Most of the time, he just stared at them in the supermarket, hovered for a minute, then walked away empty-handed. Because he's a grown-arse man, and what's the point if he can only have one or two before his taste buds revolt? Sure, he could bring gummy bears or jelly beans to share at work. But other stuff, who brought children's snacks to a ED shift?
Jack found out about this once, caught Robby lingering in the frozen aisle, eyes locked on a box of It's-It like it might bite him first. Jack didn't say anything at first. Just watched. Then before Robby could walk away, Jack tossed a box into their cart and told Robby they're getting them. Robby tried to protest, mumbled something about sugar and metabolism.
That night, they split the ice cream sanga on the couch. Robby took exactly two bites, made a face at the sweetness, and still looked happier than Jack had seen him all week.
The next shift, Jack quietly packed a few Dunkaroos. And so, two grown-arse men sat in the break room, dipping tiny cookies into tiny tubs of frosting like it was the most serious business in the world.
Thoughts: Jack and Robby as a couple, they do couple things.
The small sweet stupid stuff.
Jack eats whatever Robby can't have or would rather skip. Maybe Robby has allergies, or need special diet, just too much of a hassle to explain to others. So Robby politely accepts the food or snacks offered, and Jack quietly finishes them off. Jack'll go to great lengths to tweak recipes, hunt down substitute ingredients, and test new versions, just so Robby can enjoy the same things everyone else does. That way, next time people raving about a dish, Robby won't just politely nod. He'll actually smile and share how good certain dish was, because Jack made sure he could taste it too.
Jack prefers cooking over any other household chore. Robby, on the other hand, finds peace in cleaning. It works out, mostly. The thing is, whenever Jack's doing his magic in the kitchen, Robby always ends up hugging him from behind. And Jack gets all hot and bothered because Robby just showers him with kisses and can't keep his hands still. After they nearly burned the kitchen down once, Jack laid down a strict rule: Robby is not allowed near him while he's cooking. Robby tries to sneak in anyway, a hug, a kiss, a hand sliding over Jack's waist. Jack calls him out every time. Robby pouts, then settles for standing beside him, hands on his own hips, mesmerised by Jack in his element.
Jack doesn't drink or smoke. Robby, on the other hand, can have a few scoops like it's tea and used to smoke like it's second nature. They bicker about it sometimes, Jack with his judgmental eyebrow, Robby with his dramatic sighs and vintage liquor bottle collection he refuses to throw out. They kiss anyway.
Robby swapped out all of Jack's plain socks for colorful, cool ones. No boring socks allowed in this household.
Jack has a favourite burgundy shirt, slightly oversized, something he got during boot camp, long story. He was wearing it the first time he kissed Robby. It was a hot summer day, both of them sweaty after Robby helped Jack haul a new mattress into his flat. And Robby just… took the shirt after nearly blowing Jack's brain straight out and declared it his. Because it smelled like Jack. That thief.
They have weird nicknames for each other, nonsense words, inside jokes, things that make no sense to anyone else. And they never use them in front of other people.
Both Jack and Robby are pretty private about their personal life. Which is why, unfortunately for Dana, she's wrapped up in all of it. She's genuinely happy for them, truly. But also? She absolutely cannot stand those two idiots sometimes. Jack will stare at his phone with that soft, dove-eyed look, and Dana knows: it's Robby. Then Jack's bouncing around with extra spring in his step, flirting more than usual with everyone, like a single message from Robby made him lighter. And Robby? Sometimes he just can't help himself. He'll start gushing to Dana about how amazing Jack is. Dana listens. She rolls her eyes. She loves them. But she also kind of wants to throw all the pillows in the ED at them.
One Thanksgiving, they nearly set Dana's house on fire trying to deep-fry a turkey. Blame Jack (for insisting it'd be "easy") and Shen, who enabled him with a borrowed fryer and absolutely zero supervision. The damn bird exploded in the fryer, sending boiling oil splattering across Dana's backyard. Robby was horrified but somehow managed to rescue Dana's cat, Fuzzby, mid-chaos. Dana still hasn't let them live it down.
They have a designated holiday spot. Jack loves to surf; Robby hates sand and would rather hike, read, and escape humanity for a while. Finding a place that suits them both wasn't easy. But once they stumbled across the spot, that was it. No need to look again.
Between the two, you'd expect Jack to be the bold one, with all his years of military experience, the quiet confidence, the steady hands. But Robby's the one with a pilot's license and a boat license. Jack, meanwhile, flat-out refuses to ride in any aircraft smaller than a commercial jet. One year, Robby gifted him a full pilot training course for his birthday. Jack stared at Robby, "Traitor." He still went. He still passed. But he complained the entire time, about the wind, the smell, the seat, the sun light, the control, the nerve of Robby thinking this was a good idea. Robby just grinned and kissed his cheek after each flight.
Robby loves to hold Jack's hand. It's a kind of stimming, a way to ground himself. He'll gently roll Jack's fingers between his own, slow and deliberate, always a little amazed by the feeling of them, warm, steady, real. It calms him, centres him. Something he can always hold onto.
Sometimes they lie in bed and watch theatre recordings, movies, documentaries (even soap operas) projected onto the wall. It always starts with snuggling and light banter, usually mocking whatever medical drama is on. It always ends with their hands and mouths all over each other. They never finish anything. Except on Christmas Eve. They don’t really celebrate Christmas. Yet Jack always watches "It's a Wonderful Life." And every year, Jack pretends he's not crying when Bailey runs through Bedford Falls.
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Some patients had donuts and coffee delivered from that new fancy trending shop. People grabbed their cups and started swapping coffee stats. Most landed at one or two cups a day.
Shen (grinning to the students): Three to four. But iced latte, so technically, I'm hydrating.
Robby (deadpan, chartting, without looking up): Seven.
Shen: Seven what?
Abbot (sipping): Cups. Black. No sugar. No cream. Just the milk of human kindness.
Robby's been doing this since med school. No one's seen him blink since 2005.
He's constantly stalked by their neighbour's cat, and by stray ones too. They keep breaking into his apartment like it's the negibhourhood clubhouse. Dogs insist on greeting Robby, especially on his days off, when he and Jack finally get time to wander around the park. They completely disregard personal space, smothering Robby with wagging tails and slobbery kisses. Jack finds it both endearing and mildly infuriating, since every pet owner in sight seems to flirt with Robby.
It's gotten to the point where Jack refuses to let Robby walk through the park alone, squirrels trail behind him, cling to his hoodie, and one particularly cheeky one keeps trying to follow him home.
There was that time they took young Jake to the zoo, and Robby was basically adopted by a flock of budgies who insisted on investigating his beard and touslled hair. He ended up causing a minor commotion as the farm animals began following him around, letting Jack and Jake pet them freely like Robby was some sort of enchanted zookeeper.
Things got even more hysterical: during a conference in Edinburgh, Robby was stalked by a fox that followed him onto and off a bus. But the true icing on the cake? Back when they were young and stupidly in love, during another conference, they went for a moonlit stroll through Brissie’s riverfront garden, and Robby somehow charmed every possum in the vicinity. A dozen of them trailed the pair and cock-blocked Jack mid-makeout.
HC Robby always runs cold when he hasn’t had a proper meal. Jack does his best, tries to prep something for him or orders food, but things still get forgotten or Robby still get interrupted.
One time, Robby tossed his hoodie in the wash without checking the pockets. The aftermath is a dozen crumpled energy bar wrappers and the pulpy remains of something suspiciously similar to the cheese sandwich Jack had made -- glued on the drum.
Robby bought a new washing machine after that, thank you very much.
Over time, Jack started checking in during hand-offs. If Robby’s hands were freezing, it was the dead giveaway.
Robby: Water? I don’t need water. Who needs water?
Jack: Okay, here’s a two-liter bottle. Bring it to work every day filled with water, and do not come back home until it’s empty.
Robby standing next to the kitchen sink, eating his lunch, dinner, and breakfast after a 12-hour shift.
Jack, gesturing towards the dining table: Sit down man
Robby: But I got a system…
Jack: Sit the fuck down, you idiot
Who needs self-care when you’ve got Dr. Abbot? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
