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Robby gently stepped out of the room and into the stairwell.
Breathing is difficult. Has it always been this difficult? Every inhale and exhale takes so much effort.
He can still hear Leah’s mother screaming, like her soul was just ripped in half. The agony of a mother. He can see the havoc of the ER through the window.
It’s all too much.
And it’s all Robby’s fault.
—
Jack goes searching for him when Robby hasn’t returned for thirty minutes.
Dana said that he had to go talk to Leah’s parents, so Jack can only imagine how Robby is coping. He goes to the room and sees a familiar shoe sticking out from behind the stairs.
He sees that Robby is folded in on himself against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. His hands are shaking so badly they keep slipping from where he keeps trying to dig into his eyes. He notices his stethoscope and badge lanyard are discarded on the ground next to him.
He’s breathing in sharp, panicked bursts. Too fast and too shallow like every inhale is scraping glass on the way down.
Jack enters the stair well but stops a few steps away.
He doesn’t speak right away. He knows better. He waits to see if his presence will become known. It doesn’t.
“Hey,” he says softly after a moment, voice low enough that it barely echoes. “Robby.”
Robby flinches anyway. His head jerks up, eyes wild and unfocused, pupils blown wide. It takes a second for recognition to land and even then it’s fragile, like it might shatter if Jack moves too fast.
“I—I can’t—” Robby gasps, fingers clawing at the fabric of his scrub top. “I can’t—Jack, I can’t—”
“I know,” Jack says immediately. He crouches down, slow, careful, making himself smaller. “You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to do anything. Take a deep breath.”
Robby’s breathing stutters, accelerates. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes again like he can physically shove the images back out of his head.
“They looked at me,” he chokes. “They were looking at me like—because it was my fault she—like if I’d—if I’d just—”
He keeps his voice steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault—“
Robby shakes his head violently. “Don’t—don’t say that, it’s my fault—” His breath collapses into a wheeze. “I can’t even fucking breathe.”
Jack shifts closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. “Misha, can you look at me?” Jack asks.
It takes visible effort to focus on him but Robby eventually does.
“Good,” Jack murmurs. “That’s good. You’re doing great, love.”
Robby makes a broken sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t edged with panic.
Jack extends his hand, palm up, not touching yet. On his ring finger, the thin band of titanium catches the stairwell light.
Robby sees it and something in his expression shifts. Not calm but anchored. He looks at Jack’s hand like it’s a lifeline.
Jack notices his chest tighten. He hadn’t planned on that being the thing. But it always is.
“Can I?” Jack asks quietly.
Robby nods. A tiny movement. Barely there.
Jack takes Robby’s shaking hand and presses it flat against his own chest, right over his heart. Warm. Solid. Real.
“Feel that?” Jack says. “That’s me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Robby’s fingers curl weakly into Jack’s scrub top, like he’s afraid Jack might fade if he doesn’t hold on. Jack uses his other hand to grip Robby’s neck, hoping to ground him more.
“I can’t be there,” Robby whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t go back in that room. I can’t do it.”
“I know,” Jack says. “You don’t have to. I already told Dana I’m pulling you for the rest of the shift.”
Robby’s head snaps up. “You can’t—Jack, you can’t do that, it’ll look—”
“I don’t care what it looks like.”
There’s a beat. Robby stares at him, disbelief bleeding through the panic.
Jack squeezes his hand, grounding, deliberate. “You’re my husband,” he says quietly. “And you’re falling apart in a stairwell. That matters more than petty opinions and gossip.”
Robby’s breath stutters hard.
“No one—” he whispers. “No one can know.”
“They don’t,” Jack says gently. “They won’t. This stays ours. Like it always has, baby.”
Robby’s eyes squeeze shut. A tear slips free, tracking down into the hollow at the bridge of his nose.
Jack shifts closer, close enough that his knee brushes Robby’s. He lifts Robby’s other hand, turning it palm up. The matching band presses into Jack’s thumb.
“Look at me,” Jack says again. “You didn’t make the call. I did.”
Robby’s eyes widen. “Jack, no. Leah— It was my—“
“No, listen to me, Misha. I called it.” He says. Staring directly into Robby’s eyes. “I told you to stop. Yes?”
Robby stares at Jack for a moment longer. Disbelief, sadness, terror, all written on his face. Jack notices his breathing begin to pick up slightly.
“Leah’s death is not your fault.”
“Jack, I did—“
“No. It’s not your fault, you did nothing wrong.” He says it so matter of factly. “I told you to stop and that is not on you. Right?”
Robby is now hyperventilating again, but gives the slightest of nods.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Breathe with me,” Jack murmurs. “In for four. Out for six. I’ll count.”
They do it together.
The first breath is shaky. The second breaks halfway through. By the fourth, Robby’s shoulders drop a fraction. By the sixth, the sharp edge starts to dull.
Jack stays right there. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t let go.
Eventually, Robby’s forehead tips forward until it rests against Jack’s shoulder. His breathing evens out into something survivable. Exhausted. Wrung dry.
“I hate this,” Robby whispers.
“I know,” Jack says, pressing a kiss into his hair where no one can see. “But you’re not alone in it.”
“This is the second time.”
“You had a panic attack earlier?” Jack asks, trying to look at Robby’s face.
He feels Robby nod tiredly into his shoulder. “Senior male. Progressive pneumonia and ended up on a vent. In the peds room, with the animals.”
“Oh.” Jack sighs in sad understanding. “Adamson.”
Robby nods into him again and says nothing.
Jack waits until Robby’s breathing has steadied into something slow and workable before shifting.
“I’m going to grab our things,” he says softly, forehead still pressed near Robby’s temple. “Okay?”
Robby tenses immediately, fingers tightening in Jack’s scrub top.
“No—” His voice wobbles. “I can’t leave, the students—“
Jack cups the back of his neck again, thumb warm and solid at the base of his skull. “They will be fine,” he promises. “I’ll come straight back here. You stay exactly where you are.”
He stands slowly, deliberately. Not wanting to make Robby feel bad that he is now stiff and sore. He gives Robby a soft smile before leaving the stairwell.
Jack moves fast through the corridors, jaw tight. The locker room is mercifully empty. He opens Robby’s locker first just from habit and grabs his jacket, phone, keys. He hesitates, then adds the hoodie Robby always forgets he owns, the soft grey one that smells like home and detergent and Jack.
From his own locker he takes the rest. Wallet, bag, the spare granola bar he keeps for nights like this.
By the time he’s back in the stairwell, Robby’s head lifts at the sound of footsteps, anxiety flaring just enough to be visible.
“It’s me,” Jack says immediately.
Robby exhales, relief sagging through him.
Jack crouches again, handing him the granola bar. “We’re heading out. I’ve got everything. You think you can stand, or do you want a minute?”
Robby looks like all life has been drained out of him but still nods weakly and uses the wall heavily to pick himself up. Jack smiles when he takes the granola bar from his hand.
“Here, take off your shirt.”
Robby lifts up an eyebrow at him. “I thought we agreed no PDA at work?”
“Oh, he jokes now.” Jack grins at him. “No, doofus, take off your scrub shirt so you can put on your hoodie.”
Robby huffs in amusement before doing as he’s told and pulling the hoodie over his head. Jack hears the sigh of relief and comfort when he smells the hoodie.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” Robby says softly and pulls the hood over his head.
They move through the hospital quietly, Jack subtly positioning himself between Robby and anyone who passes. A nurse nods at them; Jack nods back. No one asks questions. No one notices the way Robby’s fingers are twisted tight in the fabric at Jack’s side, like he’s holding onto the only solid thing left.
Outside, the night air is cold and sharp. Robby flinches at it, shoulders hunching.
“You’re okay. We’re almost at my truck.”
The parking lot is mostly empty. Jack unlocks the doors and opens the passenger side, guiding Robby in gently like he’s made of glass. Robby sinks into the seat, head tipping back, eyes closing the second the door shuts.
Jack circles to the driver’s side, tosses their bags into the back, then gets in. He reaches over and takes Robby’s hand again.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says quietly. “We’re going home.”
Robby squeezes his hand weakly. “Okay.”
Jack turns the key then flicking on the heat and seat warmers, the engine humming to life, and pulls out of the lot—one hand on the wheel, the other never letting go.