Chapter Text
The headlines tell a pretty straightforward story when read in chronological order.
Prominent Nebraska Philanthropist Dead at 67
July 07, 2019 – Joseph Cameron Finch, prolific philanthropist and founder of Nebraska-based Finch Auto Supply, has died at 67 years old. He is survived by his three children and twelve grandchildren…
‘Business is Booming’ says Finch’s Newly-Appointed CEO
September 12, 2019 – Elliot Finch speaks candidly about the status of Finch Auto Supply in the wake of his father’s passing.
Opinion | Can Finch Survive this Regime Change?
January 03, 2020 – Rumblings in the business world have led many to wonder if freshman CEO Elliot Finch has what it takes to save his father’s business empire.
Finch Auto Supply Sees Lowest Profits on Record Since 1991
February 11, 2020 – For the past forty-three years, Finch Auto Supply has been considered the gold standard in aftermarket automotive retail. Now investors are pulling out in record numbers…
Then the pandemic hits. Record low profits get even lower. Robby spares himself the grief of reliving that time, tired eyes just barely scanning over phrases like supply chain and mass layoffs. It’s all very… bleak.
And it doesn’t get better.
Finch Auto Supply to Close 150 Locations Nationwide
October 30, 2020 – The once-ubiquitous chain has reduced its retail presence by over 30 percent since December 2019. CEO Elliot Finch describes this as a ‘planned restructuring’...
‘Only a matter of time’ says anonymous Finch associate
January 12, 2021 – Reports from within the dwindling chain tell of ‘rising family tensions’ and the ongoing pressure to sell.
Here’s what Robby was able to glean from approximately thirty minutes of surface-level research: Joseph Finch handed an entire legacy to his (likely ungrateful) son on a silver platter. Said son proceeded to squander that gift, reducing Joseph’s automotive empire to a shell of its former self in a matter of months. Within two years of Joseph’s passing, all three of his children were selling their shares of Dad’s legacy to his biggest competitor for pennies on the dollar. Nowadays, Finch is a memory. Sometimes not even that.
(Robby himself only vaguely recognizes the logo, though Google tells him there used to be a whopping four locations in Pittsburgh, one of which was just two blocks from his place. Who’d’ve thought?)
And, here’s the thing. Robby’s feelings about this Joseph character are… complicated. Glass houses, he knows, but he can’t help it. What sort of creep turns sixty and thinks, ‘it’s time to date someone whose frontal lobe is still developing’?
It’s all tangled together in Robby’s mind. The self-loathing, the guilt, the envy. Is he upset because he feels Dennis has been taken advantage of, or is he upset because he didn’t get there first?
Mike, you sick fuck, he thinks. It’s not news to him —not by a long shot— but it bears repeating.
If Robby had to guess at a reason for all this, he’d say Joseph’s children are hurting for cash.
Now, mind you: All three of them sold their shares in the family business for enough money to live out perfectly comfortable lives. Charmed ones, even. They shouldn’t be hurting for money. It’s just that Robby’s known enough spoiled rich kids at this point to be certain that money is long, long gone.
Is Dennis simply the latest stop on some nationwide panhandling tour? Did they exhaust all other avenues before showing up here? And why in the world, after taking Dennis to court and damn near ruining his life, would they still think he’s got anything left to give?
Unless— well. Unless he does.
“Do they think I have a secret money stash buried out in the desert somewhere? Or sitting in some offshore account I’m refusing to touch?” Dennis had wondered. He was joking, obviously, but what if the Finches know something he doesn’t?
Just as Robby begins to consider this possibility, he feels a stirring beside him. His boy grunts, slurring out a just-barely-audible, “Robby…?,” and he sounds so small. So confused.
“Right here,” Robby whispers assuredly. He exits out of the search, returning his phone to its home at his bedside, then wraps himself back around Dennis with a soft grunt.
“Wha’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Robby lies. Dennis hums like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“S’bedtime.”
“I know, baby. I was just, uh– just checking something,” Robby whispers. He presses a kiss to Dennis’s temple, inhaling his intoxicating scent, then adds, “Sorry I woke you.”
Dennis shakes his head. His hair brushes across Robby’s face, tickling his nose. “Had a bad dream,” he explains shakily. Robby feels a sympathetic pang in his chest.
“Yeah? Y’wanna tell me about it?”
Another shake of the head, just as ticklish as the first. “In the morning, Daddy,” Dennis whispers, and Robby’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s used that nickname in a context that isn’t, at the very least, implicitly sexual. A precursor to the main event. This, though? This is something more… innocent. This is something precious.
This is Dennis Whitaker, confused and half-asleep, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that his boyfriend —his Daddy— will keep him safe no matter what.
Which is exactly what Robby intends to do.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
“Did I tell you I have an appointment today?”
Dennis shakes his head, swallowing his mouthful of eggs, then says, “I thought you were hanging out with Abbot.”
“I am,” Robby confirms with a slightly-uneasy smile. Weird. “But, uh. Before that —at four PM, to be exact— I’m… meeting with a potential therapist. Just so you know.”
Dennis can’t help the way his breath hitches audibly at that. “I– really?,” he exclaims, and Robby's smile turns sheepish.
“Yes, really. I can’t guarantee we’ll mesh well enough for it to go past one appointment, but… yeah. I’m gonna give it the old college try.”
“Is it– I mean, are you doing this ‘cause I brought it up, or…?”
Robby shakes his head. “Not entirely, no. Jack’s been on my ass about this for years. Half of me thinks I’d’ve gotten through the door a decade sooner if he had eyes half as pretty as yours, but… well. We can’t all be perfect.”
“Shut up,” Dennis scoffs, smiling despite himself.
They spend the morning lazing around together. They joke, they kiss, they laugh. Dennis even ropes Robby into watching an episode of House Hunters, though they spend most of it bickering over whether or not the husband’s asks are realistic.
“You either get close to the city, or you get cheap,” Dennis asserts. “You don’t get both. He has to choose.”
“I agree he needs to let up on budget, but the yard—”
“They need the yard, Robby. They’re getting a dog.”
Robby’s smile is equal parts exasperated and fond. “The second one was near a park.”
Dennis sits back on the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, and assesses Robby for a long moment. “You’ve never had a dog, have you?”
“Never had a pet at all,” Robby admits. “Closest I’ve gotten was Jake’s hermit crab. I watched it for a week while he was at soccer camp and Janey was out-of-state.”
“Oh my God,” Dennis snorts, mind stuck on the image of Robby caring for a tiny crustacean. “Please tell me it didn’t have one of those awful painted shells. Those things are insanely toxic.”
Robby’s smile turns fond. “So I’ve been told. I thought I was pretty cool, getting Jake one with the Steelers logo on it, but he was not impressed.”
“Smart kid,” Dennis hums, and Robby laughs.
“Oh, you’ve got no idea. He was already giving me a run for my money back when he was eleven.”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
“Michael?”
Robby winces at the sound of his first name. He discards the magazine he was pretending to read, wiping sweaty palms on the fabric of his cargo pants, then stands. “Uh, yeah,” he says, locking eyes with the middle-aged man hovering in the doorway. “And I assume you’re Dr. Barreto?”
“Just Vincent’s fine,” the doc says as he ushers Robby into his office.
Robby’s the first to sit down. Dr. Barreto —Vincent, Robby’s brain reminds him— turns on the white noise machine by the door, explaining that it provides ‘an extra layer of privacy.’ He snags a notebook and a pen on the way to his own seat, which he lowers himself into with a soft grunt. For a few long, awkward seconds, they just stare at one another. Robby wonders if he’s supposed to speak first. Or maybe the silence is part of it?
“So, Michael— can I call you Michael? Or do you prefer Mike?”
“Um,” Robby starts, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck, “Most people call me ‘Robby,’ but— yes. Mike or Michael’s good. Those are a little less… loaded. For this.”
Vincent nods slowly. “All right, then. Did you have time to complete the intake questionnaire we sent along…?”
Robby winces. He could lie and say he missed that email, but the truth is he made an active choice to ignore it. Whoops. “I, uh. I didn’t fill that out,” he admits. Barreto’s eyes twinkle in a way that makes it clear he already knew that.
“That’s fine, Michael. We’ll just go through the questions together now.”
Oh goody, Robby thinks wryly.
“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself?”
Vincent asks the question just as casually as he’d wondered if Robby smokes cigarettes (not anymore), and how often he drinks (not half as much as he did before Dennis). Those were easy enough, but this…? This is something else. This cuts deeper.
But what use would it be for Robby to lie? To waste his money and both of their time? So, fine. He answers the question honestly (or as honestly as he can, anyway). “Not concretely, but I’ve, uh… I’ve been told I’m reckless with my life.”
“Mmm? How so?”
Robby sighs. Might as well get this part over with. “I ride a motorcycle. Once or twice, I’ve… forgotten to wear my helmet. And I guess somebody noticed.”
Vincent leans forward to scribble something in his notes.
The next question that briefly stumps Robby, funnily enough, is, “Who are the most important people in your life?”
Because, well. That sort of depends. “Alive or dead?”
Vincent pauses to consider that. “Let’s start with the living.”
Fair enough, Robby thinks. “Well, there’s Jack. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years. I was close with his wife, too, but she died a few years back. Anyway, Audrey —that’s his wife— introduced me to Janey, my ex-fiance. I’m still close with her son. Or– I was. Jake and I have had some… issues lately.”
Robby can’t help how his eyes track the movements of Vincent’s ballpoint pen. It’s only once said movements stop happening —when the pen comes to a full stop, then leaves the page entirely— that he realizes just how obvious he’s being. Shit.
“Um,” Robby tries, suddenly at a loss for words.
“I apologize, Michael. I wouldn’t usually be writing this much. It’s just that I’m horrible with names, and if I don’t jot it down as soon as you say it, it’s gone forever.”
Which makes sense, Robby thinks. The guy likely hears dozens upon dozens of names every day. “Well, in that case, you’ll wanna keep writing. I’ve got a few more people left.”
More specifically: Dana (and, by extension, Warren). Once upon a time, Heather would’ve made the list without question. Frank too. Now it feels silly to mention either one.
Which just leaves Dennis. Perfect, sweet Dennis. “Things are still pretty new,” Robby admits, his cheeks growing warmer by the second. “He’s… quite a bit younger than me.”
“And when you say ‘quite a bit,’ you mean…?”
“I mean I was doing keg stands while he was still in pull-ups,” Robby confirms.
Vincent’s face doesn’t emote, per se, but something about the stillness still conveys his surprise. They sit in limbo for a few horrible seconds before he clears his throat and asks, “How’d you two meet?”
Just when Robby thought his cheeks couldn’t get any hotter.
They don’t dwell on the topic of Dennis for long. This is an intake appointment, after all, and Vincent has several more questions to get through.
Questions like “How old were you when your mother died?,’ and “How old were you when you first drank alcohol?”. In both cases, the answer is ‘twelve.’
(Robby never made that connection before now, but damn.)
It’s the perfect segue, really, into Vincent’s next question: “Any family history of mental illness?”
Robby shrugs. “Addiction’s the only concrete thing I’ve got to go off. My maternal grandparents were never in my life, and my Bubbe… well. She preferred to sweep that sort of thing under the rug. I think she thought she was helping, but— I dunno.”
Vincent smiles politely. “But what, Michael?” he prods, and Robby sighs.
“Zayde could be very… hot and cold. I’m not— I wasn’t trained, obviously, to diagnose that sort of thing, but for a while now I’ve wondered if he might’ve been bipolar. And– okay. Realistically, it’s not like anybody would know. Their friends are all long dead and I’m the last Robinavitch standing. So I’m not even sure why I care, but…”
“... But you do,” Vincent supplies when Robby trails off.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Well, Michael, I hope I haven’t scared you off with this session.”
Robby smirks. “I think that’s my line, Doc,” he teases. Vincent's smile twitches ever-so-slightly.
“I know my approach isn’t for everyone, so I won’t be offended if you choose not to book a second appointment. All I ask is that, if it comes to that, you call my receptionist and ask for a list of referrals. Find someone with an approach that does work for you.”
“I– okay. Thank you, Vincent,” Robby manages to croak. “When should I… or, I guess, how often do people tend to schedule these things…?”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
“I have a question.”
Dennis looks up from his phone, locking eyes with Trinity. When she doesn’t immediately say more, he flatly murmurs, “You gonna ask it?”
Trin’s face scrunches up like she’s in pain. “Only if you promise you won’t get mad.”
“Yeah, no,” is Dennis’s near-immediate response. “That’s not gonna work on me a second time. Sorry.”
“But you owe me.”
Dennis sighs. “Why, ‘cause I didn’t wish you a happy half birthday? I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“How ‘bout because you brought our boss into my home without warning? He saw my fucking bong, Huckleberry. I’m owed at least one question as compensation.”
Another sigh from Dennis, this one louder. “Fine, fine. Just ask it already.”
Santos’s mouth twists into an amused smirk. Dennis has the sinking feeling he’s just fallen into some sort of advanced lesbian trap. “Is it that he’s old and you like him, or do you like him because he’s old?”
“Jesus, Trin. You really are allergic to pulling punches.”
“You said you wouldn’t get mad!”
Dennis scoffs. “First of all, you and I both know that was coerced. But I’m not mad, I’m just– I’m trying to figure out how to put it into words. You might as well have asked me if I like him because he’s a man. Or because he’s, I dunno. Tall. They’re just traits.”
“... And if he were twenty years younger?”
Dennis shrugs. “I’ve seen pictures of him from back then. He was cute.”
Which, based on the frown spreading across Trinity’s face, was the wrong response. “Fine, then. If he wasn’t your boss…?”
And there it is. The real question. “This isn’t just some power imbalance kink, Trin.”
“Maybe not for you.”
“Not for either of us,” Dennis snaps back. Trinity flashes an utterly unconvinced look in his direction, which frankly pisses him off. “Robby’s not some big villain manipulating the poor, stupid farm boy into sex. I’m a full-grown adult who found another full-grown adult who makes him really, really happy. Why are you trying so hard to ruin that?”
Something shifts on Trinity’s face. The crease between her eyebrows softens. “I’m on your side, Huckleberry. I don’t wanna ruin anything. I’m just– scared, I guess. I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
You don’t want to see me become another Grace, Dennis thinks, though he knows better than mention Trin’s friend who died back in high school. He only knows her name because of the funeral card Trinity keeps tucked into the top right corner of the mirror in her bedroom. “I’m okay, Trin. Really. And if at some point I’m not… well. I’ll let you know.”
“You promise?” Trinity whispers, sounding terribly, uncharacteristically small.
“Yes. I promise.”
They share a few seconds of prolonged eye-contact before Santos snaps back into herself, asking, “Lord of the Rings…?”
“Fine. But if you compare me to a hobbit even once, I’m out.”
“God. I hate my stupid, tiny bladder,” Trinity complains as she gets up to take yet another bathroom break.
Dennis snorts, gesturing towards the several empty cans of spiked seltzer discarded on the coffee table in front of her. “It’s probably not too happy with you, either.”
“Oh, shut up,” she scoffs, gently play-smacking the back of Dennis’s head.
He has the good sense to wait until he hears the bathroom door shut behind her to pull out his phone and text Robby.
Me: howd it go?
Robby: Pretty OK I think. We’re gonna meet again same time next week
Me: yayy im glad
Me: is abbot there yet?
Robby: [1 Photo Attachment]
Dennis smiles at an image of two beers on Robby’s coffee table. Between them are two bowls: one for peanuts, and one for discarded shells. It’s all so very baseball.
Me: tell him i say hii :)
Robby: He says to tell you Happy Friday, and that he promises he’ll get me back to you in one piece.
Me: he better!!!!! i have big things planned
“Ew. Put that away,” Trinity orders upon reentering the room.
Dennis rolls his eyes. He types a quick ‘goodbye’ before slipping his cellphone back into his pocket so the two of them can return to Middle-earth.