Archive of Our Own

Generally speaking, Robby can handle a busy–but not overly catastrophic–day in the ED with the grace of a ballerina wearing long-dead pointe shoes. He's got the moves down, but the vessel itself is a bit weary—though still able to take the beating. Generally speaking, he hadn't set some arbitrary date to confess to Jack fucking Abbot that he's not only in love with him but they should give this whole relationship thing a chance. 

Generally speaking, that arbitrary date doesn't land on what amounts to a record-breaking heat index in Pittsburgh, or the air conditioning deciding it just can't do it, Captain! that leaves Robby feeling a bit dizzy, hot, and achy. Or the dumb, stupid fact that Robby and Jack got completely shit-wrecked the weekend before and Robby allowed Jack to drill him into the mattress. Generally speaking, Robby isn't carrying around Jack's hurried words before he left that next morning about how he was so sorry and he didn't mean to blow off steam with you like you're just some random person, because you're not, Robby. You're not. 

Generally speaking, Robby hasn't promised his new therapist that he actually likes and kinda trusts that he would confess to Jack no matter what and he fucking has to follow through because self-accountability is important or some other psycho-babble bullshit and–

“Watch out!”

The hurry from checking on a patient in Trauma 1 to answering a code in West 14 is ended, rather abruptly, by a flailing old man (not Robby, thank you very much) who careens out of South 22 and into the Chief, sending him–along with his ankle–sideways into the hub. Dana's curling stack of humidity-damp supply requisition forms scatter to the floor, Robby’s arm sending them flying in every direction as he grabs onto the counter to steady himself and cease his trajectory. With his rolled ankle throbbing and a fresh wave of lightheadedness loosening his fingers, the second he's still Robby releases his hold and sinks, shoulder pressed to the Corian, onto the linoleum. 

Well, that's just great. This is exactly what he needs today. No. Really. 

“Fuck! Dr. Robby?” It's the same voice as before–Santos–and she drops to her knees in front of him, head swiveling back and forth from her patient to her boss, trying to keep track of both situations at once. Jesse and Langdon have jumped in from…wherever they were prior (it was not Robby’s turn to watch them), wrestling and wrapping their arms around the crazy bastard. Hauling him back to his room, calling for Haldol, panting over the exertion of fighting the elderly but see? Robby has a reason to be so winded. 

Santos moves like she's rising to her feet, ready to follow, indecision flickering on her face like a worn out motel light. “Ugh!” she groans, dropping back down to her knees. “That guy was a pain in the ass anyway. How are you feeling? You look like shit.”

Robby sends her a wounded look. “That's my favorite face you're talking about–!” 

But honestly, he doesn't have much energy for anything more than that one weak comment. He hasn't quit moving all day—an ill thought-out plan to keep his mind busy and stave off the nervous jitters associated with baring his heart. Forcibly being made to stop has sent everything he's been running from crashing back into his body as it all catches up in one fell go. It's a bit much at once, if he's going to tell the truth—but that's for only him to know. A man's gotta have his secrets.

“Don't sass me, boss,” she snarks at him, reaching forward to manually check his heart rate, “I'm not the one bowled over by a 86-year-old man.” 

His mouth opens to respond (something snarky, he's sure of it—it would have come to him eventually) but Santos shoots him a withering glare. “You're tachy,” she says, tugging her stethoscope from her neck, “and your skin is suspiciously dry.”

A laundry list exists of all the things Robby is and isn't (he keeps a running tally in his head), but stupid is certainly not one of them. Tachy with dry skin in this heat means he's overdone it. Add to that his achy muscles, the pounding head, and the nausea creeping up his belly, and Robby can at least admit that he might have fucked up. Even if slowing down wasn't an option, drinking fluids and checking to make sure he was not overheating should have been. Hell, he'd spent nearly ten minutes lecturing his staff on this shit when the AC crapped out that morning—the least he could have done was take his own advice.

Letting the side of his forehead thunk against the counter, he releases a resolute exhale. “How hot do I feel?”

The glare deepens. “The only thing worse than an idiot is a self-aware idiot,” she says. “When was the last time you had any water?” Shoving her hand down the neckline to his scrub top and undershirt, Santos presses the cup of the stethoscope against his chest, frowning. Any attempts to bat her away are rebuffed with well-timed swats from her other hand. 

“I had coffee this morning– hey, stop that!” 

“117 beats and it's not exactly strong–” And then she's rudely wrapping a BP cuff around his arm, which– where did that even come from? And the tightness is painful and annoying and– “90 over 58. You– you–” There's a sharp inhale and he's acutely aware she's looking to insult him—he probably deserves it. “You have heat exhaustion, which is definitely building up to heat stroke if your almost completely dry skin is anything to go by. Old man Jenkins–” the patient's name is definitely not Jenkins, “–ended up helping us out by knocking your stupid ass over before you could do it yourself.” Another deflecting swat smacks at the back of his hand, this time leaving a sting. “Congratulations, Dr. Robby, you've just become a patient in your own ED.”

“The hell I have!” Finally managing to wrap his fingers around her wrist to pull her arm free of examining him, he pushes off the counter, bringing his legs underneath his body to stand. The instant he puts pressure on his right ankle, sharp pain shoots outward, sending an involuntarily gasp bursting through his lips. “Oh, fuck me!”

“Hard pass,” Santos mutters, steadying him as he sways. “Can you bear weight?” Her eyes lift, catching someone else's over his shoulder and grinning in a way that doesn't bode well for Robby. “He-ey, Dana!” 

Resigned, Robby clenches his eyes shut and grimaces. “Today can just fuck right the hell off.” But he is able to slowly press his weight onto his foot and he can–even with a slight limp–take a few steps to turn and perch his ass onto the counter. It's not broken—that's a good sign and Robby will take any win he can get at this point. It's also got the added benefit of having him not look quite as pathetic in front of his most favoritest charge nurse who just might kill him for this.

Dana steps up next to him, hand landing on his arm and a concerned look across her face at the same time that Santos snaps, “You didn't answer me, Robby! Can you fucking bear weight on it or not?”

“You have a shit bedside manner. Anyone ever told you that?” is his grumbled response—his best attempt at ignoring the fact that Dana looks about ready to swaddle him in bubble-wrap. The injured to healthy ratio of one Michael Robinavitch has gotten much better as of late; useless mothering of him will do nothing but aggravate them both. She should know that by now.

Santos lifts one shoulder, her hands hanging from the stethoscope hanging around her neck. “Might've been mentioned in a few of my reviews.”

Dana flaps her arm to shut Santos up, glowering at Robby. When she addresses him, her tone is even but teetering on panicked. “What the hell happened?” There's a frantic roving of her eyes, an up and down search for other injuries but he's not that accident prone (anymore). It was just him being distracted—plain and simple. And he's fine. 

“You’re barely even sweating anymore,” Dana hisses. “Jesus Christ, Robinavitch–”

Santos cuts her off, gesturing to a wheelchair sitting about fifteen feet behind her. “I'm working on it. Can you grab me that chair?” 

Not that he isn't grateful for Santos interrupting what he's sure was going to be a stunning example of one of Dana's finer lectures, but: “I said, I'm fine–” 

The daggers they both glare at him clamp his mouth shut. And maybe he's not fine in a mental sense (he's made a promise to confess his love to his best friend who fucked him and then said oopsie whoopsie!), but medically he's good. Right? A cup of water and maybe an ankle wrap and he'll be right as rain. Which they could use right about now. What, with the heat and all… No need to waste a bed or space on the board or take up the time of doctors and nurses who could be treating actual patients–

“So, what did he do to himself?”

And there they go, chatting about him like he's not even there. Like he's not the Big Boss, despite technically not being Dana's boss at all. 

“Hypohidrosis, tachycardia, hypotensive–” Santos lists, grabbing Robby around his upper arms and physically turning him so she can push him into the chair. Because yes—he wants to be manhandled by a resident. Obviously. That was absolutely on his checklist of things to do today. Right up there with telling Jack fucking Abbot that he loves him. What the hell, right? Vulnerability is just one of those things he thrives at.

It wouldn't necessarily hurt to attempt to remind them of his position, would it? Maybe lay down the law a bit, shift their perspectives…

“Hey!” he barks, deciding to go with it despite the way the tightening of his muscles in his neck send jolts of sharp pain into his head. “I'm still the boss!” But the seat of the wheelchair hits the back of his legs anyway; they're either not taking him seriously or are beyond caring. Robby stubbornly remains standing, knees locked and arms crossed. Not great for a man on the verge of losing consciousness.

Dana harrumphs, her voice a harsh and angry whisper in his ear. “Right now you're a fucking jagoff incapable of taking care of himself. Shut the fuck up and sit down.” 

Which, of course, means he needs to try again. If at first you don't succeed– “I'm fucking fine–”

“What's open?” And, naturally, he's magically not there to them again, his protests ignored like he's already unconscious or in another room, and maybe on any other day Robby would fight harder, but the nausea is amping up the longer he's vertical, and fuck, it really is hot in here. Was it this hot all day? He should call maintenance again– complain to Gloria again. Write another strongly worded email to the board, this time containing some fun words with four letters. He could– he should–

The rolling nausea spikes. Try as he might, Robby can't stop what's about to happen any more than he can stop his feelings for Jack. His body bends in half and anything that was in his stomach comes bubbling up his esophagus and out of his mouth, splattering onto the floor like the world's worst rendition of a Jackson Pollock.

“Oh! There it is!” Dana's hands steady him, one wrapping around his bicep and the other running soothing circles on his back. “Okay, Cap. It's done. You're done.” Her eyes catch Santos', head jerking toward one of the south rooms to the left of them. “18 is open. Or it will be shortly.” 

Weakened, he has little say in being guided into the wheelchair at that point; any argument he had lies in a puddle on the floor in between them. There's leftover vomit in his beard and dribbling down onto his scrub top—how spectacularly refined of him. 

Look at this distinguished gentleman! Yes!

But vomiting has done one thing: It's exacerbated his headache from a painful throbbing into whatever noise Jesse likes to listen to on full blast in his brain. Sid Vicious can suck it. And Robby? He's gonna take a nap right here.

Santos busies herself with fitting Robby’s feet into the footrests, her brow furrowed when he doesn't fight back. “I'll get him over there. I want a blood gas, a lytes panel, and a CBC to start.”

“You take his temp yet?” Dana asks over her shoulder as she heads behind the counter to a free computer in order to put the tests in.

“Not yet. That was next on my list of things to do.” There's hands on his face—Santos’ fingers gentle as she lifts his chin and shins a light into his eyes. “God, you're so stupid.” But it's said with a cadence of care. 

The ED is growing fuzzy around the edges. He's tired. He's hot. Honestly, if they'd just let him sleep this off, he'll be just fine. An hour in the on-call room, maybe some ice cold water and a protein bar. There's work to be done, confessions to be made–

“What the hell happened? Robby?” 

Santos’ blue eyes are replaced with Baran’s concerned brown. Her gloved hands come up to steady his head—is he losing time? Fuck, it's hot. “We need to cool him off—Robby? Robby! We are going to cool you down, okay? You're going to be all right.” 

“Princess put him in for 18,” Dana is saying as she kicks off the brakes on the chair and turns him. When did she get back? Little Ninja. Remind him that he needs to put a bell on her. “Where was he headed when he toppled?”

“‘Didn't topple,” he mutters, only slightly bitchy as Baran gently releases his head to lay his chin against his chest because: gravity. 

“Whitaker called a code and he was headed there,” Baran says and lowers her voice as she leans over Robby's head. “When he didn't show, he called again and I went. I saw you both over here with him and I– I figured you had it under control. I handled the code and came back around.”

“We did– We do,” Santos corrects, blowing a stray strand of hair from her face with a hefty breath. “Looks like a twisted ankle and heat exhaustion. I'm ordering the usual: CBC, lytes, a blood gas–”

“Good, good.” Ripping her gloves off, Baran steps to the side, allowing Dana to push him as she walks adjacent to the chair. “Begin running cool saline and get some ice packs on him. And–I'm sorry, Robby–but get him out of his clothing. Put a fan on him. I want his temperature taken yesterday.” 

It's not until he feels more hands on him than just the three women he was initially with that Robby realizes his eyes have closed. And that he may be slipping in and out of sleep–or consciousness–because when he next blinks them open, he's surrounded by more concerned staff: Jesse, Langdon, Donnie… When did it get this bad? How? He was working. He was fine. 

Was it hot? Sure. It's boiling in there. Industrial fans or no, they're still inside a closed ED with zero air flow and far too many warm bodies. No one else is passing out from the heat like some brand new med-student incapable of seeing the warning signs and taking action and–

“Stop berating yourself–” Baran. She really is a gem, even if he wants to toss her from the roof sometimes. He's sure she's thought the same of him. “You've been distracted today—want to tell me about that?”

“No, not really.” 

“Hmm,” she tsks. “And yet while everyone else was staying hydrated and taking mandatory breaks to cool off, you've been running around ignoring your body's signals that it was overheating. Something is on your mind; you should talk about it.” 

Letting his head fall back, Robby heaves out an annoyed sigh. “Got an ED to run, Baran.”

“The only thing you're running is your own body into the ground. On three!” 

He wants to protest, to insist he can move himself but the countdown begins and it's loud enough to send sharp pains through his head. Shutting his eyes, Robby brings his hands up to press the base of his palms into his sockets, groaning at the volume of their synchronistic count.

“One…two…three!”

There's an unceremonious lift of his body and he's airborne for about three seconds before being deposited on a bed, his legs being arranged for him—which he can do on his own, damnit. Just give him a minute. Or five.

He'll get there.

“We stripping him?” Well now, Jesse, don't gotta sound too happy about that. 

“Yes. And keep your enthusiasm to a low roar, thank you.” 

That, at least, brings a small smile across Robby’s face and he mumbles teasingly, “Aww, Baran. You do care.”

“Of course I care, Michael. For fuck’s sake, Dr. Langdon, just use the trauma shears. No need to be all sensual about it.” 

Robby lifts his head as far as he can from the gurney, catching Langdon's embarrassed flush and hands poised at the zipper to Robby’s cargos. He's doing his best to raise his eyebrows at the resident in what he hopes will speak volumes on that, but it may not be getting across to the extent he wishes. “Didn't know you felt that way about me, Frank. I'm sorry, but my heart belongs to someone else.” 

Cheeks red, Langdon weakly gestures to his clothing. “I thought I'd try and preserve your pants at least–”

“Don't bother,” Robby whines, hand lifting a few inches to wave off any concerns. He's too weak at this point to care and, to be fair, he's got about a hundred pairs of cargo pants that look identical to these. He won't miss them. 

“Little pinch, Dr. Robby,” Donnie tells him, pulling his arm out to start the IV. Robby glares at him regardless—a little pinch is the biggest lie they tell. The cold rush of the cooled saline follows as well as an annoyance in his ear that has him batting away another hand–Santos once again–as she reads his temp off. 

“102⁰—Ugh, stop fighting me! Be glad it's not a rectal temp!” 

“Dr. Santos,” Baran warns, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she looks back down at Robby. “You go and get yourself sick? Well, you got everyone all concerned about you, Michael.”

“What's concerning is you calling him ‘Michael’,” Langdon quips as he retrieves cold packs and the trauma shears from Dana’s waiting arms in the doorway. “That's just fucking bizarre.”

“That's weird–” Whatever accent Santos is using, it's not her own. Robby frowns, turning his head to eye her. “That's suspicious!” At least she and Langdon aren't trying to kill each other. Huh—they work quite well together when not actively murderous. What brought that on?

This is all getting too confusing. Maybe he's not fine.

“That's his name,” and with Baran's declaration, it's left at that. His clothing is sheared away, all of it, fucking fuck– 

“Frank, what the hell?”

Langdon looks up at Robby’s angry exclamation, cheeks coloring. “Uh– Oops?” The sheared pieces of his boxers fall away to reveal a lot more than Robby would want but no one tries to re-cover him. That would bring their hands a little too close and this is bad enough as is. 

“It's better access to his arterials,” Baran excuses, shooing Langdon from his midsection and clearing the pieces of clothing she can reach. The resident moves to his torso, making quick work on his shirts and then rolling him to remove the rest. Oh, hello, dizziness, you're back. Fuck you, too.

His pits, groin, and neck are pressed with cold packs—decidedly unpleasant. Robby tries to fight it, keyword: tries. It takes only a sharp look from Dana, and Langdon barely pressing down to hold his arms still.

“Relax, boss. It's nothing we haven't seen before.”

“Fuck all of you–” he groans. “Get me something for my head–” 

They ignore him and rightly so. Any pain reliever would fuck with his kidneys with his internal temp as high as it is. He taught them better than that. 

“Portable X-ray for his ankle?” he hears Dana say from somewhere near his feet, but instead of the sound of the door and someone fetching it, there's fingers probing and turning the joint. 

“No swelling or bruising. Was he bearing weight?”

“Yeah, looked like it.”

“Mild sprain. Wrap it.”

He's losing track of the voices, each one blending and becoming distorted without being able to see the corresponding faces and make connections. The pain in his head is making it hard to concentrate, hard to grasp things that should come easily to him…

“I'll ice it too–”

“Yes, and a bit of elevation won't hurt.”

“Should we cover him?”

“Getting there, Santos, one thing at a time, okay? We're trying to prevent heat stroke here–”

Irritation as hot as the outside temperatures flares up through his chest. He's putting up with a lot but the continued talking about him like he's not even fucking there needs to stop. He's a goddamn doctor too. “Can you just get me a blanket and get the fuck out?!” 

The movement in the room ceases for all of two seconds before the flurry of activity starts up again like he said nothing at all. His damn kibbles and bits are on show-and-tell and they're all in here, trouncing around his bed like he's anyone else other than their Chief and come fucking on! 

“I want to know when his results come back–”

“Princess brought in the fan–”

“Is that a hickey on his thigh?” 

“Enough!” Pushing his body into sitting up, Robby wraps his fingers around the IV and pulls it out, tossing the entire line onto the floor and yanking open the drawer next to the bed for some gauze. “Just fucking stop! Stop! I've had enough!” 

Shoving the dressing into the crook of his elbow and bending it to his chest to keep it there, Robby swings his feet around, planting them onto the cool tile. His head is swimming in a sea of confusion and love sickness, mixed with whatever the fuck the heat is doing to him, but he's done with this. With all of this. There are other patients—people with life-threatening traumas and as-yet-uncaught ailments that could take their lives. All he needs is a water and a quiet corner for a few to get his bearings, not to take up a desperately needed bed. Seriously. “Someone get me some goddamn scrubs–”

“Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind?” Not hesitating, Dana gets into his face, her hands pushing him back onto the mattress. “You're half fucking conscious– Are you nuts?” 

“Yes, he is actually. Have you just met him?”

At the sound of Jack's voice, Robby’s head whips around, the dizziness increasing even as his mouth falls agape. “What are you doing here?”

“Reinforcements were called in.” Leaning against the entryway, the grin on Jack's face turns a little feral like he's far too entertained by this to let it go anytime soon. “They told me the Chief was down—taken out by the heat and a frail old man.”

Irritation spikes again. But before Robby can fully open his mouth to bitch, Jack waves everyone out. “Go on! Git! I got him. Leave the man at least some dignity—not that he had much to begin with.”

Langdon, Donnie, and Jesse flee, all three more than happy to be free of their naked captain. It's the women who linger, each with a different look of condemnation on their faces that tells Robby everything he needs to know: Baran is concerned he's slipping again in regards to his mental health—justified but unnecessary; Santos is worried he's sick and will actually need to leave them—unjustified, he's a picture of health and not planning on going anywhere (anymore); and Dana? She's just a pain in the ass who hates to see her friend in any discomfort (he loves her so much). And she probably almost definitely knows he's hiding something. 

(He is. But he isn't. She already knows he's in love with Jack but she just doesn't have the updated version of events. She'll hate being behind on her favorite soap.)

Jack ushers them all out, ripping the curtain closed for privacy once they're gone and turning to stare at Robby with an arched brow and about 100 comments under his tongue that Robby does no-ot want to hear. “So, heat exhaustion? Really?”

“And my ankle,” Robby offers unhelpfully, holding out the offending foot. 

“You're naked.”

Grumbling, Robby leans forward to grip the handles to the drawer closest to the bed and snag a chuck from inside, shaking it open to spread over his lap. “Not my idea.” 

“They went overboard because they care.” His palm, oddly cool for someone who is also standing in this godforsaken place with no AC, presses against his forehead. “You're still burning up, idiot.” 

“I'm fine–”

“God, would you just shut the fuck up for once and let me take care of you?” With one smooth movement, Jack hooks his left arm under Robby’s knees and his right slides across his shoulders, helping him to pivot and hoist Robby back onto the bed. 

Robby–for once–is speechless. His eyes might be a little wide, his mouth definitely a little open, and generally speaking, he didn't plan on seeing Jack again until shift change when his dumb arbitrary countdown finally ended and he was to confess his undying love for a man who only wanted a wham, bam, thank you, ma'am! He didn't plan on getting another showing of Jack's beautiful, sexy, incredible strength.

“You're not wearing gloves,” he says instead—albeit dumbly and more of a mumble than anything. But being horizontal is reminding Robby of just how exhausted he actually is. And hot. 

So hot. 

Fuck. Is it getting hotter? 

“I've literally been inside you, brother– Robby? Hey… Hey! You good?” Sounds next to Robby have him turning his head, the nausea rolling in his belly once again but what is Jack doing? What is– 

“I'm gonna start your IV again, you stupid fuck—did you rip this one out?” Jack's hands, still cool against Robby’s skin, make quick work of inserting the new butterfly, the chilled saline flowing once it's in. “Don't move, okay? Just– Just let me take care of you– For once, Mike, okay? All right? Just–” 

Whatever he's going to say vanishes into the busy work of pressing the cooling packs against Robby’s major arterials and setting up the fan. From the cabinet, he tugs free a light blanket and drapes it over Robby’s midsection, covering his genitals but still leaving most of his skin bare. 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he chides, using the ear thermometer to check his temperature again and clucking his tongue at the reading. “I know it's hot. I know maintenance needs to get their shit together but, Robby, please, please, be mindful, brother. This could have been a lot worse. I can't even imagine–” Teeth clicking shut, Jack stands, his movement abrupt. “I'm going to wrap your ankle now.” 

“Jack–”

“You need to rest.” 

“But–” 

Jack shakes his head, cutting Robby off with a sharp look. “Close your eyes and go to sleep. I'm gonna get you a compress for your headache and something to drink.” The feeling of his palm against the heated skin of his forehead forces out a needy whine from Robby's throat, one he'd be embarrassed about if this were anyone but Jack—who's heard far different sounds come from Robby. “Focus on cooling off, okay?”

And Robby does that. For all of the ten minutes it takes for Jack to wrap his ankle and retrieve a Gatorade, a wetted washcloth, and filled basin. He's even quiet as Jack wipes down Robby’s chest and legs, but once the cloth is back in the water and Jack's palm is again laying on his forehead, he cracks. 

Jack sees it on his face before Robby even opens his mouth, his head shaking ‘no’ just once. “Brother, don't–” 

“Jack–” Robby has never been good at following directions–just ask any of his residency teachers when he was a student–and he doesn't expect to start now. “Jack, we need to talk–”

Jack is silent for a beat, his eyes dark with his emotions and thousands of words not yet said. “I know. It's long overdue.” Shifting, he sits on the side of the bed, his palm sliding from Robby’s forehead to cup his cheek. 

“Last weekend,” Robby begins, but again Jack shakes his head to stop him. 

Reaching out, he snags a bag of hospital wipes from the still–somewhat–open drawer Robby had fished through before, plucking one out to finally swipe through the mess in Robby's beard. It's still hours earlier than the planned confession was supposed to take place but at this point, Robby is terrified of saying anything. Jack works in silence, his jaw moving back and forth in his concentration as he cleans Robby up, ripping new wipes from the package as needed and tossing the dirty ones onto the floor for him to clean up later. 

Minutes go by and not a single word is said until Jack sits back, satisfied that Robby is as clean as he can be at that moment. 

“I shouldn't have left,” he whispers, the last wipe falling to the ground. “I didn't want to leave. I thought– I thought that's what you wanted but– I know you. You suck at this. Hell, I suck at this.” Both palms this time, cool and comforting, cup Robby’s face. “I love you. I have for years. And I can't imagine this world without you in it, so you need to take better care of yourself, both mentally and physically so I can show you just how much I love you. Because I can't fuck you like that again if you're constantly gonna end up in a goddamn hospital bed.” 

The anger and irritation give way to other emotions–also close to the surface–and Robby’s eyes fill, tears slipping free and hot down his cheeks. “That's what I was distracted by– Why I didn't notice the symptoms– I was gonna tell you today– that I–I– That I love you. That I want to be with you.” 

“Oh, so I'm the cause of the great Robby Robinavitch Heat Exhaustion Debacle of 2026?” There's a twinkle in Jack's eyes; it pairs well with the smile on his lips. 

“I'm gonna still blame the crazy old man.”

“That could also be me.”

A laugh bubbles up and out of Robby's throat, his hands coming up to encircle Jack's wrists like he's hanging on for his life. “Not that old–”

“Hmm, maybe not.” Leaning down, he presses his forehead to Robby's. “I owe you a kiss—I'm not sticking my tongue in the mouth of a man who just vomited.” 

Barking out a laugh, even as more tears fall free, Robby nods. “Yeah, okay. I'm gonna hold you to that.” 

“Good. Because as soon as you're better, we're gonna do a whole lot more than kissing.” Leaning back, he lets go, fingers trailing off of Robby’s skin with a distinct reluctance. “It's too hot to be all over you, not when you're half out of your mind to begin with and overheating on top of that.”

“Hey now,” Robby groans, his head falling back against the pillow. “I'm feeling better! It's been like,” his arm lifts, waving around to indicate the passage of time, “–like 45 minutes. As a doctor, I can safely say that I'm out of the danger zone. I'm fine.” 

He's not—physically. He can kind of admit to that now. There's still a throbbing in his head, his body still aches, he still feels weak… But he is cooler and Jack wants him. Not just for fucking and blowing off steam but romance and company and companionship. They've been friends for so long the shift doesn't even feel like a shift, it feels like a natural progression; Robby can't even pinpoint what he was even so worried about. Why had he let this distract him when it's all so obvious now that this was how it was going to go. 

It's the only logical next step for them. 

Of course he feels better: Generally speaking, Robby can handle a crazy day in the ED. He can deal with the air conditioning dying and whatever bullshit is on his brain. Generally speaking, Robby is not too shabby at compartmentalizing—that is, unless he's near the edge of his own abyss but it's been something he's working on, side-by-side with Jack as his guide. 

At Jack's disbelieving look, Robby grins up at him. Ice packs and chilled saline are doing what they do, he's sure his blood work will come back fine, and regardless of any mishaps or residents seeing him buck ass and vomiting, he wasn't even the one to do the actual act of confessing. That very thought settles more inside of Robby than anything else can.

“Stop worrying so loudly,” Robby chides, reaching out to poke Jack's shoulder as–above them–the air conditioner finally kicks back on. “See? I'll be cool in no time. Then you can kiss me.”

Jack huffs out a laugh, standing and bending to press his lips against Robby’s temple. “Not until you brush your teeth.” 

“What's my temp, doc?” Robby asks instead of responding to any insults about the current state of his breath. 

Laughing, he fits the thermometer back into Robby’s ear, waiting until it beeps to read it with a happy smile. “99⁰. Doing much better. Truthfully, how do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

“Then sleep, idiot. And I promise, I'll take you home in the morning—my home. With my bed.” He pauses, a gleam in his eyes growing into a mischievous glow. “And my shower. Because you stink from sweating and I just changed the sheets.” 

Rolling to his side and tossing the cold packs onto the floor, Robby grins. The cold air of the AC is doing more than anything else at this point to fix the heat exhaustion; his temp is almost back to normal. “First it was only my teeth, now my whole body? Lies and slander.” 

“And if I join you?”

Eyes closing as he gives into the tiredness and his body's demands for rest, Robby smiles to himself. “Well, then, I guess that's okay.” 

-