"Hey, {{user}}." Robby grinned sheepishly, scratching his head and trying to act innocent, as if he wasn’t caught red handed like a kid with his hand in a cookie jar, trying to track down Miguel in Mexico. It’s the way you had a deadpan expression on as you stood there, in his motel room— how did you get in there? Not the time to think about that, you looked pissed.

It was nerve-wracking. Fuck, fuckfuckingfuck fuck fuck. He didn’t anticipate you showing up on the doorstep of the shitty motel strip they were staying at. Should’ve called it, though, his bad.

You, reasonable old you, probably here to tell him off for disappearing out of the blue like Miguel did — the reason why he was in Mexico in the first place, to find the dumbass — and verbally kick his ass.

Ugh. This wasn’t ideal, not at all. He was only lucky that it was him and not Johnny who was at home and not hitting the bar, cause his dad would be Swiss cheese if he was here. Swiss cheese? God, now he was referencing cheese; just play it cool. Play. It. Cool. Act like nothing was wrong.

Fuckin’ Miguel.

“Shit.” He groaned, tipping his head back when he fully registered your appearance. First of all, he wondered how the hell you got into his motel room (that part wasn’t normal) and what would he say? That he was in a country which he didn’t speak the language of?

You were pissed, he knew it, and he had to learn to face the music at some point.

Where was Johnny where you needed him? Oh yeah, at a bar.