written for @swoon-june 2026 // prompt: "nostalgia" (day 3)

the pitt. michael robinavitch/jack abbot. 700 words. rated t.

— — —

"Hey, you mind if I steal you away for a second opinion on something? Got a guy in South 20 that needs a little extra TLC."

"Sure thing,” Robby says, folding up his reading glasses and tucking them in the pocket of his scrubs. He places a chart onto the rack in front of the clerks, and as he rounds the hub, Jack falls into step beside him. "I've got a couple minutes anyway, while the portable X-ray's backed up. Who's in 20?"

"Oh, some poor guy in his early 50s, been complaining of loneliness, occasional heart palpitations, and, uh... a very insistent erection."

Robby shoots him an unamused look. "You need reinforcements for a priapism? Seriously?"

"It's a special case," Jack insists, pushing the door to the exam room open and ushering his husband inside. "You'll see."

Robby hums quietly, doubtful, but forces a neutral smile as he tugs the curtain back. "Hi there, I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch, but you can—" He glances around the empty room, just as Jack shuts the door, turns the lights off, and closes the curtain behind them. Robby whips around. "Uh, I think you might've misplaced your patient."

"You sure about that? Because I swear there's someone in this room that matches the exact description I gave you,” Jack says, smiling sweetly, and it takes everything in him not to laugh at the look of dawning realization he receives in response, the endeared eye-roll. He closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and pulling him in; Robby goes easily, just like he always does, tipping his head down, meeting his lips halfway, moaning softly into his mouth as Jack presses against him. "Not quite priapism, but, y'know — it is our duty as medical professionals to get ahead of a problem when we can, before it gets too serious."

"Jack," Robby murmurs, the name caught between a whine and a half-hearted protest. 

"C’mon, baby. We used to do this kind of thing all the time, back in residency. And this whole mess today—the system going down, the old-school paper charts, all this bullshit we're dealing with—it's bringing me back to the good ol' days." He peppers a few soft, open-mouthed kisses up Robby's jaw, nipping lightly at his ear as he pitches his voice a little lower to add, "Been thinking a lot about how you used to drag me into the stairwell, or one of the bathroom stalls, or that on-call room a couple floors up—”

"Okay, okay," Robby interjects, blush traveling from the apples of his cheeks to the neckline of his scrubs as he clearly fills in the blanks with his own memories. "Jesus, I can't believe you're still as much of a menace as you were back then."

"I can." Jack holds a hand up, flashing his ring. "It's what you love about me."

Robby doesn't argue with that, even if he does carefully extract himself from his husband's hold. His gaze flits to the window on the door, watching the staff gather around the hub, a chaotic flurry of clipboards and orders and results being passed around. By the time he glances back, Jack already knows he's won this one.

"Alright, but if we're doing this, it's not gonna be in here. Not enough privacy. How about you, uh— meet me in the supply closet in five?" Robby tells him, subtly trying to adjust himself in his Carhartts. "But I swear, if anyone finds us—"

Jack cuts him off with a laugh. "Relax, man. There’s no service, remember? We’re untraceable. They can’t call us, can’t text us…” 

"They can still come looking."

He shrugs. "Let 'em."

Robby shakes his head incredulously, but it doesn’t tamp down the fondness in his expression. He dips back into Jack's space for just a second, just long enough to give him one last kiss, sweet and steady, before he tears himself away, stepping towards the door. 

"Five minutes," Robby reminds him, throwing a soft, slightly eager smile over his shoulder as he slips out of the room, and for a moment, he looks about thirty years younger, like the dorky resident that Jack first fell in love with. The sight is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. 

“Five minutes,” he repeats to himself.