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Space Date
Space Hospital was an awful show. It wasn’t even so bad it was good. It was just bad. Despite that, Jack enjoyed watching it, mostly to make fun of it. He’d developed his own little drinking game for every time the characters did something that didn’t make any fucking sense no matter what universe it was supposedly set in or what made-up species they were treating. Robby gave Jack endless shit for watching it, but he also put up with watching it, mostly for Jack's snarky comments and the opportunity to get handsy.
The midseason cliffhanger episode was airing that night, so obviously they were spending their Friday night watching it. He’d made shakshouka for dinner because it was easy, fast, and had plenty of protein and veggies, but also wasn’t likely to give Robby heartburn if Jack made it mild. Robby had never mentioned anything, but Jack had noticed the bottle of antacids in their bathroom cabinet getting more empty and he knew he wasn’t the one chewing calcium carbonate tablets like they were Necco Wafers.
They’d finished their meal and the show and their glasses of beer were empty when Jack pushed the button to turn off the TV.
“The most unrealistic part of that entire episode was how well-stocked the supply room they fucked in was. I mean, I don’t even care that you’d have to be double-jointed to get into some of those positions, alien or not. No one has that many boxes of gloves just sitting around.”
The midseason cliffhanger episode was airing that night, so obviously they were spending their Friday night watching it. He’d made shakshouka for dinner because it was easy, fast, and had plenty of protein and veggies, but also wasn’t likely to give Robby heartburn if Jack made it mild. Robby had never mentioned anything, but Jack had noticed the bottle of antacids in their bathroom cabinet getting more empty and he knew he wasn’t the one chewing calcium carbonate tablets like they were Necco Wafers.
They’d finished their meal and the show and their glasses of beer were empty when Jack pushed the button to turn off the TV.
“The most unrealistic part of that entire episode was how well-stocked the supply room they fucked in was. I mean, I don’t even care that you’d have to be double-jointed to get into some of those positions, alien or not. No one has that many boxes of gloves just sitting around.”
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On his way to the kitchen, Robby gets out his phone and connects it to the speaker, sets something playing now that they're not watching TV anymore. Jack's right -- there's not a tonne of ice-cream left, so Robby scoops what's left into a bowl and then pours a generous measure of scotch for Jack and a matching measure of bourbon for himself.
He brings it all back to the couch and sets it down on the coffee table before he sits.
"What do you want to do with the rest of the evening?"
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Jack was fine with Springsteen playing out of the speaker he kept on the kitchen counter, but Robby had also brought over his fancy turntable and speakers and they both knew that sounded better than the little bluetooth thing.
"I don't have any particular plans. I'm just glad not to be dealing with anyone who fell on their ass in the snow or nearly gave themselves an MI shoveling it," Jack said when Robby was back with his ice cream and the two glasses. The city had gotten almost ten inches of snow on the twenty-sixth. Neither of them had worked that day or even the next, but that didn't mean they avoided snow-related injuries.
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"I don't want to have to get up to flip it," says Robby, settling back onto the couch with his ice-cream, his thigh butting up against Jack's. He'd prefer them intertwined again, but there's plenty of time for that.
"Preach," he says, taking a bite of his ice-cream. It's chocolate, a decent brand, so it ought to go well with the bourbon. "Prefer you to myself anyway."
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“I think I got a full BINGO on this episode. There was weird jargon, a disease progression that doesn’t make sense, three dramatic gasps, a character that we’ve never seen before and might never seen again, and of course inappropriate uses of a supply room.”
The characters spent more time in the supply room some episodes than they did talking to patients. They’d slept there, taken phone calls there, had arguments, all kinds of things.
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"You should make yourself a card next time," says Robby, gesturing with his spoon. "I've been saying for a while that you need a hobby."
It's amazing to him, quietly so, how they've just slipped into this -- living together, eating together, sleeping in the same bed when they're both there at the same time. Robby hasn't lived with anyone since Janey, and he thought he was out of practice.
Turns out he was just waiting for this.
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This was a light-hearted argument they’d had many times. Jack didn’t object to Robby’s hobbies, but he didn’t want to join them, especially running.
“I’ll sit on the beach in the shade and ogle you while you surf, though. That’s about my speed, I think.”
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"You can ogle me at home," he says, lifting one foot to nudge Jack's thigh, grinning, as he takes a sip of his bourbon. He was right -- it does go well with the chocolate. "It's warmer and it has the benefit that we can both get naked whenever we want."
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She’d transported someone who’d decided to go polar bear swimming at midnight when they’d ostensibly been stone cold sober. Jack and his team had gotten the person warmed up and they hadn’t had any long term consequences to their stupidity, fortunately for them.
“Oh, right. She called it a budgie smuggler. Are you saying you don’t want to see me in a budgie smuggler?”
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"If you keep saying that, I'm pretty sure I'm never going to get hard again," says Robby, taking another bite of his ice-cream. "I've seen you in less than that, too, and I gotta say that I prefer that picture."
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He'd made progress in that arena over the last month but whether he'd get it all the way up and then keep it up was still a little bit of a crapshoot. It was still better than not getting it up at all, so he was taking that win. Robby had been as patient as Jack knew he could be about it all, and had also firmly disallowed Jack from saying anything too negative about it.
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Robby shoots him a look that always accompanies him referring to it as any kind of 'problem'. So far, it hasn't stopped them managing to have as an active a sex life as can be expected at their age and with their work schedules, at least as far as hands and mouths are concerned.
He doesn't have a free hand to squeeze Jack's thigh so he settles for nudging him with one knee.
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Jack nudged Robby with his own knee.
“Statement of fact, man. No judgment implied or stated.”
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"It's the word problem that I object to," says Robby, mildly, sucking his spoon clean and then gesturing with it. "Definitely didn't feel like a problem last night. That's all I'm saying."
Jack might say no judgement, but Robby knows he's a little bit delicate about it, sometimes. Robby just keeps reminding him. That's all he can do.
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Since Robby was gesturing with his spoon, Jack took the spoon away from him and got a bit of ice cream out of Robby's bowl, then ate it before handing the spoon back to Robby. It was good ice cream. It didn't quite go with Scotch, though, which he discovered when he took another sip of that to wash the ice cream down. It wasn't bad, but it didn't go well.
"I don't think that's gonna be on any dessert menus any time soon."
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He knows Jack well enough to almost be able to read his mind when that smirk shows up on his face. He rolls his eyes as Jack takes his spoon, but he holds the bowl out so that it's easier to scoop some ice-cream up.
"Bet it goes better with the bourbon," he says, reaching for his glass and holding that out, too. Even after all these years, the idea of drinking bourbon with Jack has almost a Pavlovian effect.