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They stopped at Sal's liquor shop on the way to Jack's place to grab some actually decent beer, as opposed to the swill Robby would choose if left to his own devices.
"Hey, Sal," Jack said as he walked in, nodding to the aging man behind the counter. Sal was a big guy, grayer than Jack these days, though his round face was kind as ever.
"Hey, Doc," Sal said, smiling in greeting. And then again to Robby. "Other Doc."
Jack grinned. He liked Sal.
"You guys heading off to watch the Pens?" Sal guessed.
Jack sighed. "You get why we need to fortify ourselves."
"My condolences," Sal said gamely. "Got some new stuff in, might make the sting go down easier."
"That would be some impressive beer," Jack muttered with a shake of his head, walking through the aisles back to the cold section, curious now. He clocked Robby stepping up to the front counter to peruse the candy bar selection because of course he did. Jack found his sweet tooth endlessly endearing.
"Get me an IPA," Robby called back, sounding distracted.
"Man, I will get you something good."
"An IPA," Robby said, like he was agreeing, like they were synonyms.
Jack scanned the shelves. "I have never known anyone whose taste was so snooty and so basic at the same time. There's more to beer than just throwing hops into a bucket, you know."
"Excuse me if I don't want to drink my beer with a spoon," Robby shot back.
"We gotta get you to Scotland. You need some learning on what real beer is," Jack drawled.
Robby laughed, making Jack smile automatically. "Oh, hey, they have Clark Bars," Robby said, brighter now, like he just got a gift.
Jack smiled again. "I want in on that," he called, focusing now. He resisted the urge to get Guinness just to poke at Robby and grabbed some Goose Island Bourbon County instead. Maybe he'd force some down Robby's throat, get him to see the virtues of barrel-aged stouts.
"How are you stocking these?" Robby asked Sal. "I thought they only went to the specialty candy stores."
"When you get to be an old fart like me, you know some folks," Sal said, wry. "Didja hear they still use the original manufacturing equipment? I'm talking pre-war."
"It's why you can barely find them outside Pittsburgh these days," Robby agreed and of course he knew that, the nerd.
"Used to be that Clark Bars were on every army base in the world," Jack called. "Fuckin' corporations, ruining everything." Then his eyes landed on the distinctive yellow Penn Brewery bottle caps. Sal did get some new stuff in. "Hey, you're getting more from Penn."
"IPA," Robby called again, a reminder.
"For that, I'm getting you a Bavarian wheat beer, you prissy fuck." But Jack bypassed the respectable Penn Pilsner and grabbed a pack of their hopped-to-shit IPA, hating himself a little for giving in...but it would make Robby smile.
The door banged open, spinning Jack around, senses instantly on alert as a guy rushed in, black bandana tied around his face, pistol pointing at Sal as he shouted. "Open the register! Now!"
Pulse pounding, Jack silently set down the two six-packs, slowing his breathing. Sal had his hands up, a kind of resigned look on his face, but it was Robby who had Jack's attention. Robby, whose brown eyes were wide, hands held out uselessly, like he didn't know what to do other than play statue. The masked guy looked to him, calling, "You. Stay there," in a tone of menace—
And Jack saw red. He grabbed one of those kids' plushie ball things as he slowly moved up the aisle, drawing attention to himself by saying, "Whoa, easy now."
The guy jerked toward him, but smartly kept the pistol on Sal. Jack knew Sal had a baseball bat back there and a silent alarm. The nearest precinct was six blocks away. If Sal got a second, he could make a problem.
But that wasn't Jack's focus. He made sure to keep his movements slow and easy, hands up as he stepped between the gunman and Robby. He knew the plushie would seem ridiculous, innocent.
It was the assumption he wanted.
"We're cool," Jack said, turning toward the guy, taking up more space, blocking Robby. Behind him, Robby hissed a protesting, "Jack," but Jack ignored that, keeping his focus on the gunman.
The gunman, whose blue eyes were darting around now, not expecting three guys here, and not unformidable ones. "Stay there," he said, hard, reminding everyone of his control. Jack didn't like the grim quality to it. That was not someone afraid of using a gun.
The gunman looked to Sal again and insisted: "The money."
"It's all credit cards these days, kid, I don't keep much cash."
"Let's see it, old man," the gunman insisted, his pistol all-too-steady. He wasn't nervous or uncertain, just determined. Another bad sign.
Sal sighed and started hitting buttons on the register—
The gunman's body tensed, his attention focusing—
Which was Jack's chance. He whipped the plushie across the room, behind the guy and straight into a display of chips. It made a racket, startling the gunman, who automatically looked that way—
And Jack took the two steps to get to him, throwing a single quick strike to the back of his head, up and across, hitting just below the occipital bone, in the dip between the sternocleidomastoid muscle and trapezius.
The gunman instantly dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground. Jack went for the pistol, popping the clip and checking the chamber.
Which had a round in it. That fucker. Jack ejected the round and snatched it out of the air, attention widening to find Sal and Robby both staring at him.
"What?" he asked, setting the pistol on the counter. With no ammo, it was nothing more than a paperweight.
"How the hell'd you do that?" Sal asked, a little faint.
"Pressure points," Jack said with a shrug. "That one's on the greater occipital nerve. Hit the right spot, it's lights out."
Robby was already kneeling by the unconscious gunman, fingers easing along his neck and the base of his spine, checking him. Jack felt another rush of fondness as he said, "I didn't hit him hard enough to dislocate the spine. Worst case is a concussion."
"You know how to distinguish that force?" Robby asked, a little bewildered, looking up to Jack with wide brown eyes. Because Robby didn't know violence—real violence, more than those neighborhood scrapes of his—always so gentle and kind. He knew the theory of it all, but its use wasn't in his toolkit.
Not like Jack, anyway. "Army," he reminded because duh.
Robby stood, shooting him a bullshit look. "Why do I doubt they teach neurological knockouts in basic?"
Jack grinned. "You got me there. Iraq could be a lot of hurry up and wait. We had to amuse ourselves somehow."
Sirens approached—Sal must've hit the silent alarm—as Sal looked to him, tipping his head. "You have my gratitude. And the beer's on the house."
***
Robby was quiet as they talked to the cops—separately, to compare their stories—and quiet as the cops hauled the gunman away. He stayed quiet on the walk back to Jack's car, parked around on a dark side street, carrying his six-pack of IPA like he'd forgotten it. And Jack was bummed about that; he'd expected at least a little fun teasing for being such a softie. He liked it when Robby did that, all attention on Jack.
Jack set his beer in the trunk, then reached for Robby's—
At which point Robby finally seemed to look at it. "You got me an IPA?" he asked, bewildered.
"Against my better judgment," Jack shot back, but he couldn't help the pleased curl that slipped through him as Robby looked up at him.
"You stepped between me and the gun," Robby said out of nowhere, like he'd been thinking on this and still couldn't fathom it.
The change of subject surprised him, but Jack rolled with it, shrugging as he took the IPA and set it in the trunk, then closed it. "I mean, yeah." He turned to face Robby, hands on his hips, not sure what he was sensing here.
Robby stared at him, something flickering through his dark eyes. "Why?"
Jack huffed a laugh. "Man, you got some combat training I missed?"
But Robby was shaking his head, holding out a staying hand, stepping closer. "No, seriously. Stepping in front of a gun is not normal behavior. So...why?"
Jack stilled, only now realizing...shit. Robby was right. It probably did say something that he hadn't even hesitated to get between him and danger. It probably said a lot more than Jack liked.
Not that he was about to admit that to Robby. So shrugged again. "I knew how to handle the situation," he said, knowing it was weak, the appearance of a reason, not an actual reason. It wasn't like he could say, the thought of you getting hurt makes me want to burn the world down. Friends weren't like that.
"Jack, you can't do that. I don't want that," Robby insisted, something intent in him now.
But Jack was shaking his head before he'd even finished. "I don't know what to tell you, man. I'm not the guy who stands by. You were in danger, so I handled it. That's what I'll always do."
Robby looked at him, just blank, for an endless moment. "Okay," he finally said—
And then he stepped in and kissed Jack.
Jack made a surprised noise into the kiss, feeling Robby's hand curl around the back of his neck, his beard soft against Jack's face. His lips were light, a little testing, and Jack couldn't help his startled breath in as the heat of it registered—what—Robby wanted—he felt it, too?
But then Robby was pulling away. Jack reeled, not knowing what the fuck, but knowing he couldn't let this moment pass. So he gripped Robby's hoodie and yanked him closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.
And now it was Robby's turn to suck in a surprised breath, his mouth opening, and Jack wasn't above exploiting that. He brushed his tongue against Robby's, soft, just a taste—
Robby made a dark noise, his hand gripping the back of Jack's neck as he opened his mouth wider. And then it was really kissing, mouths moving in concert, chasing each other's taste, sudden lust shooting through Jack at this thing he never expected to fucking happen.
Jack backed Robby up, pressing him against his car, Robby pushing back, into the kiss, free hand getting around Jack's back to pull him close as they kissed and kissed and holy shit, they were making out in public.
Jack broke the kiss on a gasp, instantly caught by Robby's glittery eyes, dark with want now, sending heat screaming through him, even as Robby got control of himself and said, "Never put yourself at risk for me."
"Fuck you," Jack said, shaky, because that was never going to be a thing he promised now.
Robby leaned in and nuzzled his jaw, mouth catching there, a bright bloom of heat. "Yeah," he said, like Jack had just made some kind of offer. "You should take me home. We can talk about it."
"Man, if I take you home there won't be much talking and it'll be naked," he muttered without thinking, tilting his head to get more of Robby's mouth.
Robby pulled back to look at him, lips quirked. "Take me home, Jack," he said, silky and inviting, like naked talking was exactly his plan, like that'd change anything.
It wouldn't, but Jack didn't need to argue that point, not when Robby was offering himself up, holy fuck. When had this happened? What did he miss?
But he also wasn't turning it down.
"Get in the damn car," Jack said, already heading for the driver's side door.
And that got Jack his very favorite thing: Robby's laugh.
***
Fin. Feedback is adored.