![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Polar Nightmares
His therapist in Pittsburgh had told him once that he thought Jack preferred nights because the darkness was a source of comfort for him, and Jack didn't think he was wrong. He usually wasn't, which was the annoying part about therapy. A lot of people were scared of or disliked the dark, which he understood, but he’d never found it scary, even before he'd started working nights all the time. Jack thought it was a lot worse to see all the shit that was coming his way in the light, in a lot of ways, whether that was mortars or MVAs. All of that meant that this polar night thing Darrow suddenly had going on was just fine with Jack in terms of what he was doing and how he was doing it, but he knew that wasn’t true for most people.
Robby, in particular, had been getting incredibly fucking grumpy. He’d come over to Jack’s apartment after he finished another shift of caring for people who had been injured “running into shit because no one remembers to carry a goddamn flashlight or even just use the flashlight function on their fucking phone”. Jack had fed him huevos rancheros, given him a beer, and let him complain, then sent him off to shower and go to bed. Jack’s own body clock wouldn’t let him sleep for a few hours yet, so he read a book on the couch until he thought he could sleep.
When he went to his bed, he fell asleep easily in the new sheets Robby had given him, but he was also almost immediately dropped into a nightmare. He was back in Afghanistan but it was Sarajevo but it was Iraq. There were IEDs but there were missiles but there was friendly fire from tanks. He smelled burning cloth and hot metal and gasoline. He tasted sand and blood and sweat as he tried to tourniquet everyone and everything. He didn’t have enough supplies, enough time, enough skill. Soldiers were dying and Robby was dying and Diane was dying and neither of them should have been there. No one should ever have been there. He called out for suppressing fire, for more supplies, for anything that would slow the blood and death.
Robby, in particular, had been getting incredibly fucking grumpy. He’d come over to Jack’s apartment after he finished another shift of caring for people who had been injured “running into shit because no one remembers to carry a goddamn flashlight or even just use the flashlight function on their fucking phone”. Jack had fed him huevos rancheros, given him a beer, and let him complain, then sent him off to shower and go to bed. Jack’s own body clock wouldn’t let him sleep for a few hours yet, so he read a book on the couch until he thought he could sleep.
When he went to his bed, he fell asleep easily in the new sheets Robby had given him, but he was also almost immediately dropped into a nightmare. He was back in Afghanistan but it was Sarajevo but it was Iraq. There were IEDs but there were missiles but there was friendly fire from tanks. He smelled burning cloth and hot metal and gasoline. He tasted sand and blood and sweat as he tried to tourniquet everyone and everything. He didn’t have enough supplies, enough time, enough skill. Soldiers were dying and Robby was dying and Diane was dying and neither of them should have been there. No one should ever have been there. He called out for suppressing fire, for more supplies, for anything that would slow the blood and death.
no subject
Here's the thing -- if Jack point blank didn't want him to stay, he would have said so. Jack Abbot is many, many things but, in Robby's experience, he's never struggled to make his opinions crystal clear. Still on his back in Jack's bed, Robby looks up at the ceiling for a long moment. His phone (and, therefore, his alarm) is still in the other room, but he'd left the door open on the other side of the bathroom, so he'll hear it, when it goes. He glances at his watch; he's got time to get another couple of hours before he has to get up.
And then there's the fact that, if givent he opportunity, he really does want to stay.
Eventually, he rolls over, close to Jack but not actually touching him, and then he reaches out and touches Jack's hip, fingertips half on the fabric of his shorts and half on bare skin.
"Tell me to fuck off," he says, and hopes against hope that it doesn't happen.
no subject
He shook his head with a little negative noise, because he wasn't going to tell Robby to fuck off.
"We are not fucking talking about this tomorrow," he said firmly. They probably would have to talk about it at some point, but he was just making that clear.
no subject
When Jack shakes his head, Robby relaxes into the pillow. He gives Jack's hip a former squeeze and then settles his arm into the space between them on the mattress. He finds himself staring at Jack's bare back, fighting the urge to slip his arm around Jack's waist and pull him closer.
"No argument from me on that one," he says.
no subject
“Shocking,” he teased in a low drawl, but he also settled down and closed his eyes with a soft sigh. The adrenaline had faded away and now he was so, so tired. But he was also so, so warm and comfortable with Robby behind him to protect him from the world and that was a weird thought to suddenly have that he was going to also discuss with Sam, but it was … true. Robby would protect him. He’d protect Robby. It was what they did. It was what they’d done for thirty fucking years.
“Thank you, Misha,” he said as he fell asleep, and where his brain had dredged that up, he didn’t know and wouldn’t worry about tonight.
no subject
Jack says it and Robby lies awake for a long few minutes, just floating in the way that hearing that name used has made him feel. Nobody's used it in years. Simply, he remembers telling Jack that that's what his Baba called him, once upon a time.
He can't really figure out how heading it from Jack Abbot makes him feel, but it's definitely not bad.
He drifts to sleep like that, close enough to Jack that he can almost feel him breathe.
no subject
There was something hard ... oh, fuck. Robby was in the bed with him and he had morning wood. He was going to be incredibly fucking embarrassed if Jack let on, even though it was just a physiological response and they both knew that.
He stretched a little, which shifted his ass away from Robby's dick and might wake Robby up enough that he could flee if he wanted to. Jack put odds on the fleeing.
no subject
When he wakes up, Robby realises two things in quick succession: that he's got his arm around Jack's waist, and that his cock is hard. Thankfully, there's some space between his hips and Jack's ass, so maybe Jack hasn't noticed.
"Shit," he says, voice still thick with sleep as he rolls away from Jack, taking his arm with him. "Sorry."
no subject
"S'all good," he said easily and sleepily. "I said you could be big spoon."
no subject
"I thought you said we weren't going to talk about it," he said, pushing up to sitting, his eyes lingering on Jack's bare back and the slight curve of his waist for a moment, before he blinks blearily at his watch.
"M' going up get ready for work. It's early. Go back to sleep."
no subject
"Sun come up yet?" he asked idly, because maybe today they'd get an actual sunrise.
no subject
Grateful for the drape of his t-shirt and baggy boxers, Robby pads over to the window and peers out through the blinds.
"Negative on that," he says, stretching both arms over his head as he turns back towards the bed. God, he wants to crawl back into the tangle and sheets and blankets with Jack, when though he knows it's not his place, knows that last night was an anomaly.
"It going to disturb you too much if I shower before I get dressed?"
no subject
"Only if you sing."
He could sleep through a lot, and the sound of the water running in the next room was more soothing than anything else.
no subject
"No singing," says Robby, already heading in the direction of the bathroom. "Got it."
I'm the doorway, he turns back and glances at Jack, shirtless and sleepy in rumpled sheets. He leaves before he does something stupid, closing the door gently behind him.