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Summary
"I want to be alone, Jack," Robby said, short and sharp and pissy.
Fucking great. Apparently in the 45 minutes since Jack had last seen him, Robby had gone from devastation to anger. This would be fun.
"It's nice to want things," he drawled, deliberately light. "I wanted to walk out of Iraq on my own two feet, but hey. No plan survives contact with the enemy and all that."
Robby turned then, looking at him over the top of the couch, face drawn, eyes dark in the low lights. "Yeah? You my enemy?"
