Each and every day of the year

by dreaminbooks

Summary:

This is a collection of snippets from domestic life of Robby/Jack/Frank. Each chapter is a for a January prompt from: scealaiscoite

(tags will be updated as the month progresses)

Notes:

Hello!

It's been almost two years since my last fanfic (not counting the countless WIP I never post due to commitment issues when it comes to finishing them), but Pitt hyperfixation was too strong.

I decided to challenge myself and do a little prompt fill for the start of the New Year. Themes, dynamic focus, and length will vary chapter to chapter, so bear with me.

Hope you like it!

Chapter 1: a palamino’s golden coat

Summary:

The trio goes on a winter getaway. Frank can't decide if he's having a good time.

The air was crisp. The type of crisp that made Frank feel like his palate was frozen. He flicked his tongue back and dabbed at the hard tissue just to double-check. It was still warmish and had sensitivity. Should be fine, then.

A hand on his lower back stirs him out of his thoughts. Frank raises his gaze from the snowy ground to look at Jack, meeting the hazel eyes.

“Hm?” Frank hums softly in question, because Jack is clearly waiting for an answer, and Langdon has no idea what it could be.

“I asked if you want hot chocolate. They have thermoses and can pour you some.” Frank follows Jack’s gaze to the array of sleighs, Robby in his black puffer jacket leaning against the polished wood of the one in the middle, chatting with the tour guide.

It reminds Frank of his own father. Whenever they went on a road trip, his old man made it a side quest to small-talk at least one person at each stop.

“Are you guys getting some?” Frank asks, leaning into Jack’s warmth as the man sneaks a hand under the fluff of his jacket.

Abbott was like a furnace. The first few times Frank stayed till morning, he had to make a late-night retreat to the couch, where it was a bit cooler. It did upset Jack quite a bit from what Robby told Frank, so he stopped running—simply sticking his feet out from beneath the covers to cool down. Now Frank was so used to it, he had to prep a hot water bottle for whenever Jack wasn’t sleeping with them.

“Is that what your answer depends on?” Jack chuckles, his hand moving up and down Frank’s back as if quietly asking if he’s doing okay. Cold weather had that effect on Langdon, more precisely, on Langdon’s back. “We’ll sit down in a moment,” Jack says after a beat without an answer, some sort of pity in his eyes as he studies Frank’s tightly pulled face.

It’s the type of pity that always makes Frank feel even worse. It’s snowing like crazy; they just walked over six kilometers in what the tour guide called an idyllic winter hike. Jack had a prosthetic leg, his stump reacted to cold weather just as badly as Frank’s back did, yet somehow it was only Frank being a buzzkill.

“It’s fine. And yeah, the hot chocolate sounds nice,” Frank says, trying, for all of their sakes, to just cheer up. Robby was really having a good time, and Jack always had a good time whenever Robby did. Frank didn’t want them to look back at this weekend and say, “Remember the winter getaway we had? It was so fun! What a pity Frank was in a foul mood.”

“I’ll go get it.” Jack slides the hand from under the puffer and pats his back, the jacket softening the impact.

Frank watches him walk away and moves closer to the sleigh at the front. It’s an impressive thing. There are three in total: one for them, one for the family of four whose teen daughter spent half the trip threatening to lie down in the snow and freeze to death, and the third for the tour guide and a solo hiker who didn’t speak to anyone, simply trailing at the back of the tour.

Frank lets his fingers glide over the shiny red paint covering the wood, ignoring the loud chatter of Robby and the tour guide standing at the second sleigh. He follows the intricate white designs on the side, fingers mapping every curve and slope. Frank takes his gloves off to touch the strong rope traces and graze his fingers over the harsh material, enjoying how the bristles scratch his fingertips.

It’s in that moment that Frank finally gazes at the horse. The animal is huge, taller than Langdon, who now steps a bit to the side so as not to accidentally startle it.

The golden coat glistens in the afternoon sun, and Frank lets himself stare for a moment. It looks almost out of this world. He takes a tentative step closer, wondering whether it’s okay for him to touch the animal. His fingers itch, but he keeps them to himself.

“A beauty, isn’t she?”

Frank jumps when Jack suddenly speaks right next to his ear.

“Jesus—yes. Really pretty.” He lets his heart calm down a bit. With Jack right by his side, he’s not as afraid anymore to reach out and touch the horse’s neck, but he still doesn’t.

The bridle juggles a bit as the mare shakes her massive head, peeking back at Frank as if trying to encourage him to give her a rub. Frank frowns softly.

“How do you know it’s a she?” he asks carefully, imagining how the gold coat would feel running between his fingers—fluffy or coarse.

“Really? And you passed anatomy?” Jack snickers, making Frank roll his eyes.

A moment of silence passes between them before Jack speaks again, his tone growing more serious.

“I helped out on a ranch when I was younger. Well, a teen.” Jack shrugs and gets that distant look in his gaze, which Frank knows means Jack doesn’t really want to talk about it. He won’t pry then.

Frank hums in acknowledgment and looks around for something that could make changing the subject smoother. His gaze lands on two paper mugs in Jack’s hands.

“Oh! My hot chocolate. Give it here. Thought you were gonna hoard it all?” Frank teases and gently takes the mug Jack extends toward him.

Jack then looks to where Robby is standing, still talking like there’s no tomorrow, the tour guide growing paler with every word. Abbott rolls his eyes with exasperation.

“Poor guy. Didn’t know what he was signing up for when he let Robby chat him up.”

Frank snickers at Jack’s comment, turning to watch Robby too.

“Think they’re talking about the tour?” Frank asks, taking a sip of the chocolate, enjoying the sweetness and the silky feel of it on his tongue.

“No. I heard him when I was getting the drinks. He’s talking about work,” Jack scoffs. “Robby, your coffee’s getting cold.” Jack calls out, deciding to spare the poor tour guide from yet another anecdote about drastic sleigh incidents Robby has seen in the ER.

“Wait, there was coffee? You told me there was hot chocolate.” Frank frowns suddenly, lips forming a barely-there pout that immediately has Jack chuckling.

“No, I didn’t say anything. I asked if you wanted hot chocolate, and you said yes. Besides, I saw you chugging down two Red Bulls earlier. You’re already an Energizer Bunny. No need for coffee.”

Robby finally steps closer to them, entering their orbit with a smile.

“Thank you,” Robby hums softly when Jack passes him the other mug, then leans in to kiss his husband on the cheek. When he pulls back, he winks at Frank, a playful glint in his eyes. “Ready for the fun ride?”

Frank thinks about his almost-frozen palate, the dull ache in his back, and the plethora of activities still planned for today, bonfire included.

He smiles despite it all. Genuinely. There’s really nothing else he’d rather do today than be with both of them, even if that means freezing his ass off in a forest.

“Yeah.” Jack throws an arm over Frank’s shoulder and squishes him closer. “But I wanna sit next to Mr. Portable Heater over here.”

Jack snorts at the comment. “That can be arranged. I’ll go in the middle and spread a bit of my heat on everyone.”

Robby groans at the statement, taking a sip of his coffee to stop himself from commenting.

The tour guide gathers everyone for the sleigh assignment, and Frank glances at the horse again. She stares back at him... or maybe he’s just imagining it. The sun dances along her golden, sleek coat, and Frank follows the shimmer with his eyes, mesmerized.

He doesn’t like how it makes him feel. This longing for something he cannot have, for a creature so far out of his reach, makes him reminiscent in a not-so-pleasant way.

It’s the same longing he felt whenever he looked at Robby—less now, but before. Until Jack made it his personal mission to assure Frank it was okay for him to take some of Robby’s attention and affection.

Frank tears his gaze away from the mare and stares at the ground instead, letting the whiteness of the snow blind him.

“We’d like the palomino mare, if that’s fine,” he hears Jack say and immediately turns to look at him, gratitude palpable in his eyes. It’s a silly thing, really, but Jack gets it. And it makes Frank’s heart skip a beat.

Chapter 2: dried eucalyptus

Summary:

Frank has a day off and helps Jack with a little house improvement (Robby approves).

Notes:

Day two let's go!

Thanks to everyone reading and commenting, I appreciate it all <3

“So, what’s this for again?” Frank asks quietly, seated on the kitchen counter across from Abbott, watching him closely.

The fresh, minty smell wafts around them as Jack squishes the dried eucalyptus, fragile leaves crumpling and littering the dining table. The same table Jack meticulously cleaned barely twenty minutes ago. Apparently, he enjoys sabotaging his own efforts.

“For the shower,” Jack says, not pausing in his task as he wraps rough jute thread around the dried branches. He ties a neat knot once he reaches the end.

“To—” Frank makes a vague motion with his hand that very clearly means please elaborate.

“To smell nice. To look nice. To clear our airways.” Jack pushes the bundle across the table and toward Frank. “Can you hang it?”

They both know it’s not really a question, and Frank doesn’t ask why. Robby’s fancy shower is ceiling-high, and Jack prefers not to do chair acrobatics unless absolutely necessary. Understandably so.

“Yeah,” Frank says, sliding off the counter in one smooth motion. “Just tell me where you want it exactly.”

He drags one of the sturdy wooden dining chairs into the bathroom and wedges it between the glass shower door and on the Sicilian tiles.

“Wherever’s fine,” Jack says from the doorway. “Is there anything on the frame we could use as a hook?”

Jack watches Frank climb onto the chair, fingers splaying against the shower glass for balance. The chair creaks ominously when Frank shifts his weight too far to one side.

“Try not to split your head open,” Jack adds. “Please.”

“I don’t think there’s any—” Frank tilts his head, trying to get a better look at what he’s just been touching. “Ah! There it is. A bolt. Perfect for your DIY aromatherapy.”

He hums, threading the jute loop over the screw holding the shower frame in place. It takes more effort than expected. The rope is tightly wrapped, and the bolt just a bit too thick. The chair inches backwards as Frank leans forward.

Without a word, Jack steps closer and plants his good foot firmly behind one of the chair legs, keeping it from sliding back any further.

Frank lifts his hands up theatrically. When the eucalyptus doesn’t fall for two breaths, he turns his head.

“Like that okay?”

“It’s fine. Get down,” Jack says, resting a warm, steadying hand on Frank’s thigh. He knows he’s hovering, but he’s seen too many injuries come from situations that were supposedly harmless.

Frank crouches and climbs down carefully. Once he’s steady, he looks up, inspecting the hanging leaves. Jack watches his expression closely. It’s his fancy, sure, but he wants them all to enjoy it.

“I don't think I hung them straight. They're a bit wonky,” Frank frowns, the same way he always does when something doesn’t turn out perfectly on the first try. He reaches up, trying to adjust the leaves, fingertips barely brushing the bottom of the bundle.

“So are you,” Jack scoffs. “And yet we still love you.”

Frank snorts, and Jack leans in, kissing his cheek, then his lips. A soft, murmured I love you too follows, pressed between them.

After a moment of just standing there, bodies close, both staring up at the dried eucalyptus, Frank hums thoughtfully.

“We could’ve just hung it on the faucet.”

Jack meets his gaze, amused. “Yeah. We could have.”

---

 

Jack steps into the buzzing ER, his gaze going straight to the board. He scans it quickly, checking whether he should brace himself already. Not the busiest day. Good. He’ll take average over a shitstorm any time.

He makes a beeline for the lockers and shoves his backpack inside his own one. He's already dressed for work, he’d pulled on his scrubs straight after showering at home, cutting corners so he wouldn’t be late. Jack hadn’t even had time to dry his hair, but that’s how it went when one of them was off. The laziness of a free day was apparently contagious.

It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Frank had followed him into the shower, claiming it was just to check whether the aromatherapy worked.

It did.

When Jack steps back into the main area, Robby is by the nurses’ station. He looks up immediately, grin spreading across his face when he spots Abbott heading his way. It’s always good to see his husband smile, especially considering that a year ago Jack had to talk him down from a very different state altogether. About to jump off the roof state.

“There he is,” Robby says, fond and unmistakably relieved to be done for the day.

“There I am,” Jack answers easily. “Hi, Mike.”

He leans in and kisses Robby’s cheek, brief and familiar, enjoying the way Robby’s beard scratches lightly against his lips. They aren’t big on public displays of affection, but this much has always felt natural. The fact that they’re married isn’t exactly a secret either, at least not to anyone who’s been around longer than a few months. Jack’s fairly sure no one bothered to bring the latest batch of students in on it though.

“Hi, Dana,” Jack adds, turning with a smile when he feels a very pointed stare drilling into the side of his head.

“Jack,” Dana says, nodding. “Someone’s in a good mood.” She winks and takes a few steps back, giving them the illusion of privacy while flipping through a stack of papers she clearly isn’t reading.

Robby’s attention is already elsewhere. His eyes flick to Jack’s hair, still damp from the shower, and he gives him a look.

“Oh, don’t,” Jack says, recognizing it instantly.

Robby doesn’t say anything, just narrows his eyes. January. No hat. Wet hair. Jack meets the challenge for a second longer, then Robby exhales and lets it go. They've had this argument already, many times, and Robby was still waiting for his first win.

Instead, he steps closer and pulls Jack in for a brief hug, making the most of the few minutes they still have before handoff.

“God,” Robby mutters suddenly, nose brushing against Abbot’s neck. Jack feels goosebumps rise instantly. “You smell so fucking good. Is that new?”

Jack chuckles, clearly pleased. “Yeah. Little home project we did with Frank,” He keeps his voice quiet, they don't need anyone to know. They still were getting familiar with turning the two into a three. 

Robby hums, clearly intrigued. “Figures.”

“I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to show you in just a bit,” Jack adds, knowing exactly how that conversation is going to go.

Robby smiles at his husband, warm and tender, before pulling back. “Oh, I’m so looking forward to it.”

Chapter 3: coffee grounds stuck between teeth

Summary:

Robby wakes up to an empty bed and Jack brewing coffee.

Waking up alone in a cold bed is not something Robby is used to—not since Frank joined their relationship. Before that, Jack and he often missed each other, opposite shifts making domestic life hard. But today, on Jack’s day off, Robby had expected to wake up in a warm tangle of limbs, to the sound of soft, sleepy breaths, with both of his lovers pressed on either side of him. The absence sits wrong in his chest, small but noticeable.

He squints at the clock. 4:17. What on earth were they doing up? Due to working nights, Jack had a screwed-up circadian rhythm and could be excused, but Frank? Frank changed from pajamas into scrubs in the passenger seat just to save a few precious minutes of sleep.

Robby looks toward the soft light emanating from the kitchen and sighs. He abandons the warm cocoon of bedding and shuffles his way there. He notices Jack by the kitchen counter, the man in his navy blue pajama shorts and a loose, well worn T-shirt. The crutches are left resting against the counter.

“Morning,” Robby rumbles, not bothering to cover his mouth as he lets out a loud yawn, head tilting back.

Jack chuckles at the sight, shaking his head briefly. “Morning.”

“What are you doing?” Robby asks, leaning over the island counter, tapping the cold stone, gaze fixed on Jack. There’s something grounding about the sight, about seeing Jack this unhurried and domestic.

“Coffee,” Jack answers, placing the pot on the heat and reaching for his crutches. He shifts to his husband, letting Robby cuddle him as much as he wants, which Robby shamelessly takes advantage of. He presses closer, breathing Jack in, letting the simple familiarity settle his grazed nerves.

“Hm? Did the coffee machine break?” Robby asks, eyes drifting to the pot and the manual coffee grinder lying among the mess currently occupying their counter. Coffee beans hide between the dirty plates waiting for someone to mercifully unload the dishwasher. They really need a cleaning schedule, not just the whoever-has-time method.

“No, just wanted some old-time flavor,” Jack hums, leaning into Robby’s frame, pressing his head against his husband’s chest, letting the soft thump-thump-thump soothe him. Robby feels the tension of the week ease from his shoulders.

They rarely have time for a slow morning like this. And rarely, in this case, means practically never. Sometimes, when Robby and Frank both get up before the alarm, there’s time for those stolen moments of intimacy, but having the same with Jack is uncommon. Robby holds onto it quietly, like something fragile.

“Frank went for a jog before work?” Robby asks, voice low, a soft hum against Jack’s hair, deciding it’s time to address the missing part of their equation.

“No, he got called in early,” Jack says. Sensing how Robby’s body tenses, he quickly adds, “And if they needed the same from you, they would have called.”

Robby hums in agreement, more to convince himself than Jack. The reassurance helps a bit, even if it doesn’t fully quiet the anxiety that has risen.

“Well, means I get you all to myself this morning,” Robby says quietly, pressing a series of soft kisses to Jack’s temple. Just because he can. There’s a sense of selfish satisfaction in allowing himself this simple indulgence.

“That you do.”

The pot whistles softly, and Jack shifts away on his crutches, Robby missing his warmth immediately. He resists the urge to follow, instead watching Jack move around the kitchen, committing the moment to memory. 

He watches Jack go through his coffee-brewing routine with quiet attention. Jack swishes the pot before setting it down again, adding a splash of cold water inside. It’s oddly comforting for Robby to watch this small ritual unfold.

“You want some too?” Jack asks.

“Not a cowboy coffee fan, thanks.”

Jack tuts disapprovingly, opening the dishwasher just to wedge a clean mug out. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”

“The feeling of coffee grounds swishing around in my mouth.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jack scoffs. “That’s why I poured cold water in just now, so the grounds can settle at the bottom.”

He takes a dramatic sip and smiles brightly, a bit of ground coffee stuck right between his front teeth. “See? Tastes good.”

“Oh, I see. Alright,” Robby chuckles and closes the distance between them. He hooks an arm over Jack’s shoulder, kissing his cheek. He won’t break Jack’s heart like that. There will be time to gloat. For now, this is enough. “Take your coffee and come back to bed. I still have an hour of sleep and a severe Abbot deficiency. Self-diagnosed.”

Jack laughs, warm and indulgent. Robby feels something settle deep in his chest, a quiet certainty that, right now, there’s nowhere else he needs to be.

Chapter 4: faded pink boxing gloves

Summary:

Frank helps Robby organize some stuff.

Notes:

Welcome to day 4!

Yesterday was just Rabbot, so today we're having a Robbylangdon centric day.

Hope you like it!

The garage smells like dust, motor oil, cardboard, and something faintly metallic. Frank sighs as the door rattles shut behind them.

“Wow,” he mutters, eyeing the boxes lining the wall—some already pried open, some stacked on top of each other.

There are two boxes by the door with DONATION scribbled boldly in black marker. That’s the point of today’s task. Winter is striking hard, and Gloria gave the ER crew the green light to organize a small donation campaign. Anyone can bring whatever warm clothes they don’t need anymore, and they’ll be handed out to those in need. Langdon doesn’t pry into the details; he already dropped off a bag of sweaters that were too small for him. Post-rehab had him rounding out around the edges, which seemed to please both Jack and Robby, so Frank doesn’t feel too bad about parting with barely worn clothes.

His partners, however, see the whole thing mostly as an excuse to finally sort through the boxes littering their garage. It’s meant for two cars, and yet Robby’s bike has to be wedged into a corner, fortified by boxes so the Range Rover, currently parked in the driveway, can even fit inside.

Robby hums and crouches by one of the boxes. He’s wearing an old sweatshirt Frank recognizes as Jack’s, sleeves pushed up.

“I warned you,” he says.

Frank snorts and steps farther inside, hands in his pockets, wondering if he should’ve grabbed a jacket. The garage is colder than the house, concrete leaching warmth straight out of his bones.

“Jack texted me that he went through his stuff already and packed what he wanted to keep,” Robby adds. “Just my things now.”

Frank looks at a freshly duct-taped box labeled WINTER in Jack’s handwriting, fingers grazing gently over the Post-it note stuck to the side: have fun boys scribbled on it. He smiles, then crouches beside Robby.

“So,” Frank says. “Donation pile.”

Robby pats the floor to his right. “Here. Trash goes there.” He gestures left. “And whatever we’re keeping we can stack up and put back in the box once we’re done.”

“And won’t we need a maybe pile—”

“No,” Robby says immediately.

Frank looks up, amused. “That fast?”

“No maybe pile,” Robby repeats. “That’s exactly why we have so many things in the first place. If I haven’t decided by now whether I want to use something or not, another year of rotting in a box won’t change it.”

Frank laughs quietly. “And you keep saying my generation has no respect for sentiment. But okay. Fair.”

They start sorting. Open box, glance, designated pile. Scarves with holes. Gloves without pairs. A hat that looks like it lost a fight with a raccoon, pom-pom hanging by a single thread.

Frank lifts it. “This one’s seen some things.”

“Oh God,” Robby groans. “First winter internship. I thought my ears would fall off waiting for the bus. It was freezing.”

“Wanna keep it?” Frank asks, keeping his voice tactically neutral.

Robby hesitates. Then nods. “Yeah.”

Frank drops it into the storage box for clothes, feeling that small, private satisfaction of being useful. Of being trusted with memories that existed long before he came around. Robby told him, more than once, that he didn’t have to help, that he could’ve stayed inside with a beer and the TV humming softly in the background.

Frank wanted this.

Sure, the garage is mainly for Robby and Jack. The shelf they cleared for him when he moved in is still unoccupied. Frank doesn’t have many things. For one, he doesn’t like to own much. And two is that Abby started the divorce process right before he went to rehab. Packing him up in boxes and quietly asking him to take his things and move out. He did, but he couldn’t afford both inpatient treatment and a flat, or even a storage unit, so he went through the heartbreaking process of throwing it all out. Two suitcases of clothes and small mementos were his entire possessions at that point, and anything that didn’t fit was discarded. Mercilessly.

His therapist called it self-masochism. When Frank argued back, she made a point of listing everything else he could have done. Asking for help was at the top of the list.

Frank wonders, sourly, where this situation lands on that scale—watching Robby go through his things and encouraging him to keep them because of the memories they hold. Encouraging a sentiment he didn’t allow himself.

Robby pulls out a chipped coffee mug, the hospital logo faded. He turns it in his hands, thumb worrying the crack. His hand hovers over the trash pile for a moment too long.

Frank notices. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Robby says, setting it on the rubbish pile. “I just remembered using it. Doesn’t mean I will again.”

Frank nods and looks into the next box, mostly just to see how many are left.

And stops.

Wrapped loosely in an old towel, half-hidden beneath jump ropes and worn-out gym clothes, are boxing gloves.

Pink.

Not bright anymore, faded unevenly, worn thin at the knuckles. The leather is creased and darkened with age and sweat. The laces are frayed. The padding looks dense. Used. Frank lifts them out slowly, like they might bite.

His breath goes shallow.

“Oh,” he says. It comes out embarrassingly reverent.

Robby glances over, hand absently rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Those.”

Frank turns them over in his hands. They’re heavier than he expects, solid and unyielding. His fingers sink into the leather, finding the shape of Robby’s fists in the worn curves.

“You boxed?” Frank asks.

“When I was younger,” Robby says easily, like he’s talking about a hobby that never quite stuck. “Med school was… a lot. I needed something that shut my brain up.”

Frank hums, but his mind has already gone elsewhere.

He pictures it without meaning to: Robby younger, leaner, sweaty in a too-thin T-shirt, knuckles wrapped, jaw set. The rhythmic thud of gloves hitting a bag. Muscles tight, breath heavy, controlled. Anger, stress, and ambition all burned off in motion.

“They can go,” Robby says.

Frank looks up as if struck. “What?”

“They’re old.”

Frank turns the gloves over once more, slow. The leather creaks faintly under his fingers.

“They don’t look unusable,” he says. It’s neutral, offered lightly. “Just… broken in.”

Robby shrugs. “I don’t box anymore.”

“I know.” Frank sets them down on his knee instead of the donation pile. He doesn’t look at Robby right away. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t ever want to. Or need to.” He lifts his gaze, careful. “Stuff comes back around sometimes. Habits. Comfort things.”

Robby studies him, expression unreadable. He scoffs softly, “You think I’m going to wake up one day and decide to punch something?”

Frank huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Maybe not today.” He nudges one glove with his thumb. “But you liked it once. It helped. That counts for something.”

It’s stupid. He knows it is. He just doesn’t know how to say the rest without making it sound bigger than it’s supposed to be. Without acknowledging the part of him that still flinches at the memory of letting go, of standing in front of boxes and deciding his memories weren’t worth keeping. He made a memory with those gloves just now, and selfishly, he wants to latch onto it.

There’s a beat of silence. Robby exhales through his nose.

“Yeah,” Robby says finally. “I guess they might still come in handy.”

Frank feels the tension ease in his chest, small but real. He nods.

“Good,” he says, already leaning over to place them on the shelf Jack and Robby cleared for his things. “Then they can live here. Just in case.”

Chapter 5: a busted padlock

Summary:

Frank thinks cycling to work is a great idea. Jack and Robby not so much.

Notes:

Hello to day 5,

I wanted to showcase some more work environment, especially on the Frank/Abbot side since they're not official.

Langdon is so focused on typing patient notes that he barely registers the warmth pressing briefly against his back in a way that could still pass as accidental. Cedar and citrus cut through the antiseptic air. It’s familiar enough that his shoulders loosen before his brain catches up—Abbot’s aftershave.

“Busy day?” Jack asks quietly, voice pitched low, meant for Frank alone.

The younger man turns around with a smile. “Yeah. Per usual.” He pauses, then adds, softer, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jack says back, easy. He steps closer without thinking much about it, pure muscle memory, and Frank mirrors it just as automatically.

They stop an inch too close.

It’s subtle, only noticeable by them, but Frank feels it immediately—the hitch, the strange empty space where a kiss usually goes. He clears his throat and shifts his weight instead.

“Hi,” Jack repeats, smiling at the forced awkwardness. “Robby says everyone’s set for handover, so we can get the show on the road.” He tilts his head, amused. “I know you’re dying to go home and laze about.”

“All I’m dreaming of,” Frank groans, rolling his shoulders, “is the couch. And maybe food that doesn’t come out of a vending machine.” He pauses, frowning slightly. “Hey, was the weather okay outside? It was pretty cloudy this morning, and I took the bike, so—”

“You took the bike?” Jack asks, voice clipped despite the effort to keep it even. “Does Robby know?”

Frank frowns. “Obviously. And what’s that supposed to mean? I don’t need his permission to get to work the way I want to.”

Jack inhales through his nose, visibly reining himself in. This is not the place. Not with monitors chiming and a trauma bay curtain rustling a few feet away. Frank’s as stubborn as Robby; arguing here would get them nowhere.

“That’s not—” Jack cuts himself off, dragging in a long, calming breath. He lowers his voice. “That’s not the point. He should’ve told you why it’s a bad idea. It’s cold, it’s wet, and people drive like idiots.”

Frank opens his mouth, then hesitates, giving him a sharp nod, honestly willing to drop the subject.

Jack doesn’t look convinced. He watches Frank for a second. “Did you bring the helmet?”

“Yes.”

“The good one?”

“Yes.”

Jack’s mouth tightens. “The reflective vest?”

“No.”

“Frank.”

Langdon scoffs at the tone. “I’m not wearing a reflective vest, Jack. Come on. It’s a twenty-minute ride.”

“I’ll be careful,” Frank adds quickly, lowering his voice and stepping an inch closer. “Very careful. Pinky promise.” He hooks his little finger around Jack’s briefly, the gesture hidden between their bodies. “I’ll send you a selfie in my helmet. I’ll text when I’m home. Promise.”

“Okay,” Jack says finally. “Text me, or I’ll keep calling you nonstop. And when I say nonstop, you know I mean it.”

They stand there a moment longer than necessary, both of them visibly unsure what to do with their hands now that they can’t hold them. Then a gurney rattles past, and the spell breaks.

“Go finish charting,” Jack says, stepping back. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Yeah,” Frank says. “See you.”

He watches Jack walk away before turning back to the computer. His fingers hover over the keys for a second, the absence of a goodbye kiss still buzzing unpleasantly under his skin.

 

---

 

Frank leaves through the side exit like he always does, shoulders hunched against the cold and the lashing wind, helmet tucked under his arm. The snow along the curb has been trampled into gray slush. His breath fogs the air in front of him as he crosses the lot, careful not to slip on the patches of ice littering the concrete. Jack wasn’t exaggerating: the weather got even shittier.

He goes straight to the bike rack.

Stops.

The padlock isn’t looped through the frame anymore. It’s on the ground instead, busted open, metal warped and useless. The space where his bike should be is empty, tire marks already half-filled with freshly fallen snow.

Frank stares at it for a long while.

“Well fuck,” he mutters finally, mostly to himself.

A car door closes somewhere behind him with a soft thud. He doesn’t have to turn; he already knows who it is.

Robby comes to a stop a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, eyes flicking from Frank to the ground, to the lock, to the conspicuously empty space at the rack. He takes it in quickly, assessing the same way he does with a patient.

“Your bike?” he asks.

“Gone,” Frank says. He nudges the busted lock with the toe of his boot, more out of spite than anything else. “Guess someone really wanted it.”

Robby exhales through his nose. Not amused. He steps closer, bends to pick up the lock, turning it once in his hand before dropping it back onto the concrete.

“It’s cold out,” he says flatly. “Come to the car. You’re not walking in this weather.”

“I can take the bus,” Frank offers immediately. It’s automatic, the words coming out before he’s really thought them through. He’s already mentally mapping the route, the transfer, the extra time it’ll take. He doesn’t mind. He started taking the bike for a reason, and that reason still stands.

Before this week, he had no issue with Robby driving him to work. It made sense, they lived together and worked the same shift. That was until McKay joked that he’d better buy Robby a good bottle of wine for all the times he’d given him a lift.

Frank couldn’t shake it, the way people notice things like that. One thing Langdon knew for sure was that he’d never forgive himself if anyone cornered Robby and questioned his fidelity to Jack. Giving someone a lift every day, to and from work, could mean nothing, but it could also invite unnecessary comments in a place that thrives on gossip.

Robby straightens and looks at him. Not sharply. Decisively.

“No.”

Frank shifts his weight. “It’s fine, really. I don’t want—”

“I know,” Robby cuts in, voice calm but final. “And you know I had my opinion about you riding a bike to work in weather like this. You said you wanted it for exercise—fine, I get that. But your bike isn’t here anymore. It’s cold, it's late, and you are not taking the bus. End of story.”

There’s a pause. Snow drifts lazily between them. Frank watches it land on Robby’s shoulders, already imagining how cold he’d be riding in this weather, the wind trying to sweep him off the pavement. The thief did him a favor, honestly. Not that he’ll admit that out loud.

Robby turns toward the car and hits the unlock button. The lights flick on with two quick beeps. “Come on.”

Frank hesitates only a moment before following. He slides into the passenger seat like he’s done this a hundred times, still pretending it’s a coincidence and not a habit. He doesn’t even know why. Maybe it’s something his therapist should help unpack. It’s not like he expects one of their coworkers to be on lookout with binoculars, checking whether Frank looks too at ease in Robby’s car, and yet it still feels like he’s throwing Robby under the bus.

Robby starts the engine and pulls out smoothly from his parking spot. The heaters blast on, making Frank melt into the seat.

“You okay?” Robby asks in a softer tone once they’re on the road, cars crawling alongside them, everyone wary of the snow.

“Yeah,” Frank says. He rubs his hands together, then stills them in his lap. He shrugs. “Just… sucks. Besides, who’d want that bike anyway? You know it was shit.”

Robby hums in agreement. “I’ll drop you at the sports shop tomorrow after work. You can pick a new one, I know you wanted to anyway. Unless you want to go through the parking lot footage with Ahmad and file a police report. That’s an option too. Though I’m not sure this part of the lot even has CCTV.”

“I’ll think about it. Honestly, I don’t know if the bike's even worth dragging my ass to a police station.”

At the next red light, Robby reaches over and turns the heat up another notch, then nudges the vent toward Frank without even looking.

Frank smiles at that. He watches the road go by, streetlights blurring through the windshield.

“Thanks,” he says after a moment.

Robby glances at him briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Anytime. You know that.”

Outside, winter is wreaking havoc across the city. Inside, it’s just them, moving steadily toward home.

Notes:

Robby arrived at the crime scene suspiciously fast, just saying...

Chapter 6: smiley faces drawn in sand

Summary:

A quiet night in results in some reflection on Robby's side.

Notes:

Day 6,

I swear it was the hardest one yet for me, and then it just clicked. Hope you like it!

Robby sinks into the armchair, the expensive leather creaking softly under his weight. It’s one of the fancies he bought in recent years. With age, he started valuing comfort, whiskey that wasn’t from the bottom shelf and chairs that were better than his previous cheap picks from the assemble-it-yourself store.

Robby takes a swig of his whiskey, enjoying the slight burn of it trickling down his throat. The aftertaste of vanilla makes him hum softly.

The book lies forgotten in his lap; he’s got better entertainment now, watching Frank as the man took out his stress-relief kit. Langdon is kneeling by the coffee table, a small plastic tray laid out in front of him.

He squishes a mound of pale green kinetic sand down, watching as it flattens out. There’s satisfaction written all over his face. Robby watches as pale, slender fingers cup the sand and squish it, forcing it to form a mound again. Frank kneads it, humming as it gives in under his pressure.

The room is quiet, save for the distant murmur of Jack talking in the office, the bedroom door closed to keep work from drifting into their house more than it has to. Both Robby and Langdon have already finished their shifts, relishing the quiet afternoon and the chance to unwind, each with their own methods.

Jack, however, is at work. Technically. He’s working off-site, ready to take calls and aid whoever needs him. This particular call is dragging on, Jack groaning in exasperation every now and then.

Robby turns back to watching Frank, the man still going back and forth between piling up the kinetic sand and flattening it out.

Frank raises his gaze briefly and meets Robby’s eyes, sensing the unspoken encouragment, he smiles.

“They had it in rehab too,” he says. “It helps a lot with stress and redirecting your thoughts. Just something to occupy your hands with. Helps keeping your mind off—” Frank stops abruptly and clears his throat quietly, going back to kneading the sand.

Rehab.

The word is still like pressing on an old bruise.

Robby remembers all of it still. He rememebrs standing in the kitchen, Jack across from him, phone clenched so tight his knuckles were white with strain as he tried to force Robby to take it. He remembers the way Jack’s voice stayed steady when Robby was shouting that he wanted nothing to do with Langdon anymore.

“You don’t get to disappear, Mike,” Jack had said then, his gaze fiery like it always is when he’s fighting for something he knows is right. “Cutting him off when he’s trying to get clean is not something you want to regret. Trust me.”

Jack had said it sternly, and Robby listened.

He’s glad for it now.

It wasn’t much, still, compared to what Jack was doing for Frank at the time—the visitations, regular calls, bringing Frank books and jigsaw puzzles to make him feel betetr.

But that’s what Jack has always been. The glue holding everything steady. First he glued Robby back together, then Frank, and now he’s keeping the three of them close.

It was Jack who first saw how well Robby got along with Langdon, noticed that Frank’s crush only grew worse when he and Abby went into separation.

It was Jack who insisted they try out a threesome for their anniversary. Robby scowled and Frank had laughed it off, frowning as if it were some elaborate joke. When he finally agreed, it was as if he’d always belonged in their bed, in their house. Letting him go after that night was hard.

Jack was right, per usual. There’s nothing Robby would regret more than not being there, turning his back on someone who had always loved him unconditionally, through every unfair criticism, through every push, and every expectation.

And now they had this.

“Well, I’m glad it helps,” Robby says softly after a moment of complete silence, getting out of his head. His voice is steady. He takes another gulp of the whiskey.

Frank looks at him for a moment, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, as he always does when he’s unsure whether to say something or stay quiet.

“Wanna try?” he blurts out finally.

“Nah.” Robby chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m good. I’d probably end up making a mess of it.”

“It’s kinda the point,” Frank says with a small laugh. He focuses back on the sand before getting up smoothly. “Alright, I’ll grab a container before I forget and leave it out overnight.”

When passing Robby’s armchair, he leans down and kisses him briefly, chasing the lingering taste of whiskey. Robby grabs him by the waist and drags him down onto his lap. Frank falls with a huff, head dipping as he presses soft kisses to Robby’s jugular.

Frank laughs after a long moment of Robby holding him firmly in his lap, nuzzling his beard somewhere around Frank’s ear, “Is this a full-on hostage situation, or can I go grab the container?” 

“In a minute,” Robby hums, pressing their heads together.

Another moment passes and then: “Fine, go, but after that we’re doing a cuddle pile. As soon as Jack comes back, because what the hell is he doing in there?” Robby leans over the armrest to look at the still-closed bedroom door.

“Working,” Frank chuckles as he gets up from his partner’s lap, moving into the kitchen.

Robby’s scoff follows him.

“Yeah, he’s on call duty today, not a hotline. They’re supposed to call him, ask questions, and hang up,” Robby groans.

“Don’t be a party pooper. It’s the closest he’s gotten to having a day off with us in a while,” Frank hums as he steps back into the room, a clear plastic container in his hands.

He leans over the coffee table, and so does Robby. Frank looks at him questioningly as he watches Robby dab a finger into the kinetic sand. The texture is not what Robby expected. He isn’t entirely sure what he expected, but definitely something less… squishy. It’s fascinating.

He dabs his finger next to the previous indent, then drags a curved line beneath them.

A smiley face.

Frank laughs at that—sweetly and openly. The way he laughed before all that mess. Before the drugs, before rehab, before fighting every day to get better. Robby smiles immediately too.

“Wow. Thought you didn’t want to try,” Frank chuckles, causing the other man to shrug.

“You said it helps,” Robby says. “Thought I might as well spare a finger.”

The door to the bedroom finally opens, Jack greeting them with a tired groan. He pauses for a moment, taking in the scene. His gaze lands on Robby, leaned forward, fingers hovering just above the tray, right over the smiley face.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“So,” Jack says teasingly, “this is what I miss when I take one phone call.”

Robby scoffs, leaning back into the chair. “You were gone for forty minutes,” he says defensively.

“Tragic,” Jack deadpans. He steps closer, resting his weight against the arm of the couch, careful with the angle of his prosthetic. “I leave you alone for less than an hour and suddenly there’s arts and crafts.”

Frank rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “It’s not—”

“And yet,” Jack cuts in, glancing at him playfully, “that’s how it starts. Next thing you know, you’re having wine-and-paint nights.” He straightens and reaches out, resting his hand briefly at the back of Frank’s neck. “You good?”

Frank nods without hesitation. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Jack says, easy and sincere. He flicks Robby a look. “And you?”

Robby meets his eyes, something soft passing between them. “Yeah.”

Jack smiles at that, then taps the edge of the tray with one knuckle. “Alright. Carry on. But if this turns into a smiley face contest, I’m taking pictures.”

Frank snorts. “You’re unbearable.”

“Only because you love me,” Jack says, already turning away. “Gonna grab some tea. Heaven knows I deserve it after what Shawn put me through.”

As he passes the armchair, Robby grabs his wrist, stopping him. He tilts his head back, and Jack gets the memo, leaning down to meet him for a kiss.

“Grab the tea and come to us,” Robby murmurs. “I have a bright vision for the evening, and it involves both of you.”

Jack chuckles, stealing another kiss before pulling away. “Alright, but the smiley face contest comes first.”

“We’re not doing that,” Frank says cautiously. “Right?”

Robby’s mouth quirks. “No promises.”

Notes:

I went with kinetic sand for the sake of the winter theme ❄︎

Chapter 7: an eighties tv star

Summary:

Frank nad Jack gets some cozy time together.

Notes:

Already a week!

Thanks to everyone leaving kudos and commenting 🩷

Frank stretches out on the couch and lets the low hum of the TV ease his mind. The screen flickers, some rerun of a western movie that Frank’s only half-aware of. It's a background noise for his doom scrolling anyways, so he doesn't feel obliged to keep up with the plot. It feels good to finally relax after the hellish week behind him. Dozens of broken limbs, frostbite cases stacked one after another, and concussion from people slipping on ice and smashing their heads against concrete. And all of that on top of the usual workload.

Langon already pulled two doubles this week and worked his way into a glorious day off.

Robby smothered him with kisses before leaving for his own shift that morning, clinging a little longer than necessary and loudly complaining about how unfair it was that Jack and Frank got to stay home together, even if just for a few hours. 

Frank yawns softly, thumb moving on autopilot. He perks up when the bedroom door opens.

“Morning, Frankie,” Jack mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep as he enters the room.

Frank turns his head slightly. Jack’s in pajama bottoms, chest bare, grey curls still a little wild from sleep. He crosses the room, going straight towards the couch.

“Morning, Jack,” Frank calls. “Want coffee?”

“In a minute. Scooch.”

Frank does so without further ado, curling in on himself and making space. Jack settles down with a quiet exhale, propping the crutches against the coffee table within easy reach. Frank immediately shifts again, laying his head on Jack’s left thigh, nuzzling the warm flesh like a pleased cat.

He hums happily when Jack’s fingers find his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Slept well?” Frank asks. “You need energy for the shift.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies. Then, with a wry edge to his tone, he adds: “Not everyone’s so lucky.”

Frank grimaces immediately. “Yeah, Robby mentioned it; only like twenty times.”

“He was teasing,” Jack says easily. “You worked your ass off this week. Everyone knows it. Robby knows it.”

Frank hums in acknowledgment, eyes drifting back to the TV. Jack bends down, his face suddenly blocking Frank’s view.

“Why are you brooding?” Jack asks, a teasing smile on his face.

“I’m not brooding,” Frank says. “I’m chilling. Totally different vibe.”

Jack leans closer anyway, invading his space on purpose. Frank giggles, breath hitching as Jack hovers just a second longer than necessary.

Frank presses a quick peck to Jack’s lips, coaxing, pulling away immediately, and waiting for Jack to follow.

Jack’s hand slides to his forehead, the other cradling his jaw, immobilising Frank as Jack kisses him. The younger man melts into it for a few moments before trying to pull away, only for Jack to tighten his hold immediately. Frank swats at his arm, laughing.

“See, I forgot you’re like that,” Frank huffs in amusement when Jack lets him free.

“Like what?” Jack asks, grinning.

“Grabby,” Frank says, mock-accusatory. “I was going for soft, and you went full caveman.”

“Oh, you were not,” Jack replies. “That's soft.” He leans down again, this time brushing their lips together gently. He pulls away with a playful spark in his eyes: “And what you did was teasing. Which is what you do when you don’t want soft.”

“Whatever,” Frank murmurs, smiling despite himself.

Jack resumes scratching his scalp, and Frank hums, eyes drifting closed.

His phone vibrates on the coffee table. Simultaneously, Jack’s phone pings loudly somewhere in the bedroom.

“Rude,” Jack comments at the interruption, taking a glance at Frank’s screen. “It’s Robby. Group chat.”

They have one since recently. Just the three of them. It makes life so much easier. They can share all the important things: groceries, schedules, shifts running late. All that without having to text each other interchangably. Frank can't even figure out why they haven't created a groupchat as soon as he moved in.

“You can read it,” Frank says lazily and makes no move to sit up.

Jack reaches for his phone, holding it at an angle to even see anything, since he didn't grab his reading glasses.

“Guess what.”

“What?” Frank hums, nuzzling against his leg, trying to get more scratches in return.

“No, that’s literally Robby wrote. And—oh.” Jack pauses. “Oh my fucking god.”

He turns the phone towards Frank.

Robby’s on the screen, grinning like it's the best day of his life. Next to him is an older man with a moustache, wearing a patient gown, smiling politely.

“Is that, like, his high school friend or—” Frank mumbles in confusion, feeling there's some context he's missing.

Jack gasps. “What? That’s Tom Selleck.”

“Who?” Frank squints. 

Jack stares at him, looking almost appalled. “You don’t know who Tom Selleck is?”

Frank stares at him blankly.

“Magnum P.I.?” Jack tries. “The moustache? The florals? The wow effect?”

“You’re making that up.” 

“I am not. And I can’t believe you’ve never watched the show.”

“I’m a ’90s kid.” Frank shrugs as much as his position allows him to.

“Not an excuse, Frankie. We’re fixing that ASAP.”

“Fixing what?” Frank groans, pushing himself upright just enough to glare at Abbot.

“Your lack of cultural education.” Jack stands up, grabbing the crutches, already heading for the kitchen. “Open that internet TV thing and see if they have Magnum P.I. there.”

“It’s called Netflix, Jack,” Frank calls after him. “And I assure you, they don’t.”

He sighs softly, then relents. “Fine. I’ll check what streaming service has it. But if it’s bad, I will never let you hear the end of it.”

When Jack disappears into the kitchen to grab coffee and snacks, Frank unlocks his phone. He reacts to Robby’s photo with a heart emoji, then types:

"Really happy for you", adding a bunch of hearts and kissey faces, so Robby knows he means it.

Chapter 8: fake tiger’s eye stones

Summary:

The trio goes shopping.

Notes:

Day 8! Have a great permiere day everyone!

The long-awaited day of the three of them sharing a day off together also happens to line up with their weekly shopping day. There’s no escaping it, the fridge has been empty for three days already. Three days of buying bagels for breakfast, vending machine candy for lunch, and takeout for dinner. They were supposed to just visit the supermarket. One big errand turns into another. The stop for groceries suddenly includes home goods, a pharmacy, and now a small, overly warm store wedged between a nail salon and a place that sells phone cases exclusively for models no one owns anymore.

Frank trails a little behind Jack and Robby, hands in the pockets of his puffy jacket, letting the two men argue quietly about whether they need to stop by the gas station too.

Frank isn’t looking for anything specific in the store. He drifts from one corner to another, aimless, until he slows by a display of bracelets. They’re stacked near the counter in a shallow bowl, all of them looking equally cheap and cheerful, beads in different colors threaded on elastic. Frank’s eyes skim the lot as he dips his fingers in, sifting to see what’s hidden beneath the first layer.

Tiger’s eye, or rather something pretending very convincingly to be tiger’s eye. Honey-brown beads with darker stripes, polished enough to shine under the fluorescent lights.

Frank hooks a finger around it and wiggles it free from the surrounding bracelets. He lifts it up, watching how the light hits the beads. They look warm, even under the awful bluish lighting.

Robby approaches, leaving behind Jack, who’s busy deciding between two different sets of affirmation cards.

“You okay?” Robby asks casually, his hand settling at the small of Frank’s back.

“Yeah. Just—” Frank gestures vaguely. “Browsing.”

Jack, of course, turns at that. He follows Robby’s gaze, then Frank’s, and his eyes land on the bracelets.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Tiger’s eye. Fancy.”

“They’re fake,” Frank says immediately, like that changes the fact that he likes how they look. “Probably plastic. Or glass. Or whatever.”

“And?” Robby asks, his hand sliding sideways, cupping Frank’s waist.

Frank shrugs, already pulling away from the display. “Nothing. Just that it's a waste of money.”

Robby and Jack share a look.

Frank is already moving on to keychains, when Jack comes closer to the bracelets, examining the bowl with exaggerated seriousness.

“A whole dollar,” Jack mutters. “A tragic waste indeed.”

Robby snorts and adds: “Devastating.”

Frank hears them and turns. “You don’t have to—”

Too late.

Robby is already picking up the bracelet Frank put down, rolling the beads between his fingers, testing the stretch.

Jack peers over his husband's shoulder. “Such a nice color too. Goes with everything he owns,” he says, as if Frank isn’t standing a meter away.

“I don’t even wear jewelry,” Langdon says, crossing his arms defensively.

Robby raises an eyebrow. “You wear the watch I got you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“IIt has a purpose: it tells the time.”

Jack slips another bracelet off the stack, this one slightly darker. “And this tells people you’re hot and mysterious. And we can match. I’ll pick one for you too, Mike,” he adds quietly, earning himself a squeeze at the waist.

Frank groans loudly. Of course they completely ignore it.

Robby brings the three bracelets to the counter, adding them to the pile of remaining impulse buys Jack collected from around the store. Frank hovers nearby, torn between protesting and the strange, warm feeling curling deep in his chest.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice quiet and soft. He’s still getting used to being pampered by them, even in small ways like this.

Jack glances at him, his expression sharpening. Frank knows that look. Jack gets it whenever Robby talks about skipping a therapy session.

“Yeah,” Robby says easily, “but we wanted to.”

Frank doesn’t know what to do with that, so he sticks his hands back in his pockets and follows them out of the store.

When they’re in the car, Jack nudges one bracelet toward him. Frank notices it’s the same one that caught his attention first.

“Try it,” Jack says softly, brushing his fingers across Frank’s palm as he hands it over.

Frank hesitates for just a second, then slides it over his wrist. It fits easily, warming up quickly against his skin.

Robby keeps his eyes on the road, but the look Frank catches in the rearview mirror tells him he’s pleased.

Frank watches his wrist a moment longer than necessary, thumb brushing over the beads.

“Yeah. Not too bad,” he admits with a soft smile, settling more comfortably into the backseat. He watches Jack slide his own bracelet on, then waits for the moment Robby changes gears to lean forward and wiggle the last bracelet onto his wrist.

“Gimme,” Robby hums, rolling it on with ease. “There. Now we all match.”

Chapter 9: a world’s best dad mug with a chipped handle

Summary:

Frank comes to work the night shift after spending the day with Tanner.

Notes:

Day 9 is already here!

Frank steps into the ER with a bounce in his step, smiling brightly. There was still time before his tonight’s evening shift, but he was still so worked up that going home felt futile.

“Hey there, how did it go?” Dana asks immediately, Robby pretending he’s not eavesdropping. His gaze, however, is firmly on Frank, and his heart flutters wildly.

Abby invited Frank to come to Tanner’s birthday party today. A small thing, but it fell outside of the usual meeting schedule, which meant an extra day with the kids. And Frank loved his kids. Robby smiles softly, watching him buzz with that kind of open, unguarded happiness.

“Weird,” Frank says, looking almost giddy. “Good weird, though,” he adds quickly. “Tanner invited a lot of kids, so it was loud as hell, but it was awesome. We took them out to the garden to do a snowman building contest, and he specifically asked to team up with me, so—yeah. It was awesome.” He grins wide, unfiltered joy written all over his face.

“And how’s Abby holding up?” Dana asks, elbows resting on the nurses’ station.

“She’s doing great. She really likes the new job,” Frank says easily. “She told me that once everything settles, we can revisit the schedule so I can see the kids more often. You know, since she’ll have to hire a nanny. If I come around more, she could save some money, and I’d see them more often.”

“That’s great, kid.” Dana gently squeezes his shoulder. “Just remember to find time to sleep, okay?” There’s genuine worry in her tone, and Robby finally takes a proper look at Frank. He does look tired. Not to mention that he still has a whole shift ahead of him.

“Yeah,” Frank mumbles. “I’ll go to the staff lounge, grab a coffee, maybe take a power nap. I’ve still got over forty minutes.” A brief pause, then, softer, “That okay, Robby?”

Robby hums loudly, almost exaggerated, as if to underline that he was definitely not listening in.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure. Be my guest,” he says lightly. “We’re managing just fine, and Dr. Abbott should be in soon anyway.” He gives Frank a brief smile.

Both Robby and Dana watch Langdon disappear toward the staff room. Robby barely has time to sigh before an elbow digs sharply into his ribs. He snaps his head toward Dana with a hiss.

“Really, Robby?” she mutters. “The kid finally has something to be excited about, and you can’t even force a little small talk? Go talk to him. The world won’t burn down for a minute. Just go. Show some interest.” She nudges him forward for emphasis.

Robby complies without a comment.

Frank is by the sink in the staff lounge, the kettle already humming as the water heats. He turns when the door opens and smiles brightly when he sees Robby.

“Hi,” Robby greets, returning the smile without effort. “Came to ask if you’ve got any pictures from the party.”

Frank laughs and steps closer, pecking Robby’s cheek. “I’ll show you in a second. Tanner asked about you, by the way.” He watches the surprise bloom on Robby’s face with clear satisfaction. “Asked when he can see Uncle Robby.”

“I hope the answer was anytime,” Robby says, smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“The answer was this Wednesday,” Frank says quietly. “We’re both off, and Abby gave the green light. I hope that’s—”

“It’s more than okay,” Robby cuts in before Frank can spiral, leaning in to kiss him. He smiles against Frank’s mouth. “It’s really good to see you this excited.”

“And that’s not even the end,” Frank adds, eyes lighting up again. “Abby was going through some old boxes in the attic, and look what she found.”

He rummages through his backpack and pulls out a mug, swaddled carefully in his hoodie. It’s creamy white with a chipped handle. Frank hands it to Robby, who turns it slowly in his hands.

World’s best dad, printed in rainbow letters.

“She forgot about it,” Frank says fondly. “Honestly, so did I. Got it for my first Father’s Day.”

“It’s lovely, Frankie,” Robby says softly, handing it back. “Really.”

The door swings open again, and Jack limps in, jacket half-zipped, coffee from a nearby shop place already in hand, the backpack over his right shoulder.

“There you are,” he says, voice warm with relief. His gaze flicks between them, lingering on Frank’s smile. “Dana said you two are talking. Missed anything?”

“Nah, Frank’s about to show some photos from the party,” Robby says softly.

Jack smile. “Nice, I came right on time then.” He steps closer, pressing a brief kiss to Frank’s temple, then turns to Robby, kissing the corner of his mouth.

Chapter 10: gritted teeth

Summary:

Jack is having a bad day and Frank worries.

Notes:

Day 10 let’s goooo

I thought that for once someone else than Frank could have a tough day. Now two people are having a shitty day!

For the first time since moving in with Robby and Jack, Frank feels utterly lost.

He sits in Robby’s fancy leather armchair, his leg bouncing nervously as his eyes stay fixed on Jack. He doesn’t even realise he’s been holding his breath until his chest starts to ache.

Jack is sprawled out on the couch, his stump elevated on two pillows, a compression wrap secured tightly around the flesh. His jaw is tense, teeth gritted, and left forearm thrown over his eyes.

And Frank doesn’t know what to do to help.

He’s already tried everything he could think of. Tea, water and a bottle of pain meds on the coffee table, all within easy reach. A heating pad that Frank adjusted twice to make sure it wasn’t too hot. He’d even suggested Jack’s favorite takeout from an Italian place a few blocks away, the one with pastas that were to die for.

Jack hadn’t even looked up at the offer.

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbled, his tone clipped and distant.

This isn’t the kind of flare-up Frank has seen before. Jack has pain days, sure. Days where he needs more rest, where he’s short-tempered and snappy, but even on those days he’s still present and himself. 

Frank gnaws at the inside of his cheek, fingers twisting together in his lap. He watches Jack for another long moment, then glances toward the hallway, debating. Maybe Robby would know what to do. Robby always knows what to do.

His thumb slides over the tiger’s eye beads around his wrist, rolling them back and forth, grounding himself in the familiar texture and motion.

“I’ll just grab a—uh, something from the garage,” Frank mutters, the excuse flimsy even to his own ears, but he doubts Jack’s listening to him anyways.

Langdon gets up quickly and slips through the interior garage door, closing it behind himself with a soft click.

Robby’s number is already on speed dial. Frank paces in small, tight circles as the phone rings, the sound flat and endless in his ear.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Robby asks the second the call goes through, his tone all business. There’s a lot of noise in the background, raised voices and beeping of countless monitors.

And yet, Robby picked up. Frank tries to ignore how warm it makes his chest feel.

“Quick question,” Frank says, rushing it out. “Is there anything you usually do for Jack when he has a flare-up? Because—”

“Wait,” Robby cuts in sharply.

There’s rustling on the other end, then louder beeps. “Yeah, that’s fine. Get him a CT,” Robby says to someone before refocusing. “Okay. I’m here. What’s going on?”

“Jack’s in pain,” Frank says quietly. “I don’t know if it’s his stump or phantom pain, cause he’s not really… talking to me.”

“Did you give him the meds?” Robby asks. “Compression? Heating pad?”

“Yes. All of it.”

There’s a pause before Robby sighs loudly.

“Then, as much as it sucks,” Robby says carefully, “there’s nothing else to do. It has to pass on its own. Just be there with him. And don’t coddle him too much. He hates that.”

“Oh,” Frank says, hating how small it sounds.

He really expected Robby to have a solution. Anything. Then again, he often forgets that Robby is just human too. That even Robby can’t fix everything.

“I know it’s hard,” Robby adds, voice softer now. “Sitting there and feeling useless. But that’s what helps the most to be honest.”

“Yeah,” Frank murmurs. “Thanks. And… sorry for calling you in the middle of—”

“It’s fine,” Robby interrupts. “I’m glad you did. I can’t hang up unless I know you’re okay though. That’d just mess with me for the rest of the day.”

Frank exhales shakily, nodding even though Robby can’t see it. “I’m okay. I just hate that Jack has to go through this. It sucks.”

“I know, ba—” Robby cuts himself off abruptly, turning the almost spoken baby into a rough cough, apparently he’s no longer able to talk freely. “I know.”

Frank smiles faintly. “Love you. See you at home, okay?”

“Yeah. Love you too.”

The call ends, and Frank takes a steadying breath before heading back inside.

He barely gets a foot into the living room when Jack speaks.

“And?” Jack asks. “What did Robby say?”

There’s a sharp edge to his voice, his forearm still covering his eyes, so Frank can’t read his expression.

“What?” Frank manages to blurt out weakly.

“The door’s not soundproof,” Jack mutters, finally lowering his arm to look at Frank. His gaze isn’t angry. If anything, it shows how tired he is.

“I’m sorry,” Frank blurts. “I just wanted to help. I—”

“Come here,” Jack says, cutting him off as he extends an arm invitingly.

Frank doesn’t hesitate. He moves to the couch, perching awkwardly on the edge until Jack rolls his eyes and tugs him down.

“I said come here,” Jack murmurs. “You’re my life-size plushie now. That’s what I need.”

Frank melts into him immediately, curling under Jack’s chin, fitting himself into the limited space. Jack presses his face into Frank’s hair, breathing in his scent, some of the tension finally easing from his shoulders.

“You worry too much, Frankie,” Jack whispers, kissing the crown of Langdon’s head.

Frank hums, arms tightening around Jack’s chest. “Can’t really help it,” he says softly. “I love you.”

Jack exhales, the sound almost a laugh. His voice is raw with sincerity when he responds: “Love you too.”

Chapter 11: watermelon juice dripping down fingers

Summary:

Frank is trying out a recipe. Robby would rather he tries out fighting his fears.

Notes:

Day 11, enjoy ❤️

Frank hums to himself as he cuts the watermelon into neat cubes, tossing them into a larger bowl. It’s a fairly simple recipe he found online at three in the morning, struggling to fall asleep. Watermelon cubes, feta crumbled by hand, fresh mint, a little lime juice, olive oil, black pepper. It smells fresh and sharp, like summer. Frank is still upset they haven’t had a chance to spend the last one together.

Cold, sticky watermelon juice runs down Frank’s fingers, dripping onto the stone counter before he has a chance to notice.

“Jack texted me like five times today to ask if I’ll make the salad this week,” Frank chuckles, half to himself, since Robby is standing nearby with his eyes glued to his phone, already in sweats, hair still damp from the shower.

“You know Jack. He always gets excited about food when he’s stuck on shifts.” Robby mutters, placing the phone down and rubbing over his eyes.

“Yeah,” Frank smiles faintly. “I figured I’d pack him some. You know, just to surprise him. I don’t think he took anything to eat today.”

Frank reaches for a plastic lunch container and pauses, glancing at Robby, bracing himself.

“Can you take it to him?” he asks lightly, as if trying to hide how much he wants Robby to do it.

Robby doesn’t answer right away. He watches Frank portion the salad instead, careful and precise, like he’s suturing instead of cooking. Frank licks a drop of juice off his thumb, glancing at Robby nervously.

Robby exhales slowly. “No.”

“What?” Frank looks up, putting the spoon down with a metallic clank.

“No,” Robby repeats, firmer this time. “You should take it.”

Frank lets out a single, hollow laugh at the statement. “Absolutely not.”

“Frank.”

“I’m not—” He stops and presses the lid onto the container harder than necessary, the plastic creaking under the strain. “Robby, come on. You know why.”

“What I know is that you’re scared. Irrationally.”

“That’s not—”

“You are,” Robby says calmly. “You’re scared someone’s gonna look at you too long. Or look at Jack. Or put two and two together and come up with something ugly.”

Frank’s jaw tightens. “Because they will.”

“Or they won’t.”

“They will,” Frank insists, his voice quieter now. “They already talk about how friendly the three of us are. You know they do. You’re both attendings, and you’re—” He gestures vaguely, frustration building. “You’re married. I don’t want to be the reason people speculate.”

Robby reaches out and catches Frank’s wrist before he can pull away. His thumb brushes over the line of juice still running down Frank’s skin, soft and slow, meant to ground him.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Robby says. “You’re bringing your friend lunch.”

Frank exhales shakily. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Robby sighs.

“Listen to me. You’re not kissing him in the hallway. You’re not sitting in his lap in the lounge. You’re handing him a container of salad and leaving.” He shrugs. “That’s it.”

Frank looks away, eyes bright, sharp with the kind of emotion that usually means he’s close to spiraling. “And what if someone asks why I’m doing it and not you?”

“The truth,” Robby says easily. “You told him about the salad, he got excited to try it, so you brought it. Or you made extra and wanted to share. Or you say nothing at all. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“You make it sound easy,” Frank mutters.

“I know it’s not,” Robby admits, not wanting to dismiss Frank's feelings. “But it’s important. And Jack would want you to be the one.”

That seems to be the breakthrough. Frank’s shoulders sag slightly as he starts to make peace with the fact that if he wants to give Jack lunch, he’ll have to deliver it himself.

Frank stares at the container, then at his hands, still pink and damp from the watermelon. He wipes them slowly on a clean towel, breathing through it.

“You’re not coming with me,” he says carefully.

Robby smiles a little. “Nope. I’ll wait on the couch like a menace.”

Frank snorts despite himself. “You’re the worst.”

“I know. Go,” Robby says, handing him the container and nudging him toward the door. “Before you talk yourself out of it.”

 

 

---

 

Frank keeps his head down as he walks, the lunch container tucked under his arm like contraband. He spots Shen and gives him a polite smile.

“Forgot something?” John asks, sipping his iced coffee. There’s barely anything left, judging by how loud the slurping is.

“No,” Frank says, deciding honesty is best. He’s not doing anything inappropriate. “I need to speak to Dr. Abbott. Is he around?”

Shen stares at him wordlessly, only another slurp breaking the quiet.

“He’s in the break room, getting coffee,” John says.

Frank mutters a thanks and leaves, feeling Shen’s gaze burn into his back all the way to the room.

Jack looks up from the coffee machine and freezes when he registers who’s standing in the doorway. Langdon shuts the door with a soft click.

“Frankie?” Jack’s voice softens immediately, surprise flickering across his face before something closer to worry takes over. “Hey. What are you doing up here? Everything okay?”

Frank shifts his weight, the lunch container tucked tight against his ribs. His pulse is loud in his ears, a steady rush that makes it hard to hear his own thoughts.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I brought you lunch.”

Jack stares at him, dumbfounded, before a smile lights up his face.

“You did?”

Frank nods and holds the container out, hands just a little unsteady. “The watermelon salad we talked about. With mint and feta. If you hate it, that’s fine, I just—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching. “I wanted you to have something fresh to eat.”

Jack takes the container carefully. “Frank,” he says quietly, and Langdon’s stomach flips at the way his name sounds in Jack’s mouth. “You didn’t have to. But I appreciate it. A lot.”

Frank shrugs, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You okay?” Jack asks softly, setting the container on the small table nearby and turning his full attention to Frank.

“I almost didn’t come in,” Frank admits quietly. “I stood by the entrance and thought about just running back home.”

Jack’s expression shifts, something serious and tender settling in. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Frank says, barely audible. “I didn’t.”

Jack takes a step closer, not into Frank’s space, just close enough for his presence to be felt.

“You did really good,” Jack says honestly. “I know this was a big step for you.”

Frank exhales shakily, tension draining from him in a way he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I kept thinking people were watching. That someone would ask why it wasn’t Robby. That I’d mess something up just by being here.”

Jack nods. “And you still came.”

“Yeah.”

Jack smiles, small and steady. “That matters.”

Frank risks a glance up. Jack’s eyes are warm and unafraid in a way that makes something in Frank’s chest ache in the best possible way.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jack adds, reinforcing it gently, like pressing something into place and taping it down so it finally sticks. “You brought me lunch. You checked on me. That’s allowed. That’s normal.”

Frank huffs a weak laugh. “Okay.”

Jack reaches out, slow enough that Frank has time to pull away if he wants to, and brushes his thumb once over Frank’s wrist, right where Robby touched before. A habit they shared for so long no one remembered who started doing it first.

“Thank you,” Jack says, voice low. “Not just for the food. Thank you for caring. Thank you for coming.”

Frank’s breath catches, but he doesn’t pull back.

“Enjoy it,” he says quietly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Jack gives his wrist a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Text me when you get home,” he says almost automatically as Frank nears the door, then pauses, smiling. “And Frankie?”

Frank looks back immediately.

“I’m proud of you.”

Frank leaves with a soft-spoken goodbye, before Jack's words can hit hard enough to make him cry in the hallway. He lets out a shaky breath.

He brought Jack lunch to work, and the world was still spinning.

Obviously, he grinned the entire way home.

Notes:

I was 10 minutes late to my dnd session due to editing this chapter 😭

If there are typos, lemme know and I'll fix them tomorrow.

Chapter 12: a stolen wallet

Summary:

The boys go out to grab drinks (and kiss in public).

Notes:

Enjoy the day 12, but be warned there is some making out there.

I went back and forth in the rating, but I think the current one should be fine, if it’s not, lemme know 🫡

The bar had some fancy name that all three of them forgot even before the Uber driver dropped them by the entrance. It was a long drive to the outskirts of Pittsburgh, into an area that wasn’t known for good bars—or honestly, any places worth visiting in general; that was exactly why they’d chosen it.

The air inside was stuffy, the interior dimly lit, and the wooden tables darkened by years of soaking up spilled beer. This was the kind of place where no one blinked twice at anything going on between patrons. The windows were fogged from the inside, the warm air fighting with the cold outside.

Frank is pretty sure they’re the guests that every shift dreads hosting. And all that before they even sit down properly.

Jack has Robby backed against the booth as soon as they slide in, one hand braced beside Robby’s head, the other fisted in his jacket collar. The kiss is open-mouthed and unashamed, messy with laughter and whiskey that they one-shotted straight after walking in, not even making it to the booth. Robby makes a soft, pleased sound into Jack’s mouth and kisses him back just as hard, fingers curling into Jack’s shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

Frank slides in on Jack’s other side, close enough that Jack barely has to turn to catch his mouth too.

It’s not really delicate. Jack kisses Frank like he knows exactly how much pressure will make him melt, and Frank answers by grabbing Jack’s jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge there. Robby leans in and bites into Jack’s neck, laughing softly when Jack makes a startled sound.

“Jesus,” Frank murmurs against Jack’s mouth, sobering up for a moment. “We just got here.”

Jack grins, all flushed already. “No one knows us here. We might as well have some fun.”

Robby leans over Jack’s body and kisses the corner of Frank’s mouth, then his cheek. He’s coaxing Langdon, staying there just long enough for the man to finally kiss him.

“That’s exactly why we came here in the first place,” Robby reminds them with a grin.

Since they’re crammed into a booth meant for two, their bodies overlap, legs tangled shamelessly beneath the table. Jack in the middle, Robby half in his lap on the left, Frank pressed close on the right. Jack’s arms stretch along the back of the booth like he owns the space.

The bartender raises an eyebrow when she drops off the round of drinks they ordered, along with a portion of fries. Frank smiles at her apologetically.

Jack takes a sip, then leans back in and kisses Robby again, slower this time, unbothered by the fact that Frank’s hand is warm and solid on his thigh, thumb dragging just a little too high not to be considered scandalous. Robby’s fingers toy with Jack’s wedding ring as he kisses him back.

Jack excuses himself after a moment, hobbling between them to get out of the booth and into the bathroom wedged into an obscured corner of the bar.

Robby reaches across the table, plucking one of Frank’s fries from the plastic container.

“Hey! You guys said you weren’t hungry,” Frank whines, ignoring the flutter that Robby’s playful smile raises in his stomach.

“It’s communal property now,” Robby chuckles, popping another fry into his mouth.

When Jack comes back, they easily find the position again. He kisses Robby’s cheek, then his mouth, then tips his head back to rest against Frank’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded and happy.

They’re careless here, especially compared to how hard they try to keep appearances at work. It’s fun, being this free and giddy, able to kiss each other without caring who sees.

A wave to the bar and another round arrives. Then another. The buzz is now a constant hum under their skin.

When Jack offers to close out the tab and reaches for his wallet, his smile falters immediately.

“Hold on,” he mutters, patting his pockets. Once. Twice. Another time, but harder.

Robby straightens immediately. “Jack?”

“My wallet,” Jack says, tension snapping sharp through the alcohol haze. “Fuck. I had it. I paid for the first round when we came in.”

“Hey. Slow down.” Frank’s hand slides to Jack’s knee, grounding, or at least attempting to.

Jack is already half-standing, supporting his weight on the table. “No, I had it when we came in.”

“Jack,” Robby says firmly, palm pressing between Jack’s shoulders. “Sit.”

“I paid earlier,” Jack says. He scans the table as he thinks, trying to remember where his wallet could be. Then his brow furrows. “I went to the bathroom. Someone bumped into me in there. Fuck. I didn’t think—”

Robby’s hand slides to the back of Jack’s neck. “That might’ve been it.” He hums, gently kneading the tense muscles.

Frank doesn’t hesitate. “I’m checking the bathroom.”

Jack looks at him, eyes bright with frustration and embarrassment. “Frank—”

“I’ve got it,” Frank says, already sliding out of the booth, making his way there before Jack can stop him.

The bathroom smells like cigarettes and cheap air freshener. Frank checks around the sink, the counter, the paper towel dispenser. Nothing.

When he opens the stall, he sees it immediately. Jack’s wallet sits on the toilet tank, pried open and left behind.

Frank exhales, something between relief and lingering anger. “Of course.”

He checks inside just enough to prepare for the damage. ID. Cards. The folded photo Jack keeps tucked behind his Veteran ID—it’s the three of them together, a cut-out piece from a photo booth session during a medical conference.

The only thing that’s gone is the cash.

Frank’s jaw tightens, but he closes the wallet carefully and washes his hands, scrubbing longer than necessary, letting the water wash the anxiety from his hands, or at least imagining it does. It helps. 

Frank slides back into the booth and holds the wallet up.

“Oh,” Jack breathes out, reaching for it.

Robby lets out a breath. “Thank God.”

“The fucker left it in the stall,” Frank says, placing it in Jack’s hands. “Everything important is still here.”

Jack flips it open, double-checking his things and nodding. “Yeah, took just the cash.”

He sounds relieved, and it makes Frank smile. He then looks at Robby, softly checking-in without even saying anything. Robby smiles back.

Jack rests against Frank’s shoulder, and Langdon presses a kiss into his hair without thinking. It’s a habit he picked up from his lovers already.

“Next round’s on me,” Frank chuckles. Jack’s laugh vibrates across his body.

Chapter 13: tattoos peeking out from above a shirt collar

Summary:

Robby is getting ready for a conference. Frank is oogling.

Notes:

This one was tough, not gonna lie 😭

I guess that's how the daily prompts are, some just flow better than others.

Frank is curled up against Jack’s side as the man scrolls through his emails, jaw set with quiet determination. Today, apparently, is the day Abbot finally sorts his inbox. Deletes the junk, flags the important ones, and maybe finally stops getting the mailbox is full pop-up.

He still has some time before his shift. Enough time to believe he might actually succeed with a task he’s been putting off for weeks. Although Frank suspects he'll get bored in approximately fifteen minutes.

Frank’s phone has slipped face-down into the couch cushions at some point; he’s not even sure when he stopped scrolling. All he can think about now is how boring the day is going to be. He’s off. Jack will leave in a couple of hours. Robby’s not even going in; he’s representing their department at some medical conference, which means panels and networking and bad coffee in a hotel ballroom. Which cannot suck as bad as Robby claims it does.

Frank sighs quietly and shifts closer, pressing his cheek into Jack’s side. He’ll just have to make the most of the time he has, then.

Somewhere in the background, Robby moves around the apartment. Soft thuds of drawers opening and closing can be heard. Then the muted clink of a belt buckle, and the rustle of fabric being shaken out before it’s put on properly.

Robby appears briefly in the hallway mirror, adjusting his collar with a frown of concentration, then disappears again into the bedroom. When he comes back out, he looks… good. Good enough to have Frank’s full attention.

He’s wearing a crisp white button-down, slacks instead of his usual jeans. The jacket is folded neatly over one arm, conference badge tucked into the inner pocket. Clearly, he’s done this before. Despite his lack of enthusiasm in the face of socialising, he’s always picked for conferences. It flatters and infuriates Robby equally. He checks his reflection once more, smoothing the front of his shirt, rolling his shoulders like he’s settling into a role, braicing himself for the day ahead.

Frank watches him with laser focus.

Robby pauses by the door and crouches to tie his shoe. The movement pulls at the fabric of his shirt, the collar shifting just enough.

Frank blinks slowly.

The tattoo along Robby’s collarbone peeks out, just the very edge of it, dark ink standing out against the pale skin. It’s not one Frank sees often. The tattoos on Robby’s arms are familiar, easy to spot even at work. This one is more private. Frank’s not even sure anyone knows about it apart from the three of them.

Frank freezes in the moment, gaze glued to Robby.

Jack shifts slightly beside him, breath warm against Frank’s neck as he turns his head. “You okay?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Frank says softly. “Just—”

Robby finishes tying his shoe and straightens, catching Frank’s gaze immediately. He doesn’t look surprised. He reaches up, fingers brushing his collar as if in thought, then does the remaining button up.

“Still showing?” he asks, already knowing the answer to why Langdon was staring.

Frank shrugs. “It only showed because you bent down.”

Robby hums, considering that. He steps closer to the couch, close enough that Frank can smell his cologne, it's clean and proper, chosen carefully for a room full of strangers.

Frank lifts a hand and smooths the fabric over Robby’s chest, gently adjusting the collar, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Jack looks up over the top of his reading glasses. “You look great,” he says, appreciative and sincere, always the biggest fan of Robby wearing a proper shirt.

Robby’s mouth curves into a small, pleased smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Frank answers quietly, knowing Jack agrees.

“When are you leaving?” Jack asks.

“Now,” Robby says. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to Jack’s temple, then another to Frank’s hair. It’s a familiar gesture, one that never fails to fill Frank’s chest with warmth.

Frank sinks back against Jack when Robby straightens again. The collar is neatly in place now, the tattoo hidden. Frank exhales softly, a hint of disappointment slipping out with the breath.

“Good luck,” he calls after him. Then adds playfully: “Try not to let anyone steal you.”

Robby pauses at the door, smiling back at Frank. “I’ll do my best.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

Jack waits a beat, then exhales through his nose, amused.

“You know,” he says carefully, “if he comes back and says people wouldn't leave him alone the whole day, it's on us. We let him out of the house looking this good.”

Frank snorts despite himself, tucking closer into Jack’s side.

Chapter 14: a crutch leaned against a bedframe

Summary:

The trio has a movie night.

Notes:

I should write at work more often. I’m clearly more productive during company time hahaha

And we’re at day 14 already!

Frank checks his watch again, careful not to slip on the ice patches covering the pavements. It’s been raining for most of the day. When the sun set and the temperature dropped, everything froze. Langdon is glad to be done with his shift; he already treated three broken hands in the last 45 minutes of it. But he’s finally home, and fortunately on time. They had plans at eight sharp; the only acceptable excuse for being late would’ve been an emergency at work.

All because tonight is movie night. Something they’ve been looking forward to all week. Jack and Robby were both off today and handled the groceries. All Frank had to do was come home and join them.

He opens the door and kicks his shoes off, unzipping the puffy jacket. “I’m home!” he calls, knowing Jack and Robby are most likely cooped up in the bedroom, getting ready. It’s endearing how seriously they take such casual plans like a movie night in.

“We’re here!” Jack calls back from the bedroom, as if Frank expected them to be anywhere else.

Frank stops by the bathroom to wash his hands, enjoying the smell of the new cinnamon roll scented soap Jack picked up last week. When he finally makes it to the bedroom, he has to stop in the doorway.

They have clearly gone overboard.

The bed is already set up like a command center. Pillows are stacked and arranged with care, even the decorative ones they usually keep in the living room. A thick blanket is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The laptop is positioned on the nightstand at just the right angle for the HDMI cable to reach the bedroom TV. On the dresser, there’s an entire spread of snacks.

Frank stares at them in disbelief. When he left for work this morning, he told Robby to buy “just popcorn, something sweet, and a beer.”

Robby did get popcorn… two bags, and chips, and three kinds of gummies, and pretzels, and trail mix. And—Frank squints, trying to make sure it’s not some post-work hallucination—three different six-packs of beer.

Robby is kneeling on the mattress, adjusting pillows with a frown of concentration.

“What the hell? Did you two rob a convenience store?” Frank asks, leaning down to kiss Robby briefly in greeting.

The man hums into the kiss, unbothered. “We weren’t sure what to get, and someone wasn’t returning our calls.”

Frank scrambles for his phone, pressing the side button repeatedly. Dead battery.

He sighs and moves toward Jack, who is already on the bed, propped up against the headboard, glasses on, scrolling with the same seriousness he usually reserves for reviewing patients’ lab results. He’s without the prosthetic; one crutch leaned against the bed frame, exactly where he can reach it without shifting too much.

“Why do we need three kinds of beer?” Frank asks, bending down to kiss Jack, who promptly drags him closer with a hushed, come here.

“To have options,” Robby says simply. “What if someone wants something lighter? Or darker? Or changes their mind halfway through?”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Frank groans, curling up against Jack, enjoying the way the other man rubs his back gently, up and down.

Robby moves quietly in the background, disappearing for a few minutes and coming back with a bag of onion chips. Frank stops himself from commenting. He doesn’t even want to think about how many more snacks are still waiting in the kitchen.

“You realize this is just a movie night, right?” Frank says with a chuckle when he glances at Jack’s phone, seeing the movie reviews he’s reading. “A casual one. Not a tactical operation.”

Jack doesn’t look up. “Last time you picked, we watched something with subtitles and a dozen separate timelines.”

“It was art,” Frank argues immediately.

“It was confusing,” Robby adds with exasperation. “And I fell asleep.”

Frank gasps. They did have an argument over it. Robby swore he’d only rested his eyes for a minute, and that Frank just happened to look at him at the wrong moment.

Jack finally looks up from his phone, clearly amused. “Okay. Democracy. Everyone gets one veto.”

“So? What’s the mood?” Robby asks. “Comfort? Nostalgia? Full emotional damage?”

Jack hums. “I vote for something dumb. Slapsticks optional, but welcome.”

“Just not a documentary,” Frank says pointedly, looking straight at Robby.

Jack snaps his fingers playfully. “There goes your veto.”

Robby laughs softly, shaking his head, and reaches for the remote. He finally joins them on the bed, curling up on Jack’s other side.

Frank leans his head against Abbot’s shoulder, warm and content. “I’ll be honest,” he says. “This is the best plan we’ve had all week.”

Jack snorts. “The bar is in hell.”

“Still,” Robby says, feeling the need to glaze the idea he himself came up with, “the plan is great.”

Frank whines loudly when Jack suddenly shoves him away.

“Cuddle time is over—go shower,” Jack says, rolling his eyes when Frank groans loudly in protest. “I already turned a blind eye to you getting in bed in outside clothes, cause I missed you. Go. You smell like work.”

“What, are you a bloodhound now?” Frank rolls his eyes back at Jack and drags himself off the bed.

“I’m a man who knows what he doesn’t want to smell on his day off,” Jack says with a chuckle.

“Don’t start without me,” Frank calls, stepping into the adjacent bathroom.

He meant it as a joke, really. But when he’s like this, tired after work, prone to whatever his brain conjures up, there’s a part of him that wonders if they would. His phone is dead, so there’s no chance of contacting him. If he were late and didn’t pick up, would they just sit down and have movie night without him?

He doesn’t want to spiral, really, and yet he’s already gnawing at the inside of his cheek, fidgeting with his bracelet, trying to focus on something else. Anything other than the fact that they used to do it without him in the first place. It used to be just two—

“Just don’t make us wait too long, Frankie,” Jack calls through the door, stopping his train of thought. “Or, this time, the old man here will fall asleep before we even start.”

“Don’t listen to him. Take as long as you need. We’ll wait,” Robby adds.

Frank smiles at that, letting out a shaky breath and deciding to soothe the anxious part of himself.

“You will?” he asks, just to be sure. Just because he needs to hear it right now.

“Of course we will,” Jack responds immediately. Frank can barely make out Robby humming in agreement.

It feels like a weight lifting off his chest.

Then again, that’s the effect they’ve always had on him.

 

Chapter 15: steaming raspberry tea

Summary:

Two times Robby pretended he was fine, and one time he couldn't anymore. (sick!fic)

Notes:

Weeeeeell, my lack of productivity at work today should be studied, but at least I wrote all this.

I woke up feeling sick, and took it out on Robby. Enjoy! 💕

1.

Jack notices because he knows the signs.

Not the textbook ones. He knows the Robby signs. The way he keeps clearing his throat as if trying to dislodge something that isn’t there. The way he stands too still at the counter, shoulders tight, mug warming his hands without ever being lifted to his mouth.

Jack is already awake, despite having hours more of sleep. Robby’s relentless grunting and dry coughing woke him up, but he won’t give his husband shit. He’s too worried for that. Robby is good at many things; refusing help is unfortunately among those.

“You okay there, brother?” Jack asks with a yawn, moving on his crutches until he’s able to lay his head between Robby’s shoulder blades, inhaling the fading scent of their laundry softener.

“Yup,” is the only answer Robby gives, making Abbott roll his eyes and pull away.

“You’re doing that thing again, you know,” Jack says quietly, staring at him pointedly. “The pretending nothing’s wrong thing.”

Robby exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled. “I have to leave in twenty minutes. That’s all,” he shrugs.

Jack closes the distance between them again, never able to last without touching when Robby’s near. He rests his head somewhere around Robby’s collarbone, enjoying the repeated kisses to the head it earns him. “You sound hoarse, though.”

“It’s the dry air.”

“Or a sore throat,” Jack muses under his breath.

This time Robby pulls away, frowning. His eyes are bright in that too-clear way Jack hates to see, because it means his husband is coming down with something. “You don’t get to diagnose me before breakfast.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I absolutely do.”

Robby reaches for his protein bars, currently littering the counter, and shoves them into his backpack, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m not sick. I just need coffee.”

“Yeah? You haven’t touched it.”

Robby hesitates, just a beat too long, then takes a determined sip and grimaces as soon as he swallows.

Jack doesn’t say I told you so, even though the temptation is great. He just moves to their medicine cabinet and grabs the thermometer.

He holds it out, and Robby stares at it like it personally offended him.

“I’m not sick.”

“Humor me,” Jack says gently. “You hate it when patients are difficult. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

Robby doesn’t take it. Instead, he reaches for his backpack, leaning down to press a quick kiss to Jack’s forehead.

“I’ll text you later,” he says, already halfway out the door.

 

2.

Frank notices because Robby avoids him.

It’s small, almost nothing. They’re both at the nurses’ station when Frank jokes that with all the ice-induced accidents and snowstorms, even a Yeti will soon end up in the ER. It’s dumb, but normally Robby would smirk, or say something dry, or flick Frank’s wrist with a pen and tell him to go back to work.

Instead, Robby just nods along, clearly not even registering what Frank is saying.

Frank glances sideways. “That’s it?”

“Hm?” Robby blinks, only now lifting his gaze. His cheeks are flushed.

“You didn’t say anything annoying.”

“I’m conserving energy,” Robby murmurs, voice quiet and tight.

“For what?” Frank asks quietly, because maybe there are plans he forgot about.

“For existing,” Robby says, then suddenly coughs sharply, instantly covering his face with his elbow and turning away from Frank.

Frank waits, fidgeting with his fingers. Then counts to three.

“You okay?” he asks, careful not to sound accusatory, because that always makes things with Robby more difficult.

Robby waves a hand dismissively. “Allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies,” Frank mumbles.

“Well then I developed them.”

“That’s not—” Frank stops himself, jaw tightening. “You also skipped lunch. I waited for you.”

It was a novelty. Frank was working with his therapist to ease some of the everyone knows we’re dating anxiety. It started with not being afraid to talk to Robby at work, and progressed into eating lunch together in the break room.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“That never stopped you before.”

Robby looks at him properly. There’s something brittle there, frustration boiling and waiting for an outlet. “Frank.”

Frank raises his hands defensively. “Okay. Okay. I’m not pushing.”

But later, when they come back from work and Robby falls asleep on the couch fully dressed, badge still around his neck, Frank quietly retrieves a blanket and covers him.

He sighs, pulling his phone out of his pocket, and texts Jack:

I think Robby’s sick :(

Jack replies almost instantly.

I know.

+1

Robby wakes up coughing and immediately knows he has officially lost this battle.

His head is throbbing, and swallowing feels like there’s glass in his throat. The only thing that doesn’t feel terrible is the hand on his back. Jack’s hand.

“Hey,” Abbott murmurs. “Easy there, baby.”

Robby tries to sit up and fails. His body feels heavy and uncooperative, like it’s made of cotton and goo. Someone presses a glass to his lips.

“Have some water,” Frank says softly, cradling the back of his head like he’s holding something fragile. “Be careful. Tiny sips.”

Robby complies, only because stubbornness takes energy, and right now he doesn’t have enough to spare. The water soothes his throat for half a second before the ache returns.

Jack reaches to the nightstand for the thermometer, and Robby hates that his husband knew to bring it ahead of time. It makes him realize that maybe he wasn’t masking being sick as well as he thought. It’s a fancy one too, hospital-grade. Then again, that’s typical for Jack. He loves having all sorts of fancy gadgets, from portable ultrasound machines, through field water filters, to smartphone photo printers.

The thermometer beeps after just seconds.

“You have a fever,” Jack says firmly, his tone too professional for Robby to feel comfortable hearing it at home, let alone in their bed. “You’re not going anywhere today.”

Robby swallows. “I can take something and still—”

“No,” Jack says immediately. “I already told you. You’re not going anywhere.”

The words land heavier than they should. Robby stares at the ceiling, jaw tight. His mind is a whirlwind, already cataloguing what an absolute mess a last-minute call like this will cause at the ER.

“I have to go,” he mutters.

He refuses to be the reason this day is harder for anyone. The shifts are demanding even without surprise changes to the schedule.

Jack shifts slightly, careful not to jostle his husband too much. “I’ll cover for you,” he says quietly. “I’ll pull a double.”

Robby turns his head then, blinking through the haze, because he must have misheard. “Jack—”

“It’s fine,” Jack adds immediately, like he can hear the protest forming on Robby’s lips. “I’ve done it before.”

That’s exactly the problem.

Guilt hits hard and sharp, blooming in Robby’s chest until it almost steals his breath. The idea of Jack taking on more, of anyone taking on more because of him, makes his stomach twist.

“I don’t want you to do that,” Robby says, voice rougher from the coughing.

“You’d do it for me,” Abbott chastises him gently.

Robby doesn’t answer. Because yes, he would. He’d do it without hesitation and without a single complaint.

That doesn’t make it feel better.

Frank shifts closer, sensing the tension in Robby’s body, wanting to soothe him before the guilt can take hold. “Hey,” he says softly. “This isn’t on you. Someone’s sick, someone covers for them, that’s just logistics.”

Robby lets out a humorless huff. “That’s not how it feels.”

“I know,” Jack says quietly. “But it really is that simple.”

Robby feels how cool Frank is against his skin as the younger man wedges himself under Robby’s arm and cuddles into his chest. Robby knows Langdon doesn’t like it when they have disagreements of any kind, so he rubs a hand across Frank’s ribs, soothing him.

“You always tell everyone that working when sick helps no one,” Frank mumbles against his skin, and Robby rolls his eyes.

He said that to students who trailed after him, sniffling and coughing into his back, but the irony sits heavy on his chest nonetheless. The thing is, Robby knows he built his career on competence, on reliability, on being the person others can lean on. He simply can’t stand being the weak link. Never, not even for a moment. It feels like betraying the trust everyone put in him.

“I don’t like letting people down,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack leans down, pressing a kiss to his hair, then another where his cheek meets Robby’s beard. “You’re not doing that, baby. You’re more useful here at home, letting your body heal, than trying to treat people while being sick yourself.”

Robby swallows, eyes burning, and forces himself to nod.

“Good. Stay in the cuddle pile, and I’ll bring you some raspberry tea, okay?” Jack kisses his forehead again and moves to the kitchen, Frank burrowing closer.

He doesn't even register when Jack comes back. Suddenly there's two people cuddling him, and the steaming tea is on the nightstand, waiting to cool down enough to not aggravate the state of his sore throat.

The guilt in Robby’s chest doesn’t vanish, but it loosens its grip, making breathing a little easier. The warmth of his lovers' bodies so close to his is grounding. He relishes the certainty that this isn’t conditional. He doesn’t have to step up and carry the weight of the world on his shoulders for Jack to cover for him at work, or for Frank to curl up against him in desperate attempts at comfort.

It’s all voluntary.

It’s love.

He can live with that.

Chapter 16: a thigh holster

Summary:

Frank finds some of Jack’s stuff in the closet.

Notes:

A minute before midnight!! I made it just in time for day 16. We’re halfway there!

A disclaimer that I am a part of the cod fandom, so of course I find Abbot in gear sexy. This is pure self indulgence. Enjoy!

On a normal day, when Frank wants a hoodie, he goes through the hamper and fishes out something that smells like Robby’s heavy cologne or Jack’s citrusy one. But today is a laundry day. Jack got up at noon and whisked all the goodies away into the wash.

This forces Frank to beeline to the closet. The Robinavitch-Abbott closet. He has his own one. Jack and Robby were used to sharing one. Frank technically was too, given his previous marriage, but they insisted. They had it custom-fitted for the empty space in the bedroom.

Langdon was initially sceptical, not understanding why they could share, and he had to go into exile. Turns out they were both dead set on spoiling him with that, so he accepted it. He did start filling it out nicely too, so not all was bad about the arrangement.

Frank sighs as he starts to browse through their things, pushing hangers apart to reveal a clothes storage box. Inside is lots of camo print. Jack’s tactical gear.

On top lies something dark. All straps and buckles. It stands out starkly against the pale interior of the closet. It doesn’t belong with sweaters and jackets and the domesticity of it all.

Frank stares at it intensely, mouth agape.

“…Oh.”

Clearly he said it too loudly, because suddenly Jack’s voice drifts in from the bathroom. “Please tell me you didn’t find clothes moths.”

Frank reaches out before his brain catches up, fingers brushing the nylon. It’s heavier than he expects, feeling solid in his hands.

“Jack,” Frank calls, and he already regrets even speaking up.

“Uh-oh,” Jack answers. “That tone never ends well for me.”

Frank lifts the holster off the rest of the gear, lets it hang loosely from his hands, the straps swaying slightly. His pulse kicks up, loud and insistent in his ears.

“Jack,” he says again, slower. “You own a thigh holster?”

There’s a pause. Then footsteps.

Jack appears in the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp, clearly halfway through shaving, still only in his pyjama shorts, giving Frank a clear view of the prosthetic. His gaze drops to the holster, then flicks up to Frank’s face.

“Yeah,” Jack says, faint amusement colouring his tone. “I do.”

“And you just… keep this in the closet?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, shrugging. “Where else would I put it?”

Frank swallows. “You didn’t think to mention it?”

Jack tilts his head, suddenly tenser, trying to gauge if Frank is bothered. His tone grows more defensive. “You know I’m on the team.”

“That I know,” Frank says, stepping closer, holding the holster up between them. “But that’s just—”

Jack’s mouth quirks when he sees the tell-tale blush creeping up Frank’s cheeks. That’s not an easy thing to achieve. Getting Robby flustered was a piece of cake, but this one? Forget it.

Frank lifts the straps experimentally, thumb tracing over a buckle. “You wear this on your thigh. Just casually on your stupidly strong legs.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Careful, Langdon. You’re going to inflate my ego.”

“Put it on,” Frank blurts out.

“And now we’re going straight to demands,” Jack chuckles, frowning with disbelief.

“Please,” Frank adds needily as an afterthought.

There’s a pause. Jack really looks at him now, at the heat in his eyes, the way his fingers curl around the holster.

“You’re actually serious?”

Frank nods once. “Painfully.”

Jack exhales, shaking his head fondly. “And here I was, planning on a calm afternoon before my shift.”

Jack takes the holster, fingers brushing Frank’s in the exchange. He turns just enough to strap it on, movements smooth and automatic. Buckle. Adjust. Tighten. The holster settles snug against the skin of his thigh. It feels weird not wearing it over material, the nylon digging roughly into his tissues.

“There,” Jack says. “I hope you’re happy with the monster you’ve created, because I’ll never let you live it down,” he warns, voice dropping an octave.

Frank makes a quiet, wrecked noise.

“You cannot just do that,” Frank says, staring openly. “You look like you’re about to kick down a door.”

“If you’re impressed now, you should see me when I’m actually working.”

Frank steps closer, hands hovering before settling on Jack’s hips. “I don’t know how you expect me to act normal about this. Ever.”

Jack’s voice softens. “I don’t. To be honest, I love that you can’t.”

Abbot knows his choices wouldn’t be understood by all. To give up so much to the service. His youth, his mental health, his leg, and still want to put on tactical gear and go out there. But it felt good to be useful outside of regular work too. Saving lives mended him.

Frank flicks his gaze down once more, then back up. “Next time,” he murmurs, “you warn me before I go into your closet.”

“Nope.” Jack’s hand comes up to the back of Frank’s neck, warm and steady. “You just gave me a reason not to.”

Frank exhales, leaning in with a grin. “You know what? I think we need to commemorate it.”

---

Robby is charting when his phone buzzes.

He doesn’t look at it right away. Experience has taught him better. Frank has a habit of sending nonsense mid-shift, and Robby prefers not to smile at his screen like an idiot in front of others, so he waits for the coast to be clear.

He finally finds the courage and—

It’s a selfie.

Frank, clearly sprawled on their bed, face flushed and smug in a way Robby knows far too well. The angle is tight and intentional. Jack’s thigh dominates half the frame, thick muscle wrapped in the black straps of the holster.

No caption. Just the photo.

Robby stares and exhales slowly through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like this is a personal affront, because what in the hell are they up to over there.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, hand running across his face in exasperation.

A nurse passing by glances at him. “Everything okay, Dr. Robby?”

“Fine,” Robby says smoothly, locking his phone and slipping it away. “Just domestic nonsense.”

When she’s gone, he looks down again under the desk and types with one hand:

You’re both impossible.

Robby shakes his head, lips twitching despite himself. He turns back to his charts, counting the hours until Jack comes for handoff.

Chapter 17: the orange-hued light cast by old streetlamps

Summary:

Frank has a bad time after the shift. Robby’s there for him.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of drug abuse; mentions of drug overdose; mentions of relapsing

All is kept brief, but it is mentioned. Enjoy day 17!

Frank doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, long enough for his face to go numb from the cold and for his back pain to progress from occasional jolts into a steady current of jabbing pain. He inhales the icy air and trembles.

Today was a shitshow.

He fought with Robby in the morning. And judging by the look Jack sent him during handoff, they definitely talked about it, forming a united front against him.

This weekend was their anniversary, all three of them. It was also the day of Frank’s NA meeting. All he did was suggest that maybe he could skip this one. Just to have a day for them. For himself.

“Best thing you can do for yourself is go to the fucking meeting,” Robby snapped, always edgy whenever Frank mentioned the meetings.

“Can you stop acting like this is what my sobriety hangs on? Like I’ll relapse any moment—”

“Won’t you?” Robby asked sharply as he stared at him.

Frank couldn’t believe Robby would say such a thing.

He still can’t believe it, and it’s been a whole day of replaying it in his mind.

Mid-shift, he got an overdose patient too. Frank could feel Robby staring at him, so he didn’t want give him the satisfaction of freezing or crying.

He did his best. Fuck. He really did. He did everything he could. But his everything was never enough. So of course he froze mid-treatment, and Robby had to take over.

Even thinking about it now makes him want to cry. He chokes a sob, forcing it down into a whimper.

Because Robby was right.

The second he left the room, all he could think about was how good he’d feel if he had benzos. Just a bit. Just enough for this fucking whirlwind in his head to end. And it scared him.

He didn’t say a word to Jack during handoff at the end of the shift. He straight up ignored Abbot’s greeting, gave his patients to Ellis, and then left without a word to Robby either.

Technically, Robby has no business knowing where he is, but of course he does. The man has a sixth sense for everything.

Robby stops beside the bench, close enough that their knees brush. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, hands tucked into his pockets, breath fogging the air the same way Frank’s does. It’s a quiet presence, unintrusive, like he’s giving Frank the choice to acknowledge him, or say nothing.

Frank exhales, long and tired, and finally looks up. That makes Robby speak up.

“I thought maybe you went to take the bus,” He says softly, clearly trying his best to keep his tone neutral.

Frank shrugs, a small, defensive motion. “I will.”

Robby hums, unconvinced, and then sits down next to him. The bench creaks under the added weight. Robby’s knee presses lightly against Frank’s thigh, solid and grounding. He smells like soap and antiseptic. There’s a faint trace of Jack stubbornly clings to him too. It makes Frank remember just how rudely he dodge the man.

“Jack was worried,” Robby adds quietly. “He asked about you.”

That lands harder than Frank expects. His jaw tightens, throat closing around something sharp.

“I didn’t mean to make it a big deal,” Frank mutters.

“I know,” Robby says quietly. He turns just enough to look at Frank properly. “You just meant to run off to punish yourself.”

Frank huffs a weak, humorless laugh.

Robby’s shoulder nudges his, gentle but firm. “You had a bad case. It triggered you. That happens.”

Frank’s fingers curl tighter in his pockets again. He nods once, eyes fixed on the ground between his boots.

“I thought about—” He can’t really say it. He forces himself to anyway. “About benzos.”

“You mean you had cravings?” Robby asks, all quiet and careful, so unlike him.

“Yes? No? I’m not even sure. I was mostly thinking about how it made everything easier to handle.”

Robby doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches.. When Robby finally speaks, his voice is lower, and somewhat steadier.

“But you stayed sober,” he says. “You knew benzos would make you feel good, and you didn’t take any. That takes discipline. Takes courage.”

Frank swallows. The knot in his chest shifts, loosens just enough to hurt in a different way. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to bring this home.”

“For now, you just have to come home,” Robby whispers. “And see where it goes from there. I’ll be there with you, and so will Jack.”

Frank sighs shakily.

“I should text him, let him know I’m fine,” he says.

Robby nods, wrapping an arm around Frank and kissing the top of his head.

“Only if you want to. You know Jack. He doesn’t hold grudges. He just worries about you. We both do.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank repeats, and Robby tugs him in just a tad harder.

“It’s not your fault,” he says quietly.

Frank takes a shaky breath and looks into Robby’s eyes. He hates to see the worry there.

“I thought about it, and you’re right. I shouldn’t skip the NA meeting.”

Robby offers him a tight, compassionate smile.

“It’s just an hour, Frank. Plus driving. The whole rest of the day is yours. I swear. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“It’s our day, not my day,” Frank laughs quietly, feeling better for the first time since morning.

“Debatable,” Robby chuckles, and Frank frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“We have the wedding anniversary. This is a Frank anniversary,” Robby says, chuckling.

Langdon rolls his eyes fondly.

“Then I expect us to get pizza from the place that I like for once.”

Robby groans like it’s a Herculean task.

“Just not—”

“Yes, the extra crust with cheese one,” Frank grins at him, Robby tugging him closer, chuckling into his hair.

“Whatever you want,” Robby promises, planting another kiss, this time to Langdon’s temple.

Frank watches the snowflakes slowly falling, shining in the orange-hue light of the old street lamps scattered across the park. He observes them as they drift in the wind, only to fall down and join the already greyed and slushier snow.

“Let’s go home,” Robby finally breaks the silence. “I’m tired, and my old knees can’t take the cold.”

Frank snorts, then remembers how badly his own back is hurting. He smiles at the prospect of just lounging on the couch, a hot water bottle on his back, Robby reading as they snuggle up in bed.

Yeah.

Home sounds good.

 

 

Notes:

Canon Robby can avoid Frank all he wants. This Robby is ruled by my imagination ✨

Chapter 18: a shattered picture frame

Summary:

Snowstorm causes a blackout. They’re not having the best time.

Notes:

Welcome to day 18! ❤️

Thanks again to everyone leaving kudos and commenting. It really always brightens my day!

They were supposed to go out today.

That was the plan. A shared day off, no shifts, no meetings, no alarms. Breakfast at that new bagel place that just opened recently, maybe a walk if the weather wasn’t bad, coffee that didn’t come from a hospital machine. Just a lovely, indulgent day out.

The snowstorm decided otherwise.

By the time they got out of bed, the world outside their windows had already gone hushed and white. Snow blew sideways in thick sheets, piling up against parked cars and street signs. The city alerts had started coming in one after another, increasingly dramatic in tone, and by noon it was clear they weren’t going anywhere.

It’s evening already, and nothing has changed so far, apart from the wind picking up.

Frank doesn’t hate such a turn of events. He’s sprawled on the couch in sweats and one of Jack’s old T-shirts, socked feet tucked under him, half-watching the news.

Robby is nearby with a recipe book. He keeps reading the same page over and over again, calculating which ingredients they can substitute for those they have at home. All the restaurants they’ve called have declined bringing in takeout, so they have to improvise.

Meanwhile, Jack keeps drifting between rooms restlessly, checking windows, checking locks, checking his phone constantly. It’s a miracle the police radio is still off.

“State of emergency,” Frank reads aloud at one point, squinting at the TV screen. “They really love saying that.”

Jack hums, distracted as he passes by the couch. Robby is too engrossed in the recipe to even respond.

The alert hits seconds later.

All three phones buzz at once, sharp and loud, and before Frank can even finish reading that a power outage is expected due to severe weather conditions, the lights cut out completely.

The TV dies mid-sentence as the room plunges into darkness.

“Ah, come on,” Frank groans, shifting on the couch. “We were literally doing nothing already. Now we don’t even have entertainment.”

The wind outside howls, rattling the windows hard enough to make Frank tense despite himself.

“Don’t move.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the dark, sharp and immediate.

Frank blinks, startled. “What? Why?”

“Stay exactly where you are,” Jack says, already moving. There’s a different cadence to his voice now. It’s clipped, unusually focused. “It’s dark. You can’t even see the floor.”

Frank freezes, heart giving a small, confused jump. “Jack, it’s fine. I’m literally sitting—”

“I know,” Jack interrupts, not unkindly but firmly. “Just listen to me. Please.”

Frank raises his hands defensively, even though Jack can’t see it.

“Robby,” Jack calls softly. “Where are you standing?”

“By the counter,” Robby replies automatically, sounding pretty calm given the circumstances. “Moving to the bedroom as we speak. I’m just gonna grab some candles and—”

“No,” Jack barks. “Let me grab the flashlight first.”

Robby scoffs dismissively, already walking.

There’s a solid thud.

“Fucking hell,” Robby hisses as his shoulder collides with the wall.

The sound that follows is unmistakable. A picture frame falling to the floor, then shattering, glass spraying across the hardwood, each shard making a sharp sound as it lands.

Frank flinches. “Shit.”

“Mike, stop moving,” Jack snaps, his voice rising now, rougher. He sounds panicked. “Stay where you are.”

“I just walked into a wall,” Robby says flatly. “I’ll live.”

“Are you hurt?” Jack asks urgently, already moving, bumping into the kitchen counter as he wedges a drawer open.

“No.”

“Check,” Jack demands. “Now.”

Robby blows out a breath but complies, running his hands over his shoulder, his arm. Nothing feels wet or sticky. “No blood. I’m fine.”

Metal clinks as Jack rummages through the cupboard in an uncoordinated way that doesn’t fit him at all. Frank can hear items hitting the floor as they get knocked out of place.

Then a flashlight clicks on.

The beam jerks wildly at first, cutting through the dark in a harsh, blinding sweep. It skims the ceiling, then the window, over the door. It finally snaps down and locks onto Robby.

“Don’t move,” Jack says sharply. “Just stay where you are.”

Robby looks down.

His socked feet stand mere inches from shattered glass, tiny shards catching the flashlight beam, glittering like ice.

“Shit,” Robby sighs. “I really liked that frame.”

Frank perks up on the couch, already thinking about what he should grab to be useful.

“You cut? Be honest,” Jack asks Robby again, quieter this time. The beam of light illuminates Robby’s forearms so Abbott can double-check that there are no cuts from falling shards.

“No. I’m good.”

Jack studies Robby for a long second, eyes sharp even in the dim light, then nods once. “Good.”

Only then does he straighten and look around again.

Robby squints at the mess. “You don’t have to act like we’re under siege.”

Jack snorts. “Glass shards in limited visibility, and you want me to be calm about it?”

“I’d settle for slightly less bossy,” Robby chuckles, still frozen in place as Jack walks around him to the supply storage where they keep the broom, leaving the flashlight on the counter so it can steadily light the area.

“Noted and ignored,” Jack says, grabbing what he needs and coming back swiftly.

They clean up under Jack’s direction. Robby gets told where to stand, when to move his feet, when to stop. Frank gets told not to help. Repeatedly.

“Sit,” Jack says every time Frank so much as leans forward on the couch.

“I could hold the bag.”

“You could also step on glass,” Jack replies flatly. “And we don’t want that.”

Frank presses his lips together in an upset frown.

Once the last shard is swept up and the trash tied off, the apartment goes quiet again. Outside, the wind howls, snow pelting the windows hard enough to rattle the glass.

“Power’s not coming back soon,” Robby says, opening the shutters to take a peek at the street now that he can move. “The whole street is out.”

Jack sighs softly. “Fine. We’ll adapt.”

Frank finally takes the liberty to get off the couch, approaching them. “See? Crisis managed. Everyone alive.”

Jack steps back into his space immediately, a hand settling warm and protective at the small of Frank’s back.

Langdon looks up at him fondly. “You really went full combat mode.”

Jack huffs. “Robby almost stepped on glass.”

“I didn’t,” Robby snaps immediately from where he stands by the window.

“Because I told you not to move.”

Robby groans. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“No,” Jack and Frank say together.

Abbott presses a brief kiss to Frank’s temple. He slowly takes his hand away and moves to Robby, letting the man wrap him in a tight hug.

Jack’s voice drops as he tilts his head up to look at Robby. “Next time the lights go out, you listen. No arguing.”

Robby nods, hugging him tighter. “Yes, sir.”

Jack arches a brow, chuckling softly. “Careful.”

Robby smiles softly.

Maybe they can still salvage the evening.

Chapter 19: two loose teeth

Summary:

Jack is having a tough day. Frank decides to make it a little worse.

Notes:

Can you believe we’re at 19 already? Crazy 🥳

Theme of this chapter was me in my head going: heeeey, it’s been a whole chapter since Frank Langdon has suffered.

TRIGGER WARNING: brief mentions of blood and dental injury

Jack is at the end of his rope.

He’s had enough of people for the day. For the week. Maybe even for the whole month, if he’s being honest. The monitors are chiming, voices overlap, stretchers rattle past as they always do. The difference between now and usual is that his patience is gone, spent somewhere between the third aggressive drunk and the family that demanded he put their son’s broken leg together right there, right now, because in the afternoon he has a hockey match.

He glances at the clock and exhales through his nose.

Half an hour more.

Two more shifts after this one, and then he’s off. All alone, unfortunately, but he’ll take it. Just him, a long sleep and an even longer shower, and the blessed absence of anyone needing anything from him.

He’s charting when Robby steps into the ER.

Jack knows it’s him before he even looks up. There’s a shift in the air whenever Robby arrives, something familiar and grounding. When Abbot does look up, Robby’s already in front of him, hair disheveled, cheeks pinked from the cold. He’s holding two thermal cups and extends one of them in offering.

“Morning, babe,” Robby hums in an unusually good mood. Jack is happy to know at least his two lovers had a nice start to the day.

Jack barely has time to register the motion before Robby leans in and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. The scratch of his husband’s beard against his skin makes something in Jack loosen despite himself. He hooks onto the sensation, just for a second.

“Morning,” Jack says, trying and failing to keep the grumpiness out of his voice.

Robby chuckles softly, unfazed. He squeezes Jack’s arm, thumb brushing over muscle, and lifts his gaze to the board.

“Oh,” he says. “And now I know exactly why you’re so grumpy today.”

“Yeah,” Jack snorts. “Indeed. Oh.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine on this cloudy day,” Robby teases, already turning away. “Let me leave my things and I’ll come join.”

Jack watches him go, fingers tightening around the warm cup. He takes a sip, grimaces slightly at the sweetness of the coffee. He keeps drinking anyway.

He checks the clock again.

Now that Robby is here, all ready to take over, Jack is literally counting minutes until his shift is done. There is, however, another thought needling at the back of his mind, unwelcome and persistent. He knows Robby and Frank drive together. He also knows Frank’s ridiculous obsession with not wanting to being driven to work. The man insists on hopping out of the car at least a block early, rain or shine, like they’re teenagers sneaking around instead of grown adults with shared working hours.

It doesn’t help that Jack has told him, repeatedly, that he doesn’t care. Let people suspect. Let them gossip. Whether they’re a threesome, open, divorced, or something no one has a name for, it’s none of anyone’s business. But fine. They're doing it at Frank's pace. At least Langdon talked to him at work, and wasn't afraid to hug him as a greeting anymore.

With the weird driving habit, Frank usually shows up five, maybe ten minutes after Robby.

Jack checks the clock again.

Twenty minutes.

“You got this?” he asks Shawn, already stepping away from the overflowing nosebleed patient. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Shawn gives him a thumbs-up without looking.

Jack finds Robby at the board, already rearranging assignments, expression focused as he goes through the tablet.

“You dropped him off on the other side of town or what?” Jack asks quietly, in a tone that resembles a hiss.

Robby blinks at him. “Who?”

“Frank.”

Robby frowns, glances at the clock, then frowns deeper. “I’m sure he’ll be here any—” He stops mid-sentence and gestures toward the entrance. “See? There he is.”

Jack turns.

Frank is pushing through the glass doors, shoulders hunched from the cold. There’s snow clinging to his scrub pants, damp and half-melted. His mouth is set in a hard line, irritation radiating off him in waves. When he spots Jack and Robby, his expression softens just a fraction.

“Hi,” he mumbles, eyes already flicking up to the board.

“Took your sweet time,” Robby comments lightly.

Frank scoffs. “Slipped on the fucking ice. You’d think someone actually de-ices the sidewalks.”

Silence answers him.

Frank glances sideways and freezes, because both Jack and Robby are staring at him, brows drawn tight, worry written plainly across their faces.

“You okay?” Frank asks.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks immediately, stepping closer. “Did you hit your head?”

“No. I’m fine,” Frank says, waving it off. “I fell face-first like a log. Thought my teeth were gonna stay on the pavement, but they’re still there.”

Abbot is already moving.

Before Robby can even turn to grab gloves, Jack is snapping his on, muscle memory taking over. He tilts Frank’s head back gently but firmly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Open,” Jack says, voice soft but leaving no room for argument. “As much as you can. Yeah. Like that.”

Frank obeys, grumbling faintly. Jack pulls his lips back with his thumbs, eyes sharp as he inspects. The upper front teeth are still there, thank God, but blood has begun to bead along the gums, bright and unmistakable.

“Fuck,” Jack mutters. “Frankie, you’ve got two loose teeth. A dentist needs to look at this.”

“Oh.” Frank shrugs awkwardly. “It doesn’t really hurt. I’ll go after work—”

“Now, Langdon,” Robby cuts in sharply, arms crossing over his chest. “Before I make it formal.”

Frank winces. “You don’t have to—”

“Now,” Robby repeats.

Jack pulls his gloves off with a snap. “Do you want me to stay and cover for you?” he asks quietly.

Frank exhales. “I’m pretty sure that would only make me feel worse.”

Jack huffs, but there’s no heat in it. “Go get a CT first, just to be sure you didn’t crack anything. Then come find me. I’ll drive you to the clinic.”

“Can I come back after the dentist?” Frank asks, smaller now, turning to Robby.

Jack also turns to him, staring daggers.

Robby sighs as he locks eyes with his husband. “Depends what the CT and the dentist say.”

Frank nods, resigned, and turns toward radiology.

Jack watches him go, jaw tight. The weight of the day presses down on him, but now more than tired, he’s upset.

“He’ll be fine,” Robby comments softly.

“Yeah? Or fucking toothless,” Jack says in an annoyed tone, making Robby chuckle.

“You’d love him even like that. And you worry too much. His teeth are still in place, he looks as coordinated as ever, and he’ll have you to hover over him while he’s at the dentist,” Robby lists, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Jack’s temple.

---

Jack is in the waiting room, pretending to read a six months old magazine as he waits for Frank to emerge. The dentist’s office smells aggressively clean, all mint and disinfectant. The soft instrumental music is doing absolutely nothing for Jack’s nerves. He’s also checked his phone three times in the last five minutes. Robby has already texted twice, asking for updates.

Jack looks up instantly when the door opens.

Frank steps out slowly. His upper lip is slightly swollen, faintly bruised, the damage from the impact only now emerging.

“Well,” Frank says, voice slightly off, consonants gentler. “I look badass now.”

Jack’s mouth twitches despite himself. He’s on his feet in two strides, hands already hovering, unsure where to touch without hurting Frank further. “Let me see,” he says quietly.

Frank obliges, tilting his head up, pulling his lip upwards a little. The dentist did clean work with the splint. Jack can tell immediately, and it makes him breathe out in relief. The sling sits neatly over Frank’s upper front teeth, a stripe of thin metal glued in place with a sheer coat of dental composite.

“Okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than Frank. “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”

Frank leans into his side, and Jack lets him, arm settling around him instinctively in a protective manner.

“So,” Frank says after a moment. “The dentist says I can work. As long as I don’t get punched in the face.”

Jack hums. “I’ll inform the ER that today is a no-punching-Langdon day.”

“Please do.”

Jack presses a light kiss to Frank’s temple. “You scared me,” he admits quietly.

Frank’s fingers curl into Jack’s sleeve. “I know, but you shouldn't have worried so much.”

Jack squeezes him once. “Next time you slip, you’re calling me before you decide whether you’re fine to walk to work.”

Frank nods with a chuckle. “Deal.”

Jack finally relaxes, steering Frank toward the exit. He’ll drive Frank back to work and sleep the stress off until evening.

Sounds like a plan.

 

Chapter 20: pistachio shells

Summary:

Frank breaks some workplace culture rules. Fortunately, Robby is biased.

Notes:

Hello to day 20!

Today was crazy day; hence, the chapter came a little later than usual. I'm also trying to figure out what to do about tomorrow 😭 the 15h is a lot of time, and I write those as I go, every day, so I'm trying to figure out the posting time.

And don't let AO3 lie to you!! I posted exactly at 23:59 and the draft was entirely done on the 20th (it's also what the chapter publication date says), I don't know why the update date says 21st, please excuse it, I did make it in time :cc

Robby’s coming up the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm, already running through the next hour in his head, when his brain registers something is off. A faint hitch in his otherwise, more or less, organised world.

Someone is sitting in his chair.

Ogilvie.

The student is perched at the nurse’s station like he owns the place, one hip against Robby’s desk, fingers shiny with oil as he cracks pistachios with careless efficiency. The nutty smell permeates the air around him, warm and wrong against the sterile bite of disinfectant.

Shells sit in a loose pile near the keyboard. Too close to it for Robby’s liking.

Robby stops dead in his tracks, taking it all in, letting the irritation really sink in.

“Ogilvie,” Robby says, without raising his voice.

He doesn’t have to. His tone alone is enough for the younger man to snap his head up, shoulders tightening like he’s been caught doing something he absolutely shouldn;t have done.

“Oh—hey, Dr. Robinavitch.”

“You don’t eat here.”

Ogilvie blinks, glances down at the desk as if noticing the mess for the first time. “I’m not charting or anything. Just on a break. I’ll clean it up.”

Robby’s jaw tightens as he straightens up, folding his arms across his chest. His badge swings slightly with the motion.

“This is not a cafeteria nor a break room,” he says evenly. “And least of all your desk. You are littering your food debris all over my station.”

Princess glances over as she passes by, slowing her steps just a fraction. Ogilvie flushes, color creeping up his neck. He bristles, chin lifting up a little touch too defensively.

“It’s just pistachios.”

Robby’s gaze flicks briefly to the shells, then back to Ogilvie’s face.

“It’s bacteria,” he says, voice clipped. “And a tree nut. In an emergency department. On a shared workstation. Where people chart between anaphylaxis patients.”

That lands.

Ogilvie gathers his things a little too fast, pistachio bag crinkling loudly in the sudden quiet as he dumps the shells inside. He wipes at the desk with a napkin like that might redeem him, smearing oil into the desk, then retreats toward the board, still chewing, jaw working restlessly.

Robby watches him move, with a sharp glare. Then he reaches for the disinfectant wipes.

He plucks one out and cleans the desk properly. Keyboard first, then the mouse, then the entire surface in careful, overlapping strokes. He doesn’t rush it. Quite the contrary, he scrubs until the faint nutty smell is gone and the surface of the desk pristine.

Only when the station is restored to acceptable sterility does Robby straighten up and glance at the board.

He’s mid-thought when someone settles into the chair beside him.

His chair, as everyone seems to forget. 

Robby glances to the side, already prepared to correct another student, and finds Langdon there instead.

Frank sets a paper cup down on the desk, carefully, Robby notes, nowhere near the keyboard. Then he places a napkin down, smooths it flat with two fingers, and takes out a donut. Plain glaze, and, if Jack is to be believed, sinfully good. Shen recommended it, and Abbot loved checking out new bakeries. Robby's donut was still waiting in his backpack, glaze already stuck to the paper bag.

Frank takes a big bite, chewing as he scrolls on his phone.

“Trauma three’s still waiting on labs,” Frank murmurs, barely looking up, mouth full.

Robby hums in acknowledgement, eyes never leaving the screen as he signs off a note.

A flake of glaze falls and lands near Robby’s wrist. He nudges it aside with the back of his finger without really thinking about it. Frank’s always been a messy eater. It’s exactly what got him banned from eating on the couch.

Frank keeps talking, unfazed by Robby’s lack of response.

Across the station, Ogilvie glances over. His eyes track the donut, then the crumbs, then Robby’s hands. The contrast clearly bothers him. He hesitates, debating something, then clears his throat.

“Uh—Dr. Robinavitch?”

Robby glances his way. “Yes?”

“I thought you said—”

Robby turns his head properly this time, fixing Ogilvie with a measured, unblinking stare.

“I said you don’t eat here,” he says. “That hasn’t changed.”

Frank looks up then, eyes flicking between Robby and the student. He takes another bite of the donut, chewing thoughtfully, glaze catching at the corner of his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be with Withaker?” Frank asks, and Robby is sure Langdon didn’t mean for it to come across as charged as it did—like a concealed suggestion for Ogilvie to just leave them alone already.

Ogilvie opens his mouth, then closes it. He nods stiffly and turns to the trauma room, walking away with tense shoulders.

Robby turns back to the board screen, and Frank shifts a little closer, knee brushing Robby’s leg. He keeps eating like nothing happened.

“Jack was right, they are so good,” Frank hums softly.

“Pick up your crumbs when you’re done,” Robby says with a soft, indulgnet smile as he moves, intending to check if anyone needs him.

Frank scoffs loudly, almost offended. “Like if I wouldn’t.”

Notes:

Evil Withaker humbling was fun to write, I won't lie.

Chapter 21: crescent-shaped indents on a palm

Summary:

Tanner stays over for the weekend. They make cookies.

Notes:

Hope you enjoy day 21! Only 10 more to go :cc

Hope you enjoy some domestic uncles time ❤️

It feels weird having Tanner home like this. Properly. He’s staying over for the weekend. Abby got the flu and didn’t want him to catch it. At first, she planned on driving Tanner to her mother’s house, but Frank insisted. He was off work and had a spare room for Tanner.

Well, Robby and Jack did.

Frank wasn’t sure if Abby was even aware the nature of his living arrangements. As far as he knew, she thought he was half-squatting, half-renting a room in their house, and that they’d taken him in out of pity.

He’ll tell her—just not now. Or preferably not any time soon. Dating your boss was weird enough. He didn’t need to add another boss to the equation. Not to mention the said bosses are married.

Frank had double-checked with Robby and Jack twice already that it was okay for Tanner to stay. The boy already knew Robby and was very fond of him too. Needles to say, Robby was excited for the visit.

Jack, less so.

He wasn’t against. No. He was genuinely happy, but unlike Robby, he didn’t know Tanner yet. He was stressed about meeting him, dead sure the five-year-old would dislike him for whatever reason.

Frank can see the tension in Abbot’s posture, the way he keeps glancing at Robby for moral support as Frank walks Tanner knelt he house, holding his hand.

“Okay, buddy, you know Uncle Robby already,” Frank says softly, crouching beside his son, who nods excitedly at Robby, “and this is Uncle Robby’s husband, Jack.”

“Hi. Pleased to meet you,” Jack says, stepping forward and extending his hand like he’s closing a business deal.

Tanner looks at Frank immediately. Only when his dad gives a small nod does Tanner extend his own hand. The movement is clearly awkward and unpracticed. Tanner frowns unhappily, and Frank can see the color drain from Jack’s face.

“But is it Uncle Jack or Jack?” Tanner asks, confusion lacing his small voice.

“Well, that’s up to you, champ. I’m sure Jack won’t mind either way.”

Abbot nods solemnly somewhere in the background.

“Okay,” Tanner says, already turning to his backpack, eager to take out his toys.

“I’ll show you to your room so you can unpack there. Come on.” Frank lifts Tanner up with ease, making the boy laugh soundly. “Oh, you’re growing like crazy.”

---

They decide cookie-making is always a fun and engaging activity.

Maybe.

Not with a five-year-old who’s bordering on the rebel phase.

“Tanner, don’t eat it,” Frank says for what feels like the twentieth time in the last two minutes.

The boy groans as if it’s the hardest task of his life to pull the cookie dough finger away from his mouth.

Actually, Frank is inclined to believe it really is.

“But why~” Tanner whines loudly, already reaching for the pre-made icing instead.

“Is it not enough that I asked?” Frank replies, and clearly, no—because Tanner just groans again.

Robby provides a great distraction in the form of a box of cookie cutters. Tanner is immediately mesmerised.

“Uncle Robby, can I see?” The boy pleads softly, and a second later he’s hoisted up onto the counter.

“You can choose whichever you want. We need to make the cookies fun,” Robby says, eyes crinkling fondly as he watches Tanner rummage through the cutters.

It’s calm for a while. Only the clinking of metal cutters breaks the quiet as Tanner sets aside all the ones he wants to use.

After a bit, Robby puts him back down. Tanner makes a beeline for Frank to show him his absolute favorite cutter—and bumps straight into Abbot.

“Oh, careful, buddy. Don’t hurt yourself,” Jack says with a soft smile, still not sure how, or even if, to interact with Tanner.

The boy stares at him wide-eyed, like he’s facing an alien.

“Your leg is weird,” Tanner deadpans quietly, his tone suspicious.

“Tanner—” Frank starts. Both he and Abby had made it clear from the beginning that it’s not polite to comment on others like that.

“It’s okay,” Jack says quickly, smiling reassuringly at Frank. “See, my leg was sick, and I couldn’t keep it, so I got this cool new one. You want to see?” he asks carefully.

Tanner nods, eyes wide with fascination.

Jack rolls his pant leg up carefully, revealing the metal of the prosthetic.

“Uncle Jack, are you a robot?” Tanner gasps, taking a tentative step closer and touching the metal like he’s checking whether it’s real.

“No, I just have a metal leg,” Jack explains, amused. “But it’s not really a robot one.”

Tanner pouts. “Maybe they can exchange your leg for a robot leg one day. You could fly then,” he babbles, already moving on. “Daddy, look! We can make Santa cookies!” he squeals, shaking the cutter excitedly.

They don’t really have kid-safe kitchen stools, so Frank seats his son up at the counter. Robby watches the scene with a fond, warm gaze.

Tanner sets down the Santa cutter and jams his palms into it, pressing hard enough that Santa’s belly leaves crescent-shaped imprints on his palm.

“Done!” Tanner announces proudly. “Uncle Robby, now you choose!” he demands.

Robby picks up a tree shape. He can’t help that most of his cookie cutters are holiday themed. They came in a set with the powdered dough and icing.

“You okay?” Frank whispers to Jack as he notices him standing frozen beside the counter, watching Robby get coached on cookie-cutting technique.

There is an unreadable expression on his face. One that Frank has not yet seen. Jack’s eyes are glued to Robby, watching as he laughs easily. It’s almost as if Jack is memorising it.

When he looks back at Frank, his eyes are glistening in the kitchen light. “Yeah,” he whispers, smiling.

“Uncle Jack, now you!” Tanner calls, and Jack moves immediately.

“Maybe if your arm ever gets sick too, you’d get a robot hand,” Tanner continues thoughtfully. “It could have cookie cutters already attached.”

“Yeah,” Jack chuckles. “That sounds really cool.”

He meets Frank’s gaze across the kitchen island and smiles.

Notes:

Langdon’s second kid who?

Chapter 22: a windowsill of half-alive succulents in painted pots

Summary:

Frank books a wine and pottery date for his boyfriends.

Notes:

Day 22!

We didn't have a Rabbot centric day in a while, so hope you like it!! 💖

I had to do some research on those classes, and was devastated to find out that you don't get to bring your creations home on the same day.

Robby doesn’t know how he feels about the whole thing. A wine and pottery date, just him and Jack, booked and paid for by Frank.

The confusion he felt when Frank proposed it still lingers. Langdon, however, had said it was important that they go out a bit.

“We go out a lot,” Robby deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

“Yeah. With me.”

“Because we’re in a relationship with you,” Robby frowned, staring at Jack for support and getting only a shrug in response.

“No, you’re not. We are all in a relationship with each other. It’s not two and one, it’s one and one and one.”

“Frank—”

“So you’re going to go on a wine and pottery date,” Frank continues brightly, cutting him off, “just the two of you, on a lovely date. And you’ll tell me all about it. I booked it already. It’s non-refundable, and I’m on shift that day. You two are off.” He leans forward to kiss Robby, then stretches to kiss Jack next.

Robby knows it has to be something that came up during Frank’s therapy. Frank doesn’t share what he works on there, but Robby is sure their relationship comes up every now and then.

And this feels exactly like the kind of task a therapist would give someone trying to fight off insecurity in a poly relationship.

So here they are, finding their inner flow. At least according to the instructor: a woman named Celeste with far too many silver bangles.

The studio is warm, a sharp contrast to the biting wind whistling against the brick exterior. It smells of wet earth, kiln fire, and the deep, oaky scent of the Malbec Robby poured ten minutes ago.

This is the plan. A date night with no emergencies, no paperwork, and no mentions of anything even remotely medical. Just the two of them, a shared table, and enough clay to house the growing collection of succulents Robby keeps bringing home, insisting he thought of Jack when buying them. Jack does like them. He just doesn’t know how to keep them alive.

Robby is already elbow-deep in the process, rolling out long, thick coils of clay with focused precision, his thumb pressing little indentations into the sides of what will eventually be a planter.

Jack, predictably, takes a different approach.

He sits with his back straight, movements economical and precise. He uses a small metal rib to smooth the surface of his pot until it looks like polished stone. Every few seconds, he pauses to check the thickness of the walls, brow furrowed in concentration.

“It’s just a plant pot, Jack,” Robby murmurs, reaching for his wine glass with a hand already mostly gray. He catches the stem with his pinky and ring finger, managing a sip without smearing clay everywhere.

Jack doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “If the drainage isn’t good enough, the roots rot. You’re the one who gets upset when the echeverias die.”

“I get upset because you talk to them like they’re Victorian children dying of influenza,” Robby counters, leaning over to inspect Jack’s work. “Look at that. It’s already perfect.”

Jack finally looks up, eyes softening as they land on Robby. “It’s structural,” he shrugs.

The music in the studio is low, something acoustic and soulful, and for a long stretch, it's just them, the world outside ceasing exist.

Soon they wsah their hands, scrubbing the clay off as the instructor makes rounds to inspect their works.

Jack is pressed close to Robby's side, arm looped around his husband's waist. His thumb rubs lazy circles through the thin fabric of Robby’s sweatshirt while Celeste talks about brush strokes and glaze thickness. Jack leans in, murmurs something under his breath about Robby’s pot needing an extrta layer to keep the handle glued,” and Robby laughs, head tipping forward until his forehead bumps Jack’s shoulder.

It gets him a kiss to the temple, and another to the corner of his eye.

---

When they get back home, the apartment is warm, the air thick with the smell of the slow-cooker chili Frank started after his shift. When the door clicks open, Langdon doesn’t look up from his book at first, careful not to appear too eager, as if he hasn’t been waiting with bated breath.

“The artisans return,” Frank calls out, shifting in the armchair.

“It was incredible,” Robby says, leaning over the back of the chair to give Frank a quick, messy kiss that tastes faintly of red wine. “Jack is a natural.”

Abbot huffs, hanging up his coat and joining them. “I just keep physics in mind. No point making a flower pot that won’t hold the weight of plants.”

“And what did you make, baby?” Frank asks, closing his book and grinning up at Robby.

“A masterpiece,” Robby declares. “It’s a tea-mug planter.”

Frank laughs softly and looks toward the living room windowsill.

It’s a crowded scene. At least a dozen succulents. Some are new and thriving, some are looking suspiciously like they gave up a long time ago. They all sit in an eclectic array of thrifted, hand-painted pots. There are chipped neon ones, a cracked ceramic boot, and three different containers bearing words of wisdom in fading acrylic.

“Let me get this straight,” Frank says, pointing at the botanical graveyard. “I buy you two a night out to try something new, to broaden your horizons…”

“Yeah?” Robby asks, eyes twinkling, already knowing where this is going.

“And you come home with more plant pots?” Frank shakes his head, though his expression is pure affection. “We already have a whole museum. Don’t get me started on the ones in the garage—”

“The new ones will be better. You haven’t seen ones like these yet,” Jack says seriously, his hand settling at the back of Frank’s neck, thumb tracing soft hair at his nape.

“You two are impossible.”

“Mhm, and we had so much fun,” Robby hums, leaning closer. He’s always clingier when he’s tipsy.

Frank smiles, resting his head back against Jack’s hand. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Robby whispers conspiratorially. “Thank you for the date.”

Jack hums in agreement, giving Frank’s neck a gentle squeeze. “It was great. Thanks, Frankie.”

Frank turns his head and presses a grateful kiss into Jack’s palm. “I’m glad you liked it. Even if it means we have to find room for two more pots.”

“Three,” Jack corrects.

Frank blinks, turning to look at him. “Three?”

“We paid extra and made a small one for your desk,” Jack says, voice dropping an octave. “For a plant. Or your pens. Or whatever you want.”

Something warm and ridiculous tugs at Frank’s chest, and he pulls Jack in for a kiss, laughing when Robby immediately tries to wedge himself between them to steal the kisses from both sides.

Chapter 23: pale blue scrub pants

Summary:

Frank had to wear different scrubs, Jack is appreciative.

Notes:

Day 23! ✨

Excuse my lack of medical knowledge, but to my research light blue scrubs are primarily worn by ICU nurses.

Jack is barely five steps into the department, coffee still warm in his hand, when the colour palette of the ER hits him wrong. He has to stop and double-check if it’s even the right department. It’s not only the colour, but the person who’s wearing it. If it weren’t for the mop of fluffy hair, he wouldn’t recognise Frank.

Jack stops dead in his tracks.

Frank is passing by Trauma Two, posture stiff and lips pulled tight, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. The scrubs fit him the same way the black ones do, the shape is all familiar, but the colour changes everything. It makes Frank look… radiant. Gentle. Like he belongs on a brochure for a high-end clinic.

Jack stares, because how could he not.

Robby passes by with a tablet, clocks Jack’s expression, and doesn’t even slow down. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Not before finishing your coffee, at least. He’s pissed off today.”

Jack doesn’t listen to him, barely even focusing on the words.

He recovers just in time to keep from being obvious, smoothing his face into something neutral as he approaches from behind.

Frank doesn’t notice him at first. He’s too busy muttering under his breath while scrolling through labs, jaw tight, irritation radiating off him in a way Jack knows well.

“—and of course the blood result comes back clear,” Frank is saying quietly to no one in particular. “Because why wouldn’t it.”

Jack steps closer. Too close.

“Well,” Jack says mildly, voice pitched low, just for Frank. “This is new.”

Frank freezes, just a fraction of a second where his shoulders still, like his brain has to reboot.

He glances down at himself, then back over his shoulder. “What,” he barks, with a scoff.

Jack leans in, one hand braced on the desk beside Frank’s, the other still holding his coffee. He tilts his head, eyes dragging slowly over the pale blue fabric.

“Didn’t know we welcomed ICU nurses in this department,” Jack purrs, appreciative, acting like a menace. “You lost, sweetheart?”

Frank exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, too late. I already started,” Jack murmurs. “You look very… soothing. I feel like you’re about to bring me ice chips and tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

Frank straightens, shooting him a look that’s half warning, half amusement. “A patient threw up on me. And all over Trauma Four. Full Exorcist situation.”

Jack’s brows lift, just a touch. “Rough morning.”

“And,” Frank continues, clearly unable to stop himself now that he’s started lamenting, “someone used up all the black scrubs in my size at the machine. All of them. I checked twice. So unless you wanted me walking around in paediatric greens three sizes too small—”

Jack hums. “I might’ve.”

“—this,” Frank finishes, gesturing vaguely at himself, “was my only option.”

Jack’s gaze softens for about half a second. Then it sharpens again, interest rekindled.

“So this is an outfit with a backstory,” Jack says. “That makes it even better.”

Frank’s ears are already pink. “Jack.”

Jack dips his head closer, just enough that anyone watching would think he’s asking about a case. “You know,” he continues casually, “I think the colour really brings out your inner compliance.”

Frank’s jaw tightens. His voice drops. “We are at work. And I am already having a day.”

“I know,” Jack says, pleased with himself. “That’s why I’m being very well-behaved still.”

Robby clears his throat pointedly from across the station. He knows the look on Jack’s face too well not to put a stop to what he’s doing.

Abbot straightens up at last, taking a deliberate step back, expression returning to professionally unreadable. As he does, he reaches out and flicks the edge of Frank’s scrub with two fingers. It’s a quick, light touch that’s gone before it can be commented on.

“Hang in there,” Jack says, already turning away. “You look great, Nurse Langdon.”

Frank watches him go, heat crawling up his neck, irritation and something far more treacherous tangled together.

He mutters, mostly to the chart, “I hate you.”

Jack doesn’t look back. Instead, he finds Robby near the end of the corridor, already moving towards another case.

Jack kisses his husband, just a quick peck at the corner of Robby’s mouth, just to say hello.

“I don’t know how you managed to stay composed all day, by the way. Pale blue should be illegal on him.” Abbot murmurs, just for Robby to hear.

Robby exhales through his nose, fond and tired, nudging Jack’s hip with his own. “I managed,” he says dryly.

Jack grins, unapologetic. “You’re stronger than I am, then.”

“Oh, no,” Robby gives him a mock pout. “I’m just aware he’s coming home with me after the shift.”

Jack groans as Robby walks away with a chuckle.

Notes:

Jack’s playing it risky, but he can’t help himself 😮‍💨

Frank Langdon + baby blue = perfection

Chapter 24: a nature documentary at 2am

Summary:

Frank hates sleeping alone. A pity he’s dating two insomniacs.

Notes:

Day 24, enjoy!✨

Hope everyone is having a nice day! ❤️

Queue for some grumpy ass Langdon.

Jack wakes up the way he always does with his suddenly popping open, and mind going to full alert. It’s like an internal switch flipping somewhere behind his eyes, the one that’s been trained by years of night shifts and adrenaline spikes at three in the morning. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet of the apartment. The heat kicks on with a low groan, and the fridge hums somewhere at the other end of the house.

He glances to the side where the alarm clock is.

It reads 2:07 a.m.

Abbot exhales through his nose and rolls onto his side, already knowing sleep isn’t coming back.

Frank is sprawled in the middle of the bed, face half-buried in the pillow, hair everywhere.

Robby is curled beside Langdon, breathing slow and even, one arm slung across Frank’s waist, stretched out enough to graze against Jack’s ribs. They both look peaceful in that way that makes Jack hesitate, guilt tugging at him for even thinking about going out of bed.

He stays still for another minute.

Then another.

Finally, carefully, he slips free.

He pads out to the living room barefoot, the floor cool against his foot as he tries to be as quiet with his crutches as he can. He keeps the lights off, moving by sheer memory, and sinks onto the couch with a familiar sigh. The remote clicks softly as he turns on the TV and browses through channels until he lands on something slow and unobtrusive.

It’s a nature documentary. Something about the deep sea, maybe. The narrator’s voice is low and quiet, so he can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but he does see lots of dark blue and drifting creatures.

Perfect.

Jack lets it play, turning the volume up to be barely above a whisper, and leans back into the couch. His body thrums with leftover energy that has no output. He watches bioluminescent jellyfish pulse across the screen and tries not to think too hard. Thinking always makes it harder to go back to bed.

There’s a soft shuffle of feet, then warmth at his side. Robby folds himself into the couch, tucking in close without a single word. His head drops onto Jack’s shoulder, arm looping around his middle. He groans softly, all warm with leftover sleepiness.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs.

Robby hums, eyes still closed. “Woke up when you left and couldn’t fall back asleep.”

Jack huffs quietly, shifting so Robby’s more comfortable. He drapes an arm over him, thumb brushing slow, absent circles at Robby’s side. The documentary continues on, calm and unimportant, a soothing wash of sound and light.

They sit like that for a longer while. Just squeezed together, touching softly and breathing in each other’s scents.

Then comes the sound of footsteps.

Frank stands in front of the couch, staring at the TV with barely concealed resentment.

He looks all rumpled and only half-awake. His hair sticks up in ways that defy physics, eyes narrowed like the world personally wronged him. He has his arms crossed tight over his chest like he has to hold himself together.

“…Really,” Frank says.

Jack hums softly. “Hey—”

“You both just left,” Frank continues, voice flat and sharp. “Fantastic. Love that for me.”

Robby sits up slowly, blinking himself awake. “Frank, baby, why are you awake, it’s two in the morning.”

“Yes,” Frank says quietly. “I am aware. I woke up alone. Which is illegal in this household.”

Jack rubs his face. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to toss around and wake you two up.”

“Oh, so instead you abandoned the bed entirely. Very considerate.” Frank scoffs like the menace he is.

Robby pats the couch beside him, already smiling despite himself. Frank is so amusing when grumpy. “Come here, you gremlin.”

“I am not—” Frank starts to argue, but gives up, already moving. He stomps over and lets Robby pull him down between them.

He’s stiff for exactly three seconds before he melts completely. He buries his face into Jack’s shoulder with a huff.

“I hate the fish.” He announces after a moment.

“You took us to an aquarium two months ago to see them,” Jack says gently, hand sliding up Frank’s back.

“Those weren’t at home,” Frank mutters. “Totally different.”

Robby presses more on him from the other side, body firm and warm, squishing Frank between their bodies. He meets Jack’s gaze, finding equal levels of amusement there, both of them wearing lazy grins.

“You okay?” Robby asks Frank quietly.

Langdon just makes a noncommittal noise.

“I am. I just woke up, and you were both gone. I was just upset for a second. I’m fine now.” He shrugs softly.

Jack’s chest tightens. He threads his fingers into Frank’s hair, slow and steady, scraping at his scalp the way he knows Langdon loves. It’s not a clear reward, but it could be. Both Robby and he are proud of the progress Frank made when it comes to talking about how he feels.

“We’ll come back to bed soon,” Robby murmurs against Frank’s back.

Frank chuckles. “Good. Because I was about to come in here and turn the TV off out of spite.”

Jack laughs under his breath, pressing a kiss to Frank’s temple.

They sit like that for another few minutes. The narrator is dragging on about algae, and Frank’s grip on Jack’s shirt slowly loosens.

Finally, Frank lifts his head, eyes heavy with the tiredness that just started to kick back in. “Okay. You can finish watching the fish, but—” Frank adds, pointing vaguely toward the hallway, “on the bedroom TV. Because I can’t sleep without at least one of you there. And if I wake up alone again, I will bite.”

Robby snorts, and Jack laughs softly. They turn the TV off, slowly moving back to the bedroom.

Frank wedges himself firmly between them under the covers, one leg thrown over Jack, one hand crossed back and clutched around Robby’s T-shirt like he’s holding him hostage.

Langdon exhales, finally settling.

“…Don’t leave,” he mumbles, voice heavy with sleep again as he fights not to drift off so soon.

“Not going to,” Robby says with a chuckle, kissing his hair.

The fish swirl on the screen, Frank already knocked out cold between them. Jack knows Langdon could sleep through an alien invasion. Maybe it’s a perk of fatherhood, brain already used to disturbed nights and getting as much sleep out of them as possible.

Jack glances to the side, Robby meeting his gaze with warmth in his eyes. They lean toward each other, meeting somewhere above Frank’s head in a soft, unhurried kiss.

Chapter 25: nails dragging down the slope of an arm

Summary:

Frank and Robby go skating.

Notes:

Day 25, let's goooo

I had a busy day today, hence we're having short fluff 💗

The city rink is a glowing oval of white tucked between towering dark buildings, the air sharp enough to sting the lungs. It’s late; the crowd is thinning out already, leaving mostly the rhythmic shuck-shuck of blades against ice and the distant hum of a pop song over the speakers.

Frank is on the ice already, gliding with an effortless grace that makes it look like he’s walking on air. He looks comfortable, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, clearly waiting. He’s on his third lap already.

Meanwhile, Robby is still gripping the cold metal of the perimeter gate, knuckles already white with the strain.

Frank skates once more around the rink, then slows near the edge, ice spraying softly as he stops. “You coming?” he asks quietly.

“I didn’t know you were so good at skating,” Robby mumbles out.

Frank shrugs, a little sheepish. “High school hockey. I was a blueliner. Nothing fancy.”

That is, quite obviously, a lie. Or at least a vast understatement.

“You said you hated team sports back in school,” Robby narrows his eyes.

“I said I was on the hockey team, not that I liked it,” Langdon corrects. “The ice was fine, though.”

Frank glides closer, resting his hands on the top of the boards, covering Robby’s hands, rubbing over the tense flesh calmingly. He looks up at Robby with open patience.

“So?” he asks softly. “Wanna join me?”

“The ice looks thin near the center,” Robby hums. “And I like my wrists intact.”

Frank rolls his eyes, a knowing, amused glint there. “Robby.”

“I’m just saying, there’s a lot of people here. One collision and—”

“Robby,” Frank repeats, reaching out to peel one of Robby’s hands off the railing. “You know it’s okay not to be good at everything, right? Do you even know how to skate?”

Robby stops, and looks down at his rental skates, which he’s tied so tight his feet are slowly going numb, then back at Frank. “It’s just sliding.”

“Yeah, well, that’s part of it,” Frank says gently, and then holds out both hands, palms up. “Come here. I won’t let you crack your head open. I promise.”

Robby hesitates longer than he should. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he steps onto the ice, ankles wobbling inward immediately. He lets out a sharp, undignified hiss, but Frank catches him by the forearms, his grip like iron.

“I’ve got you,” Frank says. His voice has shifted. It’s not his usual dry, observational tone; it’s steady and incredibly patient. The tone he uses with pediatric patients. “Don’t look at your feet. Look at me. Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees more than you think you need to. Low center of gravity is your best friend right now.”

Robby obeys, heart hammering against his ribs. Frank slowly skates backward, pulling Robby along, entirely focused on keeping him upright.

“If I fall, I’m taking you down with me, as cushioning,” Robby mutters.

They keep going painfully slowly, and panic soon ebbs into a strange, warm fascination, because Frank looks younger like this, the stress of the week smoothed out by the cold.

“That’s it,” Frank says. “You’re doing fine. Look at you. So very graceful.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Robby laughs softly.

Frank just smiles and adjusts Robby’s stance with careful hands. “Relax. Let the ice do some of the work.”

Robby lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His shoulders loosen just a fraction. He barely glides, but it’s something. And Frank’s face lights up like Robby’s just performed a miracle.

“There,” Frank says, proud and quiet. “See?”

They keep going slowly. Frank talks the whole time, giving soft instructions and quiet encouragement. Sometimes there’s the occasional dry joke when Robby’s jaw tightens too much.

Robby stares at him, letting Frank pull him along. He analyzes the way Frank teaches, how he corrects without ego and adjusts without criticism. The way his focus stays entirely on Robby, like nothing else matters.

With a tight weight in his chest, Robby realizes dimly that Frank would be an exceptional attending. He doesn’t want to dwell on what could have been, on the board recommendation he never got to send, but he can’t help it. It’s always there, at the back of his mind—the things Frank could have achieved. He cuts the thought off before it can nag him any further. He already did too much of this type of thinking when Frank was in rehab, Jack snapping at him that he talked like Frank had died. But Frank is still here. Still fighting. Still trying.

“You’re very good at this,” Robby says quietly after a while, realizing he’s been silent for too long.

“At skating?” Frank chuckles, easing his hold on Robby. His fingersnails slowly drag down the slope of Robby’s arm all the way to his wrist, and then he gently joins their hands.

“At people,” Robby says.

They don’t stay on the ice much longer. When they step off, Robby’s legs are shaking from the newfound effort and stress, and Frank’s cheeks are pink from the cold. They stop by the hot chocolate stand right next to the rink, fingers numb and clumsy as they wrap them around steaming paper cups.

Robby grabs a cardboard carrier, catching the sight of Frank’s profile, watching as he carefully checks the lid on Jack’s cup to make sure it won’t leak in the car, his expression focused and inexplicably tender.

“Think he’ll be upset we didn’t get him the marshmallow one?” Frank asks quietly as they head towards the car.

“Not if you don’t mention it,” Robby says pointedly. “They’d melt anyway. It’s at least a ten-minute ride to the hospital.”

"We have to take Jack with us next time." Frank hums softly, meeting Robby’s gaze, smiling.

"Just what I need, both of you coaching me on my techinque." Robby rolls his eyes, but reciprocates the smile. "Fine. Next week."

Chapter 26: whirling red and blue lights

Summary:

Frank and Robby fall out. Nothing a minor car accident can’t fix.

Notes:

Day 26!

I sat down with myself, held my own hand, and said: “girl, Frank Langdon hasn’t suffered in a while, you have to fix it.”

To hell with Robby.

That’s Frank’s motto of the day. And he’ll gladly say it to Robby’s own face—he did, actually, somewhere between rolling his eyes at him and being kicked out to triage.

All because of Whitaker. Well, maybe Frank did have some fault in this too, but he won’t dig too much into it. Sue Langdon for not being okay with Robby and Dennis making gooey eyes at each other the whole shift, or Whitaker being allowed to do procedures he shouldn’t be performing on his own at this point in his medical career.

So what if Frank called Robby out on this during lunch, maybe a little too harshly given that Robby walked out of the break room, slamming the door. So what if Frank snapped a little at Dennis—maybe a little more than he should have. Perhaps he used words like, “being an overeager bootlicker gets you nowhere,” but he was upset because Robby was giving him the silent treatment.

Needless to say, Robby appeared out of thin air behind him, scolded him in front of everyone in the trauma room, and told him to go to triage. Frank did so without a word, letting the anger simmer in his guts.

Needless to say, he doesn’t drive home with Robby. They meet somewhere around the nurse's station, Robby still gathering his things as Frank approaches, already in his puffer jacket. Jack smiles brightly at him and Frank reciprocates it tightly.

”I’m taking the bus today,” Frank says to no one in particular, because he’ll die before he addresses Robby.

”Suit yourself,” Robby says with an indifferent tone.

Jack looks worriedly between the two of them but doesn’t interfere. It’s not the time or place.

Frank walks out into the cold, his breath fogging immediately. The sidewalks are slick, slush pressed thin by too many boots and tires. His phone buzzes once in his pocket. He ignores it.

He’s already walked a couple of blocks, thoughts distracted. He dodges the ice patches on the pavement, and when the pedestrian light changes at the next crossing, he steps forward.

The car doesn’t hit him hard, really. It clips him, more surprise than impact, enough to knock his balance sideways. He goes down awkwardly, palms burning as they scrape the pavement.

“Oh my God—oh my God, I’m so sorry—” The driver’s voice is high and frantic. She can’t be more than twenty, eyes wide, hands shaking as she scrambles out of the car. “I tried to stop, I swear, I just—I just passed my test—I didn’t know it was this slippery.”

“I’m fine,” Frank says immediately. Too quickly. He’s already pushing himself up, waving her off. “Really. You barely touched me.”

His knee throbs. The skin of his wrist is on fire. He ignores both.

She’s already pulling her phone out. “I should call someone—”

“No,” Frank says, firmer now, breath tight in his chest. He forces himself fully upright, rolling his shoulders like that will settle everything back into place. “You don’t need to do that. I’m a doctor. I’m telling you, I’m fine.”

She calls anyway, scared there's some internal damage.

By the time the ambulance pulls up, the cold has already settled deep in Frank's bones. He stares at the whirling red and blue lights, thinking how utterly shitty this day is.

“It's really not necessary,” Frank says again as they ease him onto the stretcher. He doesn’t fight them, but there’s a rigid politeness to him now, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dark sky. “I didn’t lose consciousness. No head strike. No abdominal pain.”

“Humor us,” the paramedic says flatly, already checking his pupils as the other puts a neck stabilizer on him.

Frank exhales through his nose. He lets them strap him in.

---

Jack sees the stretcher before he sees Frank.

It’s pure muscle memory, his eyes track movement, assess posture, scan for blood. For half a second, it’s just another patient being wheeled in from the cold. Then Abbott recognizes the jacket and his mind goes completely blank.

The coffee in his hand is gone at some point; he doesn’t remember dropping it. He’s moving before he’s aware of deciding to, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack his ribs.

“Hey—hey, no—” Jack hears himself say, too sharp, too loud. He catches the side rail of the stretcher as if it’s the only solid thing left in the world. “What happened?”

“I’m fine, Jack,” Frank says immediately. "They insisted on bringing me in.”

Jack doesn’t hear most of that. He sees the scrape on Frank’s palm. The way his color is just a shade off. The way his eyes won’t quite hold Jack’s for more than a second.

“You’re on a stretcher,” Jack says, voice shaking despite himself. “You don’t get to tell me you’re fine while you’re strapped to a stretcher.”

They move towards a trauma room, Jack barking at a nurse that he doesn't want help. He'll apologize later. For now, he needs to see Frank himself and make sure he's alive.

“Let me check your vitals,” he says, already reaching for Frank’s wrist.

“They’re—” Frank starts.

“I’ll check,” Jack cuts in. His fingers find Frank’s pulse, counting under his breath. Once. Twice. Again, slower this time. He presses just a little harder, like the extra pressure might reveal something he missed.

Then Jack checks his pupils, tracks eye movement, and runs his hands over Frank’s shoulders, ribs, and spine. All touches are clinical and precise, but shaking just enough at the edges to give him away. He presses along Frank’s abdomen, pausing, watching his face like a hawk.

“Any pain?” Jack asks low.

“No,” Frank answers immediately.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “Any pain you’re ignoring?”

Frank hesitates a fraction of a second too long. "No. The only thing that hurts is my knee."

A buzz breaks the silence: Frank's phone. He tugs it out of his pocket, checks the screen, and lays it down on his lap, letting it ring. Then again. And again.

Jack ignores it until the third or fourth time, when he glances at the screen and sees Robby’s name lighting it up insistently. He snatches the phone, steps half a pace away, and answers.

“Robby,” Jack says, voice tight but controlled in that way that means he’s anything but. “Hey. He’s here. He’s with me.”

Frank can't make out what Robby's saying, but he's speaking loud enough for Frank to hear him.

“He got clipped by a car,” Jack says, fast now. “Low speed. He’s conscious and talking. I’m still checking him.”

He hangs up and turns back just in time to catch Frank watching him with something fragile and awful in his eyes.

"He'll come pick you up," Jack says quietly.

“You didn’t have to tell him like that,” Frank murmurs.

Jack steps back to the stretcher, his hand finding Frank’s, grounding himself as much as his partner. “I absolutely did,” Jack says. “Because he loves you. And because if something was wrong and I didn’t, I’d never forgive myself.”

They stay quiet for a moment before Jack sighs. “Okay, let's see that knee of yours. Straighten your leg.”

Frank exhales and does it, slowly. The fabric of his pants pulls tight over the joint, and there it is: swelling already blooming, soft and angry, skin warm under Jack’s palm when he presses gently along the edges.

“It’s nothing,” Frank says immediately. “I slipped more than I got hit.”

Jack doesn’t comment. He just checks the range of motion, watching Frank’s face like it’s telemetry. He presses again, firmer this time, his thumb finding the tender spot with infuriating accuracy.

Frank hisses despite himself.

“Okay,” Jack says quietly. “That’s a knee that you'll be complaining about later tonight.”

Just the knee. No signs of internal bleeding. Frank is whole. Alive. Jack finally lets out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped behind his ribs since the moment he saw the stretcher.

“So,” Frank says quietly, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I didn’t… mess anything up, right?”

“No,” Jack says. “You scared the hell out of me. But you’re intact. Knee’s probably busted, but it'll heal. The rest of you is fine.”

Frank doesn't say a word as Jack elevates his leg, carefully putting an ice wrap and numbing ointment on. It's quiet for a while.

Then Robby hits the trauma bay like a storm front.

Jack hears him before he even sees him, the sharp intake of breath Robby does when he’s trying not to lose his temper in public. The curtain gets yanked aside with more force than strictly necessary.

“There you are,” Robby says.

Frank opens his eyes. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Hey.”

That does it.

“What the fuck, Frank?” Robby snaps, striding to the stretcher in three long steps. He doesn’t touch him yet, hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white, but his whole body is angled in like he’s bracing himself against the urge to shake him. “You lie to me and say you're taking the bus, you don’t answer your phone, and I find out you’ve been hit by a car from Jack?”

“I wasn’t hit-hit,” Frank starts, automatically defensive. “She barely—”

Robby slams his palm down on the edge of the stretcher. Not hard enough to jostle Frank, but hard enough to make a point.

“Don’t,” he says. “Do not minimize this. If I knew you were walking, I'd have dragged your ass to the car myself.”

“I just needed some air,” Frank says quietly.

“You needed air,” Robby repeats, incredulous. “So you stepped into traffic?”

Frank winces at the comment. “That’s not fair.”

Robby laughs, sharp and humorless. “No. What’s not fair is me replaying every possible outcome in my head for the last forty minutes while you were out here playing a concussion lottery.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” Frank mutters.

Jack clears his throat. “He doesn’t,” he confirms calmly. “Knee’s swollen. Everything else checks out.”

Robby flicks a glance at him, jaw tight, then back to Frank. His eyes are bright. He's not crying, but he seems right on the edge of it.

“You scared me,” he says, lower now.

Frank swallows. “I know.”

Silence stretches. Then Robby finally reaches out, fingers closing around Frank’s wrist like he needs the contact to anchor himself.

“I was angry at you for the stunts you pulled today at work,” he admits. “I still am. But if that car had been going faster—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching despite his best efforts.

Frank’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”

Robby squeezes his wrist once, hard. 

Jack exhales quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as he watches them.

“Okay,” Jack says quietly. “I'll discharge him and bring a knee brace for when the swelling goes down. You're in good hands, Frankie. Robby is a very caring house nurse.”

Robby huffs, a shaky sound that might almost be a laugh, and finally leans in, pressing his forehead briefly to Frank’s.

“Idiots, both of you,” he murmurs.

Frank closes his eyes, pressing closer. “Yeah, takes one to know one.”

They'll be fine. They always are.

Notes:

I went a little overboard with the length, 😭 but I was so excited to write this hahaha

PS: I love Dennis, I just think Frank is defo jealous of him

Chapter 27: a shadow hovering in a doorway

Summary:

In the aftermath of the car accident, Robby gets to do some house nursing, and they both get to talk.

Notes:

Welcome to day 27, also known as "Day 26 Part 2",

first time we're having a direct follow up of a previous chapter, but it would be OOC for the healthy communication skills babies I made up in my head to not talk things out like adults, so I'm giving all of us a closure.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the TV’s low blue glow and the lamp Robby forgot to turn off because his brain is still redlining. A reality show murmurs in the background, something about rich wives of their equally rich husbands, but the sound is just white noise at this point.

Frank is propped up against a mountain of pillows, his leg elevated with the kind of geometric precision only a doctor would bother with. The ice pack is wrapped in a thin towel, secured just tight enough to not fall off at the slightest movement.

Robby stands in the doorway. He hasn't sat down because if he sits, the adrenaline might finally drop, and he isn't sure he’s ready to feel the crash. He’s a man of action, and right now, there is nothing left to fix. He’s already adjusted the pillows for optimal lumbar support, checked Frank’s capillary refill twice, and cracked the lids on the Thai takeout that’s now growing cold on the nightstand.

“You should sit down,” Frank says, his voice raspy. He’s staring at the TV, but his eyes aren't keeping up with the shopping ladies who are getting ready for a cruise trip, catching Robby’s shadow hovering in the doorframe with the corner of his eye.

“I’m observing,” Robby counters, though his voice lacks its usual bite.

Frank finally turns his head. He doesn’t have the energy for a quip, so he just looks at Robby, gives him that look that always works wonders.

Robby’s shoulders drop an inch. He exhales, a long, shaky sound. “I’m observing, because you decided to play chicken with a random stranger on an icy road.”

“I got bumped, Robby. It was a low-speed clip, and I was on a pedestrian crossing with a green light, mind you.”

“It was a contact injury with a moving vehicle, Frank,” Robby says, stepping fully into the room. He stops at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the wooden railing. “Don't give me a triage report. Talk to me like a person—a partner.”

The silence stretches. On screen, someone pops a champagne bottle open.

“You still didn’t tell me,” Robby says softly. It isn't an accusation this time; it’s a wound that has bled ever since Jack picked up Frank’s phone. “Why you ignored my calls.”

Frank’s fingers twitch against the duvet. He could lie. He could say he didn’t notice, or he tried to pick up and he dropped his phone. But the way Robby is looking at him with that open-hearted fear strips the excuses away.

“I saw it ringing,” Frank admits, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I looked at your name on the screen and I just... I let it go to voicemail.”

Robby’s jaw tightens, but he doesn't retreat. He leans forward, bracing his weight on his arms. “Why? I need to understand the why of that, Frank. Because I spent forty minutes thinking every possible scenario, only to find out you were on a gurney, and only because Jack took mercy on me and picked up.”

Frank swallows hard. “Because I was already spiraling,” he says, the words coming out jagged. “And I didn’t trust myself not to sound like... this. Like a disaster.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Like someone who doesn’t deserve to pick up your call,” Frank adds, his eyes snapping to the ceiling to catch the tears before they fall.

“Frank...”

“No, listen,” Frank cuts him off, the honesty pouring out now. “I see the way you and Jack look at Whitaker. He’s easy. He’s a clean slate. He doesn't have a file an inch thick or a history of vanishing for ten months because he couldn't keep his hands out of the med lock. He slid into my spot at the hospital and the world kept turning. It was easier without me there.”

He finally looks at Robby, his expression fractured. “Sometimes, I think that maybe for you and Jack I’m just a project you’re both too proud to quit. That your lives would be lighter if you didn't have to worry about when the next crack in the foundation is going to show up.”

Robby moves then. He doesn't just sit down; he practically collapses onto the edge of the mattress, his hand finding Frank’s good knee and gripping it with grounding force.

“You think a hospital is the same thing as a life?” Robby asks, his voice thick with incredulity. “Frank, if a bomb went off in Trauma 1, Gloria would find a way to make it all function on the spot. Whether managed to cover for you or not is not an indicator of your worth.”

He reaches up, his thumb brushing the edge of Frank’s jaw.

“Whitaker is just a resident. He’s a set of hands at work. You?” Robby’s voice breaks, just for a second. “You’re the person I want to complain about Whitaker to. You’re the one I want to go home to after a hell of a shift. I always knew Jack and I were meant to be, but I also knew, since the day you fucking questioned me on your first day of internship, that we were also meant to be,” Robby says tenderly.

“You weren't gone because you were replaceable; you were gone because you were fighting to get your life back. There’s a difference.”

Frank’s lower lip trembles.

“When you don't answer the phone,” Robby continues, “I don’t think, here goes our disastrous project again. I think the man I love is hurting and he’s decided he has to do it alone. And that is what breaks me. We don't do ‘alone’ anymore. That was the deal.”

Frank closes his eyes, a single tear escaping. He leans forward, his forehead finding Robby’s shoulder. The smell of antiseptic and Robby’s familiar cologne fills his senses, finally slowing his heart rate.

“I’m sorry,” Frank whispers into the fabric of Robby’s sweatshirt. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Robby whispers into the side of his head, wrapping his arms hard around Frank, squeezing him closer. “I love you, and Jack loves you, and we’re not letting you go.”

“I’m here. I’m staying.”

“You better be,” Robby murmurs, holding him with a fierce, protective strength. “It scares me sometimes how much you make me care. You and Jack will be the death of me one day.”

Frank chuckles softly at that.

Robby kisses his forehead, nosing down over the eyelid and cheek to his mouth. He then pushes him back against the pillows.

“And now it’s food time. You need strength, and if I have to eat this lukewarm Thai food by myself, I’m going to be even more pissed off.”

Frank lets out a wet, genuine laugh. “Two bites. I’ll eat two bites.”

“Five,” Robby bargains, smiling the second he sees Frank smile. “And you’ll let me check your knee mobility again.”

“Fine, if you help me take a bath,” Frank says.

“Deal, but I’m not carrying you. I’m too old for this,” Robby says, and Frank whines immediately. “Half an hour ago you were assuring me your knee is as good as new. You can borrow Jack’s crutches.”

“Fine,” Frank huffs out.

The reality show playing on the TV finally shows the promised luxury cruise, and Frank turns to Robby softly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if speaking it out loud was still too much.

“I know. I already forgave you,” Robby whispers back, kissing him again.

Notes:

I wrote and edited fully on my phone, which I’m absolutely not used to. If there are any typos or such, let me know and I’ll fix them tomorrow ❤️

Chapter 28: frayed thread bracelets

Summary:

Jack and Frank go grocery shopping.

Notes:

Day 28 is upon us. I still remember when it was only day 8 🥹

Enjoy this piece of sweat and tears that I struggled to write for the whole day between my work tasks hahaha

Jack pushes the cart with one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket, letting Frank wander half a step ahead. It’s a necessity, as Langdon likes to stop abruptly every now and then; he usually moves forward by the time Jack catches up to him.

Frank inspects the apples and frowns, like they said something offensive to him.

“Think we’ll have time to make an apple pie this weekend?” he asks Jack quietly, but Abbot is distracted, digging through what Frank already put in the cart.

“Frankie, we don’t need three kinds of granola,” Jack says mildly, reaching over to remove one box from the cart.

“Hey, no! That one’s mine, it’s with extra protein,” Frank argues, immediately reaching for it again. “You want to take one out? Take the one Robby likes, it tastes like sawdust anyway.”

Jack snorts. “It’s the only one he eats. It’s either that, or he’ll go back to vending machine candy.”

Frank shoots him a look, then smiles despite himself. He lets Jack choose the yogurts, but only after reading the labels out loud in a low, muttering voice, underlining the sugar content like it’s Jack’s moral failing to even consider buying those.

Abbot watches him with a quiet fondness that he doesn’t bother hiding outside of work. They move to the avocados, dead set on not ordering food today and instead trying out a new recipe for layered nachos.

“You’re terrible at picking these,” Jack says, staring as Frank palpates one all around.

“I am not,” Frank replies, affronted. “This one is perfect.”

Jack takes it from him, turns it over once, then sets it back. “That one will be ripe next week.”

Frank huffs, rolling his eyes, but lets Jack choose. He follows him down the aisle, close enough that their coats brush as they move.

They’re mid-argument about what makes a perfect avocado for guacamole when a voice cuts in from Frank’s side—

“Well, this is unexpected.”

Frank freezes so hard his hand tightens around a plastic bag, knuckles whitening.

Jack, on the other hand, just turns with a friendly smile on his lips.

“Hey, Shen,” he says easily. “Fancy seeing you here, brother.”

Shen grins. His eyes flick to Frank, then settle right back on Jack.

“Didn’t peg you as a midweek grocery shopper,” Shen says. “Thought you survived exclusively on cafeteria pretzels and bad coffee.”

Jack chuckles. “What can I say, I’m branching out.”

Frank stays there frozen, his mind rebooting. His head replays everything they’ve done together in the store so far. The stolen smiles, the easy banter, the shared shopping cart—

“Langdon,” Shen says pleasantly. “Didn’t recognize you at first. Hey, avocados, healthy choice.”

Frank nods too fast, then clears his throat far too loudly for the silence that fell between them all. “Hi. Shen.”

“Mhm.” Shen studies Frank with open amusement. “And look at you two, shopping together,” he adds casually.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s convenient.”

“Convenient,” Shen repeats, as if tasting the word. “Ah yeah, it’s cheaper to chip in for gas than pay for DoorDash.”

Frank can feel the implication crawling up his spine. He is suddenly acutely aware of how close he’s standing to Jack. He thinks about moving a step away, but it feels almost insulting, like an affront to everything he feels for Jack.

Shen’s eyes flicker between them again. Slower this time. Slow enough to make Frank’s pulse start pounding in his ears.

“Didn’t know you lived around here, Langdon,” Shen says lightly, a smile at the corners of his lips. “Small city.”

“Small indeed,” Jack hums in agreement, because once more Frank fails to answer, only nodding dumbly.

That does it. Shen lets out a soft huff of a laugh, shaking his head like he’s more than entertained.

“Yeah,” he says. “Funny how that works.”

Frank is sweating. Actively. He’s pretty sure if Shen looks at him one more time, he’s going to spontaneously confess to crimes no one has accused him of yet. Either that or he’ll combust. Right now, he’s sure he’d prefer the latter.

“Anyway. I won’t keep you.” Shen gently moves his basket, giving them a small wave.

Jack nods with a wide smile. “See you during handoff, John.”

“See you, Jack! Take care, Langdon,” Shen says, eyes glued to Frank, who so far hasn’t even twitched a muscle, looking more like a deer caught in headlights than anything.

“You too,” Frank manages to mumble out.

Shen turns and walks away, humming quietly to himself like he hasn’t just wrecked Frank’s nervous system. Possibly permanently.

They stand there for a beat.

Frank exhales shakily. “He knows.”

Jack reaches out and nudges the cart forward. “Knows what? That we go shopping together?” Jack scoffs quietly. “What a crime. Somebody call security. Besides, even if he suspects something, he won’t say anything.”

“How can you be sure?” Frank asks, hand running through his hair shakily, brushing it back to soothe himself.

Jack glances back over his shoulder, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Because if he wanted to, he already would’ve. Trust me.”

Frank swallows, heart still racing, and follows Abbot down the aisle, trying very hard to calm it.

Jack nudges his shoulder gently. “Relax. He didn’t say anything.”

“But he implied everything,” Frank hisses, not even sparing a glance at the sweet cereal he always drools over, despite Jack saying it’s hypocritical to judge the sugar in yogurt and eat something with nothing but sugar in it.

“He implied we buy the same groceries at the same store,” Jack shrugs, entirely unbothered.

Frank glares at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely,” Jack admits. “You’re absolutely cute when you panic. And Shen doesn’t care.”

Frank groans, finally putting the bag of avocados into the cart and moving past Jack. “Next time, we’re doing DoorDash pickup.”

Abbot follows swiftly, smiling softly to himself. They pass the DIY section, and he perks up immediately.

“Remember about your threads, Frankie,” Abbot reminds softly.

Frank still attends the NA meetings regularly, and in addition to those, he goes to the group activity ones where they try out various grounding exercises. Making thread bracelets is on this biweekly one’s agenda.

Langdon already had an opportunity to make some back when he was in inpatient treatment. They’re already frayed and bleached from sweat and sun, but they’re a nice token of his journey, tucked away safely in his wallet for now.

As Frank reaches for a multipack of embroidery threads, he can feel Abbot’s gaze burning on his skin. He lets the familiar sight of colorful threads bring him back to how soothing it is to just sit down and weave one over another until they create patterns.

“You okay?” Jack asks finally, the previously cheery demeanor clouded by worry for his partner. “If you’re that upset about Shen, I can talk to him and explain that this means nothing—”

“It doesn’t, though,” Frank says suddenly, throwing the threads on top of the rest of their groceries. “Us doing things together, being together—it’s not nothing, and it wouldn’t be fair of me to expect you to go and say that to our coworker.”

Jack stares at him, their eyes meeting.

Frank lets out a shaky breath and offers Jack a smile.

“You’re right. If he wanted to comment, he would have. And if he has thoughts about this, we don’t have any influence on it anyways.”

Jack wraps an arm around his lower back, rubbing up and down, smiling at the younger man.

“Did I tell you I love you?” Jack asks in a quiet, heartfelt tone.

“Not today,” Frank teases, smiling back, “but let’s say it counts. I’ll make a bracelet for you as a thanks. Maybe even for Robby, but only if he tries the guacamole.”

Jack snorts. “Good luck with that. All green food is poisonous to him.”

Frank chuckles at that.

Someone saw them shopping together, and the world kept spinning. It made Frank feel lighter.

Notes:

I love Shen ✨

And is that *squints* Frank Langdon emotional revelation and growth??

Chapter 29: snores that emanate throughout a house

Summary:

Robby comes home to Jack reading, and Frank asleep.

Notes:

Day 29 ✨

Hello and welcome, take a seat as we have some good old cozy day today!

Robby likes coming home. Which isn’t entirely a novelty, but the sentiment did get stronger ever since Frank moved in. Back when it was just Robby and Jack, they often missed each other, only exchanging brief kisses during handoffs, both coming back to an empty house.

Nowadays, Robby almost always has someone home with him, and it brings him peace. Makes coming home more meaningful.

Robby carefully slips his shoes off by the door, toes nudging them into alignment, careful not to step into the puddle of melting snow that’s already forming nearby. He hangs his coat without turning on the overhead light. The house is dim and warm, something garlicky in the air. A lucky day, then—the boys were cooking.

The lamp by the couch is on.

Jack is there, curled into the corner of the sofa with a blanket over his legs and a book open in his lap. His glasses sit low on his nose, hair mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his hand through it for a while now.

Jack looks up the moment Robby enters the room, face softening instantly.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Robby responds with a smile. “You two cooked?”

“Yeah. One pot lasagna,” Jack chuckles softly. “It should still be warm. We wanted to wait for you, but Frank was barely conscious.”

Robby doesn’t even comment on that.

Abby called yesterday to ask if Frank could watch the kids on Saturday night—her mother’s sick, and she had to take care of her. Of course Frank didn’t say no. Instead, he pleaded with Ellis to swap days off with him and pulled a last-minute double.

A double, a day off today, then another regular shift, a whole day of babysitting on his other day off, and back to the usual grind.

Robby keeps tabs on that stuff. He didn’t say anything about sustainable work hours, because he knows being a present father and a reliable co-parent matters to Frank. Doesn’t mean Robby will greenlight any other double shifts unless it’s a family emergency. At least not until the end of the month.

Robby finally crosses the room and leans down without breaking stride, kissing Jack slow and familiar. Jack hums into it, one hand coming up to rest at the back of Robby’s neck, thumb brushing along his hairline. When they part, Jack presses his forehead briefly to Robby’s chest.

“Go eat,” Jack murmurs.

Robby huffs quietly. “In a minute.”

He sits down, and Jack shifts automatically, curling into his side. Robby pulls the blanket up over both of them and wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulders. Jack tucks his head beneath Robby’s chin, fitting there perfectly.

For a while, they don’t say anything, nuzzling against each other and kissing occasionally.

Jack’s fingers idle along the soft cotton of Robby’s sweatshirt, worrying gently at the sleeve.

From down the hall comes the unmistakable sound of Frank snoring.

It’s a full-bodied, unapologetic chainsaw rattle that cuts through the walls, accompanied every so often by a sharp inhale.

Robby snorts before he can stop himself.

Jack’s chest shakes with silent laughter. He presses his lips together. “Wow,” he murmurs. “He’s really committing to it tonight.”

Robby hums in agreement.

“That’s what twenty-four hours on your feet will do,” he says fondly, tilting his head to listen. Another snore answers him, louder than the last. “Jesus. Is that even still breathing?”

Jack grins. “I left the heating blanket on. You know it relaxes him.”

“As long as he’s not mumbling again,” Robby huffs, nuzzling Jack’s hair.

“Oh please, like it disturbs you,” Jack shoots him an amused glance.

“It scares me, and that’s a different thing entirely,” Robby chuckles, then laughs when Jack rolls his eyes. “It really does. He looks possessed when he does that.”

He finally hoists himself up, leaving one last kiss on Jack’s temple, and heads for the kitchen.

The pot lasagna is still on the stove, steam curling up as he spoons it onto a plate. Good to know it didn’t cool down too much.

Robby doesn’t bother with presentation beyond keeping the food off the counter. It’s late, and he just wants to eat.

Jack is still sitting, watching him with fond attention.

Robby slides the plate onto the counter, grabs a fork, then pauses.

“Wine?” he asks, already opening the cabinet. “Red, or the thing you pretend is white wine but is actually juice?”

Jack laughs softly. “The bottle says semi-dry.”

“It’s sweet,” Robby counters mildly.

“And delicious,” Jack says. “Yes, please.”

Robby hums and pulls the bottle, setting two glasses out without comment. He pours generously for Jack, then grabs a bottle of red for himself and fills the other glass.

“Anything else you want? Last chance while I’m still in the kitchen,” Robby says as he carries the glasses to the coffee table.

“No, just get here already,” Jack chuckles softly. “I missed you.”

Robby makes quick work of returning to the kitchen for his plate, flicking the lights off with his elbow.

“Did you notice?” Jack muses after a moment, glancing toward the hallway where Frank is sleeping. “The chainsaw got awfully quiet.”

“Mhm. Means he’ll be waking up soon,” Robby hums, setting his plate down and sitting with a groan.

“Good. He’d miss Jeopardy otherwise,” Jack comments, turning the TV on.

Robby watches his profile and smiles.

He really loves coming home.

Notes:

Frank Langdon snores and talks in his sleep. Change my mind (you can’t).

Chapter 30: creaky stairs

Summary:

Jack and Frank hit the gym.

Notes:

Day 30/31 😭

I can't believe tomorrow is our final day.

Meanwhile, we have some Frank and Jack centric day. I think I spent the whole day trying to come up with a scenario for this prompt, and stairmaster is what we're ending up with hahaha I don't know why, but I headcanon Jack as a person who just knows a lot about gyms and stretching routines. That and I feel like I did a lot of casual intimacy for them—cuddling, hugging, watching movies. I wanted to show a different aspect of the dynamic too. Hope you like it!

The stairmaster hums beneath Frank’s feet. It's a relentless, mechanical sound that fills the area. The gym is mostly empty now, with just a couple of machines occupied and quiet, upbeat music playing from the speakers.

Abbot has just finished his set of curls, his muscles pleasantly sore. He racks the weights and rolls his shoulders, glancing toward Frank without really thinking about it.

He watches Langdon almost lazily. The straight back, the relaxed shoulders, the hands resting lightly on the rails. Every step is deliberate and controlled. Frank always moves beautifully when he’s focused, but there’s something about the stairmaster specifically: his thighs flex with each step, glutes engaging, shirt clinging slightly to his lower back where sweat has already begun to gather. His breathing is measured, jaw set, eyes forward like he’s climbing toward something only he can see.

Jack leans back against the wall behind him, watching openly now—because why shouldn't he? It’s hot.

Eventually, he forces his gaze away to avoid looking like an absolute creep and wipes his hands on his towel instead. Frank hasn’t broken his rhythm. Sweat beads at his temples now, the curls at the nape of his neck darkened, his chest rising and falling more noticeably as the minutes stack up. He always pushes harder toward the end of their session.

Langdon finishes the interval after another two minutes and slows the machine, stepping down carefully. The stairs creak under his weight, the stairmaster's desperate plea for maintenance.

Jack’s already there. "Wanna stretch?"

"Yes, please," Frank groans happily, chugging water from his tumbler. It’s covered in stickers the kids plastered there over the weekend.

They take over a corner of the stretching area where the mirrors are fogged slightly and the noise drops down to a manageable hum. The adrenaline has burned down to something looser now, sweat cooling on Frank’s skin. He drops onto a mat with a groan that’s only half-theatrical, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Jack follows more deliberately, grabbing a second mat and a foam roller on the way. He crouches instead of sitting at first, eyes already scanning Frank’s posture like he’s back on shift instead of at the gym.

“Okay,” Jack says, calm and unhurried. “Hamstrings first. You rushed through them last time.”

Frank props himself up on his hands with a frown. “I did not rush.”

“You touched your toes once and called it a day,” Jack counters and taps Frank’s knee. “Bend them slightly. Protects your back.”

Frank obeys without argument, shifting as instructed. Jack watches the adjustment carefully, nodding once when Frank settles into the proper pose. Jack places one hand flat against Langdon's thigh, just above the knee, and the other at his hip, just for good measure.

“Good. Now hinge forward from the hips,” Jack continues. “Not the spine. Easy. Breathe.”

Frank exhales slowly, following the cue. His shoulders drop as the stretch deepens, his face tightening for a second before smoothing out.

“There we go,” Jack murmurs. “That’s right.”

Jack moves away, sitting down across from Frank now to mirror the stretch. His eyes, however, stay on Langdon. He counts silently, watching carefully for the little tells that could indicate Frank is aggravating his back, like a clenched jaw or a sudden weight tilt.

“Okay,” Jack says after a moment. “Ease out. Slow.”

Jack moves as well, once more coming closer and repositioning Frank’s legs for a glute stretch. He guides Frank’s ankle into place with one hand, the other pressing gently but decisively against the man's knee.

“Don’t force it,” Jack says, tapping Frank’s thigh when he feels it tense under his palm. “You’re not proving anything here.”

Frank huffs a laugh. “I might be.”

Jack’s gaze sharpens. “Frank.”

It works; he feels the muscle softening under his palm immediately.

“That’s better,” Jack says, his voice dropping an octave, satisfied. “If you blow out a hip trying to show off for the mirrors, I’m the one who'll have to hear Robby complain about it all night. Think of my mental health, Frankie. Have some mercy.”

Frank rolls his eyes, though he lets Jack guide his leg a fraction deeper into the stretch. “I’m not showing off for the mirrors. I’m showing off for that one guy who was leaning against the wall, watching me like I’m some interesting specimen.”

Jack just grins. “A very interesting specimen. High aesthetic value. Great cardiovascular endurance.”

“Shut up,” Frank mutters, though his cheeks flush.

Jack releases him from the pose, and Langdon reaches for the tumbler, taking a long, dramatic pull of water.

In the meantime, Abbot reaches over and grabs the foam roller, sliding it toward Frank. “Alright, tough guy. IT bands. Your favorite.”

Frank’s expression goes from relaxed to horrified in half a second. “No. Absolutely not. I’ve suffered enough on the stairs.”

“The stairs are why you need it,” Jack says, already moving to assist. He doesn't wait for a second protest, simply helping Frank shift his weight onto the hard cylinder. “Come on. I’ll let you pick the takeout tonight.”

Frank winces as the roller hits a knot, a muffled sound of pure agony escaping his throat. “Shit... you’re a cruel, cruel man, Jack Abbot.”

“I’m the man helping you not end up with a recurring knee injury,” Jack says flatly.

He stays close, hand hovering near Frank’s shoulder to steady him as he rolls out the tension. He watches Frank’s face—the way the grimace of pain eventually turns into a relieved exhale when the muscle finally gives up and relaxes.

After another five minutes of targeted torture on each side, and Jack finally taps the mat, signaling the end.

“Stretch session over,” Jack declares. He stands up and offers a hand to Frank, pulling him up with a firm, lingering tug that brings them into each other's personal space for a heartbeat too long for a public gym.

Langdon stays there for a second, catching his breath.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice losing the joking edge, becoming something softer. “For, you know. Not letting me touch my toes once and calling it a day.”

Jack squeezes his hand once before letting go to grab their gear. “Anytime, Frankie. Someone’s gotta keep your body loose."

Frank chuckles, swinging his sticker-clad tumbler as they head toward the locker rooms. “A futile task. One day at work and I'll be all tense again.”

“Way ahead of you,” Jack says, throwing an arm over Frank’s shoulder. “I already placed the order for a mat and foam rollers for the house.”

Chapter 31: an unlabelled usb

Summary:

Jack grabs a charger that isn’t his. Who’d know it’ll cause a butterfly effect of sorts?

Notes:

We have arrived at our destination. Day 31.

First of all, it's been a JOURNEY hahaha there were days when I couldn't stop writing at all (my work KPIs will hate me for it) and days when I struggled to form two sentences.

I wouldn't be here without all of you keeping me accountable. Seeing that someone is actually reading those, reading your comments—I knew I had to make it. Omg, why is the screen getting blurry suddenly? 😭😭

It's been a whole month of my life, literally the first 31 days of the new year hahaha and I wouldn't want to spend them in any other way.

Thank you, each and every one of you (is that a title reference??). I did it for you and would do it again ♥️

As for the chapter, we're having a different taste today, some POV switches, and some lighter tone, just to finish off in a fluffy, uplifting way.

Jack clocks out just as the sky starts to lighten, that gray-blue hour where everything feels a little unreal. The hospital doors whoosh shut behind him, and the cold slaps him in the face, snow crunching under his boots. His breath fogs the air as he tugs his coat tighter and heads for the car, shoulders aching in that familiar post-shift way.

Halfway across the lot, he digs into his pocket for his keys and comes up with something else instead. Plastic. Smooth. He squints down at it.

A charger.

Not his.

Robby’s charger.

The same one Jack grabbed off the nightstand just before leaving the house, his phone battery almost dead.

Jack stops, looks back toward the glowing hospital windows, then down at the charger in his hand.
“Dammit,” he mutters.

If Robby needs this today, he’s screwed.

With a quiet sigh, Jack turns around, pockets the charger properly this time, and heads back toward the entrance to give it back—just in case his husband needs it during the shift. Robby always stuffs it in his backpack before leaving.

By the time Jack slips back through the ambulance bay doors, day shift has the department in a chokehold already. Stretchers line the hall, monitors chime, someone shouts, someone else dry-heaves into an emesis bag. Jack takes one look around and immediately rules out finding Robby himself. Not to mention his husband is most likely elbows-deep in a case. It’s pointless to divert his attention over a charger.

Jack scans for a workaround and spots Whitaker hovering near the main desk, clipboard clutched to his chest, eyes darting around the board as he picks a case.

Perfect.

Jack approaches casually, careful not to spook him. “Hey.”

Whitaker straightens instantly. “Dr. Abbot—sir.”

Jack waves a hand. “I’m off shift. Relax.” He pulls the charger from his pocket, holding it up. “I grabbed this from Robby’s nightstand before leaving for my shift. Can you get it back to him for me? Just in case he needs it today.”

Whitaker’s eyes drop to the charger, then snap back up. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Thanks,” Jack says with a polite smile, handing it over. “Just give it to him when you get a second. No rush.”

Whitaker nods, serious as if entrusted with something sacred. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I know you will,” Jack says, already stepping away. “Thanks again.”

---

Robby barely registers the passage of time between patients. He’s slowly sipping his coffee, tasting mostly the cheap paper cup from the coffee machine, when Whitaker approaches.

“Dr. Robby?”

He looks up to give him his full attention. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Whitaker stands in front of him, posture a little too formal, holding something out with both hands like an offering.

“Um—Dr. Abbot asked me to return this to you.”

Robby glances down.

A charger.

For a second, his brain stalls. He stares at it longer than necessary, checking out the smooth plastic and the too-clean cord.

“…This isn’t mine,” he says finally, pretty sure of that. His own charger is tucked away in his backpack.

Whitaker hesitates. “Oh. I—he said I should return it to you.”

Robby takes it carefully, turning it over in his fingers. Recognition hits, delayed but certain. Jack must have borrowed it from Frank.

Langdon spent a good portion of the morning running around like a headless chicken, trying to find the charger he swore he left on the nightstand. Robby got accused of taking it at least five times, as it was his usual charging spot.

“I’m pretty sure this is Langdon’s. I stepped on mine, and plastic cracked. Jack probably forgot who he borrowed it from,” Robby says, distracted already, eyes flicking back to the board.

He doesn’t notice Whitaker freeze, nor the sudden shift in the air.

“Oh,” Whitaker mumbles.

Robby looks back at him and offers a smile.

“…Can you take it back to Dr. Langdon?” he asks quietly, after watching Whitaker stare at him with wide eyes, handing the charger back like it’s nothing. “He’s down the hall. Trauma Four.”

“Yes. Of course,” Whitaker says, already retreating.

Robby watches him go with a raised eyebrow. It’s unlike Whitaker to get this anxious around him, at least for the past few months. He shrugs it off. Maybe it's just one of those days.

---

Whitaker walks down the hall like he’s transporting evidence.

Not evidence. A charger. Just a charger. Normal, innocent charger. Except his brain will not stop replaying the last ninety seconds on a loop, zooming in on who, where, and most importantly, why.

“Dr. Langdon?” Whitaker says, careful, polite, ready to explain exactly nothing.

Frank looks up and immediately zeroes in on what Whitaker is holding.

“Oh, thank God,” Langdon says, snatching the charger straight out of his hands like it might evaporate, whole face lighting up. “I thought that thing was gone forever.”

Whitaker blinks. “I—”

“Seriously, you’re a lifesaver,” Langdon continues. “I was tearing my place apart this morning. Checked my bag, the kitchen counter, even the locker room, twice. Could’ve sworn I left it on my nightstand and then—nothing.”

Whitaker’s brain does a full, silent somersault.

“Your… nightstand?” he repeats faintly, Abbot's words looping in his head.

Langdon nods, unbothered. “Yeah. I was late, phone almost dead, total mess. I figured it fell behind the bed or something.” He grins. “Guess it somehow made it to the locker room instead.”

Whitaker’s smile locks into place through sheer force of will. “Right,” he says. “Yeah. That happens.”

Frank claps him once on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.”

Dennis nods. Once. Twice. Then he turns and walks away, posture stiff, soul leaving his body in orderly stages.

He tells himself not to think about it.

Which, of course, means that’s all he does.

It doesn’t make sense. That’s the problem. His brain keeps trying to line the facts up into something reasonable, something harmless. Chargers get mixed up all the time. People are tired. People borrow things. People—

Doctor Robby would not cheat on his husband.

Whitaker clamps down on the thought as soon as it forms, like it’s something shameful. Dr. Abbot is married to Dr. Robinavitch. That much is not a rumor, not speculation. It’s a fact. A known, hospital-wide fact. The kind that exists in framed photos and matching coffee mugs and the way Robby’s face softens when Jack's name comes up.

So no. Absolutely not.

Still.

Whitaker ducks into an empty trauma room under the pretense of reviewing labs and seriously considers texting Santos. You ever notice weird stuff and then wish you hadn’t? He types it out. Stares at it. Deletes it. Santos is his roommate, not his confessional. And this—whatever this is—is none of their business.

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and forces himself to focus on work.

Except now he can’t stop noticing things.

Robby and Langdon are closer than he remembers them being. Not in any obvious way. Frank leans in when he talks to Robby, close enough that their shoulders brush, and Robby doesn’t move away. When they’re both at the board, Robby angles his body toward Frank without thinking, listening to him with undivided attention.

Whitaker watches Robby laugh at something Frank says, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Has it always been like this?

He can’t even remember now.

That’s the worst part.

It’s probably nothing. It has to be nothing.

---

The fluorescent lights of the ER hum with their usual rhythmic buzz when Jack pushes through the double doors for his next shift. He looks more rested, the lines around his eyes smoothed out by a few hours of actual sleep, carrying a thermal cup full of fresh, hot coffee.

He spots Robby near the central hub, charting with a focused knit in his brow. Jack leans against the counter next to him, pressing a quick hello kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like you’ve had a long one.”

Robby lets out a soft huff of laughter, not looking up from the screen. “You have no idea. We had a three-car pileup an hour after you left. It’s been a marathon.”

“Glad I was already out, then,” Jack says. He nudges Robby’s arm. “Oh! Did Whitaker find you? I realized halfway to the car I’d accidentally swiped your charger from the nightstand. I didn't want you stuck here with a dead phone.”

Robby finally looks up, an amused, lopsided grin spreading across his face. He leans back, crossing his arms. “Oh, he found me. But Jack, that wasn't my charger. Mine was in my backpack the whole time.”

Jack blinks, his coffee mug stopping mid-air. “What? No, I grabbed it right off the—"

“It was Frank’s,” Robby interrupts, eyes dancing with mischief. “He spent the better part of the morning spiraling because he thought he’d lost his mind. He left it on his nightstand before he came in. But I told Whitaker you must have been confused who you borrowed it from.” Robby waves his hand dismissively.

Jack freezes. The coffee cup stays exactly where it is. He slowly lowers it, his brain replaying the conversation with Dennis in agonizing, high-definition clarity.

“I told Whitaker…” Jack starts, voice dropping an octave as the blood drains from his face. “I told him I grabbed it from your nightstand, Robby. At home.”

The amusement on Robby’s face falters, then vanishes, replaced by dawning horror. He glances over his shoulder toward the trauma bays, then back at Jack.

“And Frank told him,” Robby whispers, the weight of the realization hitting them both at once, “that he left it on his nightstand at home.”

A heavy, ringing silence falls between them. Across the nurse's station, they both feel a pair of eyes on them. They turn in unison to see Whitaker standing by the medication cart, frozen, holding a vial of saline like it’s a live grenade, just staring at them, mouth slightly agape, the math finally adding up in his head in a way that changes everything.

Jack clears his throat, looking back at Robby. “So,” he says, voice tight. “I guess we’re not just 'good friends' with Langdon anymore.”

Robby lets out a shaky, breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, at least Frank got his charger back?”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, watching Whitaker practically trip over his own feet as he scrambles to get away from them. “And I think we just gave Dennis Whitaker a permanent case of vertigo.”

---

Frank is blissfully unaware for approximately five minutes. He’s sitting in the breakroom, feet up on a chair, scrolling through his phone, which is plugged into the very charger that started the fire.

When Jack and Robby walk in, Frank doesn’t even look up.

“You guys seen Whitaker?” Frank asks, sounding genuinely fond. “I need to buy that kid a coffee. He’s the only person in this building who isn’t a total agent of chaos. Found my charger, brought it right back to me.”

Jack and Robby exchange a look. Jack looks like he’s preparing to deliver news of a terminal diagnosis. Robby just looks like he wants to dissolve into the linoleum. Both of them know well how Frank feels about making their relationship public. Doesn't matter if it’s one person—well, counting Shen, a second one.

Frank finally looks up, squinting at them when they stay quiet for too long.

“So, Whitaker brought it to me first, and I told him it was your charger. I told him Jack must have borrowed it from you and forgotten.”

“Right,” Frank says slowly. “Because he did. What’s the issue?”

“The issue,” Jack says, leaning against the kitchenette counter as if he needs the physical support, “is that a little while earlier, I told Whitaker I’d grabbed that charger off our nightstand at home this morning. Because I thought it was Robby’s.”

Frank stays very still. The gears in his head, usually so quick and efficient, seem to grind to a screeching, metal-on-metal halt.

“You told him you took it from your house,” Frank repeats.

“My house. Our house,” Jack clarifies.

“And then,” Robby adds, voice lower than usual, “you told him you thought you left it on your nightstand at your house.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Frank’s feet slide off the chair and hit the floor with a dull thud. His face doesn’t just turn red; it turns a shade of purple that would usually require a dermatology consult.

“Oh,” Frank whispers. “Oh, God.”

“Yeah,” Robby says.

“He’s a smart kid, Frank,” Jack says, and despite the gravity of the situation, a tiny smile appears on his face. “He didn't just do the math. He did the geometry. He knows exactly how many nightstands are involved in this relationship now.”

Frank buries his face in his hands, a low, pained groan muffled by his palms. “I told him I was tearing my place apart. I told him I looked in the kitchen. I was so… enthusiastic about it. I practically thanked him for saving my life.”

“Well, he looked like he was seeing through time and walls when I last bumped into him,” Robby chuckles, trying to ease the mood.

Frank suddenly bolts upright, eyes wide with a new, sharper brand of panic. “Wait. Does this mean I have to be ‘professional’ now? Do I have to stop making jokes about your husband’s terrible taste in men? Because if Whitaker knows I’m the 'terrible taste,' the joke is totally ruined!”

Frank lets out another groan and thumps his forehead against the breakroom table. “I’m never looking him in the eye again. I’m moving to surgery. Garcia hates me, but at least she doesn't know I'm dating my married attendings.”

“Too late,” Robby chuckles, checking his watch. “There's still forty minutes to our shift, and you’re scheduled to supervise his next lumbar puncture in more or less minutes.”

Frank doesn't move. He just stays face-down on the table.

"See you at handoff, Frankie,” Jack says, heading for the door, smiling.

Both him and Robby decided it would be best to rip off the band-aid swiftly. No point letting Frank avoid Whitaker for ages, better shcedule them for a joined procedure.

"Think he'll be fine?" Jack asks in a hushed whisper when Robby follows him out.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Robby presses a kiss to his temple, hand going to the small of Jack's back. "It was bound to happen."

"Over a stupid cable," Jack sighs with disbellief. "We should start labelling these things."

Robby chuckles, kissing him again for good measure before right back into work.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! Lots of love ❤️