Chapter Text
When Jack feels awareness creep back in, he is sitting half-dressed and shivering on the floor of his office. He blinks and rubs a shaking hand down his face. The room comes into sharper focus.
One of his hands clenches around a Bic pen, squeezing it so hard that the indentations of the cap are biting into his palm and the plastic is about to snap. Jack swallows and coughs. The air in the room is solid, humid, cloying.
His cell phone is hot in his hand like he's also been gripping it tight. Jack thumbs to the contact list and hovers over Robby's name. Instead of pressing call, he shuffles forward to pull open the top drawer. It takes three tries to get it open - the fucking thing is warped and he's meant to fix it for years - and inside he's relieved to find his Beretta 9mm. The gun usually lives in the side-table by the front door, he thinks. At some point between getting off shift and - Jack cranes his neck to get a glimpse out the window - what seems to be early evening, he's been handling it.
Jack shoves the drawer closed, stuffs the pen in his pocket, freezes, digs out the pen and hurls it across the room. He climbs to his feet, finishes dressing, packs a bag, and gets the fuck outta dodge.
The drive to Robby's is exactly thirteen minutes. Jack drives cautiously. His pulse slows with every mile he puts between him and his house, but the empty void of time between PTMC shifts stays pitch black. The sweat on the back of his neck dries clammy.
He loves Robby's house: the driveway is wide enough for two cars. It makes him feel like his truck is meant to be there, tucked in next to Robby's jeep. With his hands full and a bag over his shoulder, Jack kicks at the door like an asshole until Robby answers.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
"I'm hungry and I wanna sit down. Take this." Jack shoves a frozen pizza at Robby and sloughs his bag and heavy canvas coat to the floor of the entryway.
Robby doesn't move. "I know for a fact you've got furniture at your own house."
"Yeah, but I've been forming a perfect ass print on your couch the last four years. It's taken a lot of work, and I gotta come over and maintain it." Jack pushes past, heading straight for the kitchen where he slams cabinets open and shut until he's got plates, napkins, and two beers on the counter.
And hey man, I was worried if I stayed at home I was gonna eat a bullet instead of this pizza, so could you just put the game on and shut the fuck up?
They eat the pizza and yell at the game and drink the beer and when Jack feels ready to leave, Robby puts a hand on his elbow and tries to shuffle him toward the guest room. Jack plants his feet and tips them towards Robby's room instead.
Jack pins Robby down while he fucks him. Not at the wrists - he'd like that, they both would, but bruises that match the exact shape and strength of Jack's hands wouldn't be professional. Hot as fuck, but not professional.
So Jack shoves Robby's arms above his head and holds them there with his eyes, getting an understanding nod from the man below him.
Eventually- after the second time Jack massages two fingers over his swollen prostate, sucks Robby into his throat, and then pulls away before Robby can peak - Robby loses his focus and his composure. He makes a noise he'll deny was a wail and moves his arms, maybe in an attempt to grab Jack, or maybe to wriggle away from the too-much-too-little sensation that he's been getting. Jack is on him in an instant.
"Nu-uh. Up." Jack kisses his way up Robby's heaving chest until he's hovering hot breath over his lips. "Are you going to be good for me? C'mon, arms, put them back up." Robby surges up to steal a kiss, but Jack is faster. He jerks back and raises an eyebrow.
Jack'll concede it might've been what Robby was aiming for all along, but soon he's got him on his stomach stretched around Jack, making noises Jack will be thinking about for days, months. One of Jack's hands finds Robby's triceps and he leans his weight there, hoping at least a thumbprint will linger longer than the few days it'll take for Robby to eventually change the sheets. The guy's gross, he likes the crumpled, sweaty cotton and he doesn't have to deny it anymore after Jack caught him out months ago.
Robby peaks first, spilling burning hot into Jack's hand. He smears it onto Robby's back where he lays pliant and warm, then adds his own to the mess with a bitten off keen.
Robby passes out soon after, one hand curled around Jack's bicep. It's easy to extricate himself and he carefully doesn't look back at the way Robby turns toward the empty place in the bed like a lost sunflower seeking the light.
Jack futzes with the blank side of a receipt at the kitchen counter, not knowing what to say before slipping out. In the end, he doesn't write anything. He doesn't have a pen.