reader comes home from a friends to find jack and robby on the couch passed out with like idk baseball on
in the morning they wake them both up with a wet paper towel to the face
“….are you fucking my dad?”
okay, totes misread the prompt, but this was too good not to try and fix. The faintest hint of Rabbot goin on here hehe
“No, no, no, no,” you muttered, yanking a pair of jeans from your dresser.
The button snagged on the corner of the drawer. You pulled harder, impatient, and the fabric finally gave in with a jerk that sent you stumbling backward into the edge of your bed. Your heel came down on something small and round and before you could even swear, your foot slid.
You caught yourself on the mattress, heart jumping, and then you saw the neon yellow streaks smeared across the white carpet. The uncapped highlighter lay nearby like evidence at a crime scene, right where you’d apparently passed out the night before.
“Fuck!” you hissed, rubbing at the stain with your sock. The color only spread, blooming wider. You stopped, exhaling sharply. “Okay. That’s an after-school problem.”
You shoved your legs into the jeans, grabbed the first hoodie you could find, and hopped into mismatched socks before jamming your feet into sneakers. Your backpack lay half-open on the floor with papers spilling out, a textbook hanging halfway in. You stuffed everything inside in frantic handfuls, zipping it crooked as you slung it over your shoulder.
Outside, the bus hissed.
“I’m coming!” you shouted, rushing to the window and shoving it open just enough to stick your head out.
No one looked. Not a single head turned. A couple of kids laughed at something on a phone. Someone had earbuds in. The driver didn’t even count who’d climbed on. You watched, helpless, as the big yellow Twinkie-on-wheels pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the street, disappearing around the corner. Your shoulders dropped.
“Great. Just great.”
Missing the bus was bad enough. But now you’d have to ask your dad for a ride, on the one morning he could actually sleep in.
You bolted downstairs anyway, your backpack thumping against your spine with every step.
“Dad,” you called, breathless, spotting the back of his head over the couch, “I missed the bus.”
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Crumbs were scattered across the counter, a cereal bowl and some plates abandoned in the sink. You grabbed a banana from the bunch, already speckled brown, peeled it halfway, and scooped up a handful of dry cereal straight from the box.
Not breakfast, but close enough.
“Dad! I’m serious. I’m sorry, all that bullshit about responsibility. I need a ride to school.”
You leaned over the back of the couch and froze.
Your dad was half-curled on one end, blanket twisted around his legs. Jack was sprawled on the other, tucked in close, one leg bent awkwardly where it rested under your dad’s back. His prosthetic leaned against the couch like it had been kicked off sometime in the night and forgotten.
They were dead asleep.
You sighed, long and suffering, then turned back toward the kitchen. You ripped a few paper towels off the roll, ran them under the sink just long enough to soak through, and squeezed them once. Before you could rethink it, you marched back and tossed one onto your dad’s face.
Then another onto Jack.
“What the fuck?” your dad snapped, jerking upright and ripping the damp paper towel off his face.
Jack groaned softly, barely waking, brushing his away with a sluggish hand before curling further into the couch like a cat refusing morning.
You crossed your arms. “Are you guys fucking?”
Robby blinked at you, still waking up. “What? No. We fell asleep watching a movie.”
“Okay, whatever. We can talk about it later. I need a ride.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, already shifting like he was about to stand. “Can I at least get a please?”
“Oh, pretty please, Father Michael Robinavitch, may I have a ride to school?” you shot back, tossing his keys at him and nudging his slippers closer with your foot.
He caught the keys with a small grin. “Yes,” he said, pushing himself up, “you may.”
You spent most of the drive leaning your forehead against the cool window, watching houses blur past while your dad launched into the exact same lecture you’d heard a hundred times before.
Responsibility. Punctuality. Planning ahead.
And, because he couldn’t help himself, patients.
“What if I’m late for work and—”
“There’s a ten-car pileup, a building collapse, and a flood all at the same time,” you finished flatly, not even looking at him. “Yeah. I know. Society collapses. People perish. It’s basically all my fault.”
He sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at it. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you shot back, turning your head just enough to glare at him. “I was trying to be responsible and work on my project—”
“Which should have been done two days ago,” he cut in, glancing at you briefly, “and not the night before.”
“—and two someones decided that a Pirates game was somehow a productive study environment,” you continued, talking right over him. “Because nothing says ‘focus’ like yelling at a TV and arguing about offsides.”
He huffed out a laugh under his breath, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
You let a beat pass, then tilted your head, eyeing him. “But seriously, Dad… are you and Jack…”
“No,” he drawled immediately, like he’d been expecting it. “And that is none of yo—”
“Are you at least being safe?” you pressed, turning fully toward him now. “With sex and your feelings?” You bit your lip, trying not to grin. “Because emotional safety is just as important as wrapping it before tapping it.”
“Okay,” he said, holding up a hand, half laughing now. “We are not having this conversation at 7:45 in the morning.”
“7:43,” you corrected automatically.
He gave you a look.
“He’s always over. You brought him to my parent-teacher conference. He tried to ground me last week, dad.”
“He what?” Your father laughed.
“Yeah! When I was out late with the rest of the team.”
He shook his head. “Was that the morning I went to check on you and you told me you had an early morning field trip?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t know he’d be coming home from a shift and he made me take a breathalyzer. Who carries a pocket breathalyz- No. Better question. Why was he at our home at 7:30 in the morning?”
“Drop it,” he chuckled, though the look on his face meant he was serious.
You opened your mouth to keep going, because honestly, this was too easy, when something in your brain clicked into place.
You froze. “…Dad.”
“What.”
You sat up slowly. “…I forgot my backpack.”
He inhaled, clearly preparing to deliver something loud and well-deserved, the car chimed. Both of you froze as the dashboard lit up, and the robotic voice cut in, bright and painfully cheerful.
“From Jack: Where’d you go? We were supposed to get breakfast?”
You quirked an eyebrow. “And you expect me to believe you, dad?”
He sighed your name. “I’m telling you to leave it.”
“No. I’m serious. Jack, love the guy, is texting you like a clingy boyfriend.”
He didn’t even hesitate. He just shot you a flat look, already reaching for the turn signal. “Do you want your backpack or not? I will make you walk the rest of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he turned the blinker on, you settled in for the second lecture you knew by heart. To not meddle in his love life.
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