Jack tries to make Robby talk.

The idea of bossing you around is almost tempting enough to lure me from the beach.

The email was from Brian Price, who'd done his residency at PTMC before covid, then sailed straight into a cushy gig at Cedars thanks to family connections and Adamson's recommendation. Robby had quietly hated him, happy to see him go.

Brian's email included a forwarded job listing, seeking a temporary Chief of Emergency Medicine for PTMC, to start July 4th, Robby's last day before his sabbatical. Jack had been expecting Gloria to ask him to step up.

He'd heard nothing from her. And now this, as good as announcing the news: they were bringing in an external hire.

When Robby turns, Jack is standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe.

Neither of them speaks. Jack is staring at him in that way– the way he looked that night, twenty fucking years ago, all unreserved heat and everything unspoken.

He pushes off the doorframe and moves forward.

Slowly, careful not to jostle anything on the counter, Samira takes two steps across the tiled bathroom floor until she can see Trinity and Parker again. Just to keep an eye on them, so I know when they’re leaving, Samira tells herself, deliberately ignoring the shiver that washes over her as she peers through the crack in the door. Samira can just make out the edge of a bed behind Parker, and the thought — the possibility — makes her lower belly clench with sudden, traitorous heat.

They look incredible together, the lamplight by the bed casting them both in a deep, bronze glow, shadows slip-sliding down to the space between their bodies. Trinity’s hair is loose around her shoulders, Parker cupping the back of Trinity’s head as they kiss, and Parker’s shoulder flexes slightly as she pulls Trinity closer.

They…this is not my fault, they shouldn’t be doing this…Parker’s her attending, this is so…so…

So hot, Samira squashes the thought before it can fully form, refusing to acknowledge the pu

If asked, Jack could rattle off a couple pretty good reasons why he trails Robby out of the park that night, and they might even be true, but none of them would be the real one.

    Hi Mr. Hayden,

    We’re pretty sure you’ve never noticed, so you might find this funny. Over the years, a few of us have been piecing together the Rozanov-Hollander saga from your fanmails.

    In mine, Ilya Rozanov was chatting in Russian in the background saying some very colorful things about someone's something.

    For a second, I actually wondered if he was your secret lover. But at this point, aren’t we all just second-guessing?

or: Hayden Pike finally realizes he never actually double-checked any of his videos

“I just,” Robby says. He looks down at his feet, hands wringing by his side. Robby’s impersonation of someone who’s doing just fine falls to the floor with his gaze, fracturing on impact. Fingers curl into fists, and it’s like he’s elbows-deep in Jack’s chest cavity, twisting at something visceral when he clenches tight enough that the skin around his knuckles pales from the pressure. “I need—”

Jack knows what Robby needs. They’ve traded off existential crises enough times that he’s lost count of the running tally, taking turns picking each other up from rock bottom like they’re alternating who’s picking up the check at dinner. Robby doesn’t have to subject himself to the mortifying ordeal of saying it out loud; being here at all is telling Jack everything that he needs to know, and frankly, it’s easier on both of them if they step right over that part altogether.

Four days away from the hospital should’ve meant sleep, silence, and maybe a bottle of wine. Instead, Jack drags Robby up a hiking trail with a suspiciously enthusiastic smile. The forest is peaceful. The air is crisp. And Robby is beginning to realize Jack might have picked this particular trail for reasons that have nothing to do with the view.

or jack takes robby on a specific kind of trail

“You tell him to take the lonely new guy out, you tell me to take the lonely workaholic out, so neither of us can refuse because we’re doing it for someone else. A perfect snare.”

Adamson’s expression warmed even further, like he was fighting off a smile, a battle he didn’t mind losing. “What a way to look at it.”

Jack grinned at the non-denial denial. “Sure, Dr. Adamson. I’ll show your protégé a good time.”

Daniel’s barely thirty; he can’t fathom one century, let alone five. It’s probably a wonder Armand doesn’t spend his time skulking in a cave somewhere, muttering to himself, covered in the blood and muck of his innocent human victims.

Armand tilts his head a little, lips pursed, chiding. “Really, Daniel. Must we give in to such lazy stereotypes?”

Daniel just got pleasantly fucked in a Japanese love hotel and taken out for pancakes by his sleep paralysis demon; there’s nothing stereotypical about this.

“Pleasantly?” Armand picks up on, with no little offense.

If the reason you don’t make a child vampire is because they’ll be perpetually stuck in the hormonal throes of pubescence, then it’s worth asking what that means for the adult vampires. Louis’ clock stopped at thirty-three, Armand’s stopped at twenty-seven.

Ashamed of the person he was when he was thirty-three, Daniel decides to give the vampires some grace. It doesn’t change much about the outcome, but what it changes matters.

u/city_0f_day_after_tmrw • 45 minutes ago I can’t believe the freaks of r/onlyingotham think Superman should move there He would have to become mediocre man or possibly even “fucking sucks” man #52nd in water quality #49th in literacy #only thing it’s number one is in is cannibalistic serial killers per capi…

“Tell me something that brings you comfort.”

“Something that brings me comfort?” Robby shot back, his tone mocking the frivolity of it, because he never was one to just follow directions.

“Yes,” Gene said, eternally unfazed. “It can be the smallest thing, whatever comes to mind.”

What came to mind was: Pens games, the trails at Frick Park, the rare book collection in the Oliver Room at Carnegie Main, a cortado at Sage Caffe. But what he said was: “Jack.”

…wait. Shit.

“So hot,” the other woman agreed, shooting a quick glance out at Jack. “Those arms. Have mercy.”

Robby hid a smile. Jack was gonna love hearing about this.

Her friend made an agreeing sort of noise. “Yeah, but I’m gonna be so real with you: the leg kinda freaks me out.”

And Robby froze, a ripple of offense sweeping him.

It had been one of those days - the kind that scraped you down to the cartilage and called it a good save. He’d woken up with the ghost of a dream under his skin, hours before his shift even started; one of those ones where he had to just lie there to remind himself the world was still spinning. Part of him had been tempted to call Jack. He would have picked up. Taken his shift - or better, offered to come over. Then they’d do that thing where Jack would put on some shitty Spaghetti Western and keep running commentary going until Robby felt like a person again.

Instead, he’d gotten up, gone through the motions, and into work.

---

Robby doesn’t know how to keep going - he knows it’s more than just exhaustion. He also doesn’t know how to let himself love Jack. Lucky for him, Jack knows how to do both.

Jack just laughed and shoved him a little harder into the door, a visceral, physical reminder: he was in control now. He expected Robby to bitch him out, sharp like he got when cornered—

Except instead Robby slumped, his breath out almost relief, like all the fight had drained from him. He didn’t say anything, just took a few shaky breaths, body shivering under Jack’s—

…oh.

The English class system is complicated, even before one considers its hierarchical werewolf components.

Robby finally piped up: “Kind of a shame, though. Guy seemed like your type.”

Jack felt himself wanting to bristle, quickly controlling it. Because what the fuck. They’d been entirely wrapped up in each other in the year since Pittfest, Robby finally going to therapy, letting them get more serious than the fuckbuddy deal they’d had going before that. Jack had thought things were going well. “I have a type?” he challenged, raising his eyebrows.

Yom Kippur fell on a Thursday, not quite a month after what was arguably the third-worst day of Robby’s life.

He’s nothing like the stereotypical yoga teacher Jack has been imagining. He looks more like a guy you’d see heading up a running club, middle-aged and tall and broad-shouldered, bearded but not in a hippie kind of way, and it’s only when he says, “Welcome to class. You’re new, right? I’m Robby. Any injuries I need to know about before we get started?” that Jack realizes he’s the instructor.