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"Please, I'm fifty-three years old," he said, dismissive. "I've had every type of sex there is."
They were grabbing an early dinner before Jack went in for his shift, Robby on his day off. Robby telling tales on his day off, it seemed. Jack was practically required to scoff at him. "Like hell you have."
Robby leveled him with a look. "And how would you know?"
"Because I know you. And you have never once given up control."
When Robby ambled in a little early for his shift, central was a hive of activity, Walsh calling back to Jack as she accompanied a gurney out of Trauma 2: "Learn from the master, soldier boy."
"When you find one, be sure to let me know, princess," he shot right back, but the note of fondness in his tone made Robby freeze. That wasn't their usual back-and-forth. That held warmth to it. An undercurrent of knowing. A joke shared between two people who'd seen each other naked. More than once.
Robby clocked Jack watching Walsh go—what the fuck—and then he went back into Trauma 2, debriefing with the team. It was the tiniest moment, nothing—
And yet Robby's whole understanding had just realigned. Jack and Walsh. What the fuck.