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Jack realizes something is wrong when the walls start breathing.
Not in a dramatic way. Not all at once. Just a subtle, deeply unsettling sense that the edges of the trauma bay aren’t staying where he left them. The fluorescent lights hum a little too loudly. The floor feels… tilted. Like a ship listing.
He blinks hard.
Get it together, he tells himself. You’re overtired. That’s all.
“Abbot?”
Shen’s voice cuts in clean and calm, like it always does. Jack turns toward him and immediately regrets it — Shen’s face stretches, elongates in a way that makes Jack’s stomach drop.
“Yeah,” Jack says, a beat too late. “What’s up?”
Shen studies him over the rim of his iced coffee.
“You good?” Shen asks.
Jack opens his mouth to fire back something snarky — Define good, or Do I look like I’m dying — but the words get tangled somewhere between thought and speech.
“I think,” Jack says slowly, “the floor is doing something weird.”
Shen freezes.
Ellis, who’s charting nearby, looks up. “What kind of weird?”
Jack looks down at his boots. Watches them sink — sink — just slightly into the linoleum like it’s made of warm clay.
“Bad weird,” Jack says quietly.
Shen doesn’t panic. That’s his superpower.
“Okay,” Shen says evenly. “Let’s walk. North 2 is open, we’ll give you a look-see.”
Jack tries to take a step.
The hallway stretches. Like a funhouse mirror. Like the world is pulling away from him.
“Nope,” Jack mutters. “Nope, nope, nope.”
Ellis is at his side instantly, steadying him.
“Jack,” She says gently. “Did you touch anything you shouldn’t have?”
Jack’s heart starts to pound.
“I didn’t—” He stops. Frowns. “There was a patient. Earlier. We cut his clothes off. There was powder on them—”
Shen’s jaw tightens. “Okay. That tracks. That guy was tripping balls.”
Jack laughs suddenly — sharp, startled. “Oh, that’s great.”
They clear him medically.
Vitals stable. No obvious neurological deficits beyond the glaring, obvious fact that Jack is not in the same reality as everyone else. Shen keeps his voice calm, Ellis keeps his hands light and reassuring.
“Jack,” Shen says, crouching slightly so they’re eye level. “You’re not in trouble. But you are absolutely not safe to be here.”
Jack nods too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. I know that.”
He pauses.
“…I think the monitor is judging me.”
Ellis snorts despite herself.
Shen exhales. “I’m calling Robby.”
Jack’s head snaps up. “No.”
“Jack.”
“No,” Jack says again, panic flaring. “Don’t. He can’t see me like this.”
Ellis’s expression softens. “Jack, you’re not okay.”
Jack’s voice drops. “I know.”
That’s what scares them both.
Robby’s asleep when the call came in. The phone vibrating on the nightstand sends a cold spike straight through his chest.
John Shen.
“John?” Robby answers immediately.
“Robby,” Shen says calmly. “Don’t freak out.”
“Yeah, you saying that does not make me feel better. What’s wrong with Jack?” Robby asked, decidedly freaking out. His mind ran through the list of possible emergencies. It was not a good list.
Shen sighed. “Your boy touched a patient without gloves and now he’s tripping hard.”
Well. That was not what Robby was expecting.
“Jack’s physically stable. The patient he touched split before we could do labs, so we’re not sure what exactly he got dosed with.” Shen continued, “But he’s… altered. He’s definitely not letting up draw any blood.”
Robby’s stomach drops. “What kind of altered?”
Shen hesitates. “The kind where he’s arguing with the walls.”
Well fuck. That’s a new one on him.
“Look, normally we’d keep a patient like that here, but we’re so full up he’d just be boarding in the ED and we’re fresh out of sitters. I really don’t want to resort to restraints to keep him from trying to practice medicine, but…” Shen let it hang.
Robby is already grabbing his keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Keep him safe ‘til I get there.”
“No problemo, boss.”
At first, Jack thinks it’s kind of beautiful.
That’s the problem.
He’s sitting on the edge of the stretcher in a quiet ED room, monitors removed, Ellis standing nearby with crossed arms while Shen finishes a phone call. Jack swings his remaining leg slightly, prosthetic resting solidly against the floor, and stares at his hands.
They’re fascinating.
The way the veins move under his skin. The way his fingers look… longer than usual. Like they could reach farther than they’re supposed to.
“Wow,” Jack murmurs.
Ellis raises an eyebrow. “What’s ‘wow’?”
Jack turns his hands over slowly. “Do you ever think about how weird bones are?”
Ellis exhales through her nose. “Oh boy.”
Jack laughs — genuinely laughs — a soft, surprised sound. “I mean, they’re just… there. Holding everything up. We never thank them.”
Shen finishes his call and turns around, already knowing this has gone past quirky and into problematic.
“Jack,” Shen says calmly, “where are you right now?”
Jack considers this carefully.
“Hospital,” he says. “Probably. But also… kind of everywhere.”
Ellis mutters, “That’s not ideal.”
Jack’s smile flickers. The edges of the room shimmer, the walls pulsing faintly like lungs. His headache blooms suddenly — not sharp, but deep and oppressive, like something tightening behind his eyes.
“Oh,” Jack says softly. “I don’t like that.”
Jack is sitting on a stretcher when Robby arrives, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to keep his body from floating away. His tough, sarcastic armor is gone. What’s left looks younger. Exposed.
He looks up when Robby enters the room.
“Oh,” Jack says softly. “You’re real. Though I imagined you. Imaginary husband.”
Robby’s heart cracks straight down the middle.
“I’m real,” Robby says, crossing the room in three strides. “Hey. I’ve got you.”
Jack’s eyes shine. “I knew you would. They tried to tell me you wouldn’t, but I knew.”
Robby crouches in front of him, hands gentle but grounding, thumbs pressing lightly into Jack’s knees.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Robby says.
Jack swallows. “Everything.”
Robby huffs a weak laugh. “Okay, that’s a start.”
Jack’s gaze flicks around the room. “I keep thinking I’m back there.”
Robby stills. “Back where.”
“The desert,” Jack whispers. “The hospital tent. The noise won’t stop.”
Robby’s voice drops, firm and calm. “Jack. Look at me.”
Jack does.
“You’re in Pittsburgh,” Robby says. “You’re in a hospital. You’re safe.”
Jack’s breathing stutters. “It doesn’t feel safe.”
“I know,” Robby says. “But feelings lie. I’m here to tell you the truth.”
Jack lets out a shaky, broken laugh. “You’re very convincing.”
The ride home is… eventful.
Jack alternates between gripping the door like it might open into another dimension and asking Robby deeply philosophical questions.
“Do you think,” Jack says seriously, “that if I close my eyes, I’ll disappear?”
Robby keeps one hand on the wheel, the other firmly holding Jack’s.
“No,” he says. “I’d notice.”
Jack nods, reassured.
Five minutes later: “If I do disappear, can you feed my dog?”
Robby snorts. “You don’t even have a dog.”
Jack looks genuinely startled. “That explains a lot.”
Then, without warning, Jack goes quiet.
Too quiet.
Robby glances over. Jack’s jaw is clenched, eyes distant, breath shallow.
“Jack,” Robby says gently. “Hey, talk to me.”
“I don’t like this,” Jack whispers. “I don’t like not being in control.”
Robby reaches over, squeezing his hand. “I know. That’s the worst part.”
Jack’s voice breaks. “What if this never stops?”
Robby answers without hesitation. “It will. And I’ll be here until it does.”
Jack hums, then his expression goes slack.
Too slack.
Robby glances over and his stomach drops.
Jack is staring straight ahead, unblinking, mouth slightly open, breathing shallow and slow. It’s like someone pulled the plug.
“Jack?” Robby’s voice is firm. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Nothing.
Robby pulls over without hesitation, hazard lights flashing. He reaches over, cups Jack’s face gently.
“Jack. Look at me.”
Jack blinks once. Slowly. His eyes track to Robby’s face with visible effort.
“Oh,” Jack says quietly. “There you are.”
Robby exhales shakily. “Yeah. Here I am, Jack.”
Jack’s brow furrows. “I think I was gone for a minute.”
“You were,” Robby says softly. “But you’re back.”
At home, Robby sets Jack up on the couch with blankets, dim lights, quiet music. He sits close — not crowding, but unmistakably present.
Jack leans into him like gravity finally remembered how to work.
At one point, Jack grips Robby’s shirt and says, very quietly, “I’m scared.”
Robby presses his forehead to Jack’s temple. “You’re having a bad trip. I’m going to keep you safe until it passes. All you gotta do is focus on me.”
The headache spikes violently an hour in. He groans, pressing his palm hard against his temple.
“It hurts,” he says, voice cracking. “It really hurts.” His face pales, throat convulsing.
“Okay okay,” Robby says, helping him sit up. “Hang on a sec.”
Robby barely has time to snag an old mixing bowl out of the kitchen before Jack is sick.
He retches suddenly, violently. His body convulses as he vomits, shaking with the effort, tears streaming down his face. Robby rubs slow circles between his shoulder blades, murmuring reassurances until it passes.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Hey,” Robby says firmly. “None of this is your fault.”
Jack sags back against the couch, utterly spent.
Then, without warning, he tries to stand.
“I have to go,” Jack says urgently.
Robby catches him mid-rise. “Go where?”
“Outside,” Jack insists. “I can’t— I can’t be in here. The walls are closing.”
“They’re not,” Robby says, tightening his grip just enough to keep Jack steady. “You’re safe.”
Jack struggles weakly, panic surging again. “Please. Please, I need—”
Robby pulls him into a firm embrace, anchoring him with his full body.
“Nope,” Robby says softly but unyielding. “You’re staying with me.”
Jack collapses against him, sobbing now, fear and exhaustion finally breaking through whatever chemical storm is raging in his brain.
“I don’t want to be like this,” Jack cries. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Robby cradles his head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“I’m honored you let me,” he whispers.
Jack had been rambling on for the last half hour. Nonsensical, disjointed topics.
Then, like a switch was thrown, he went quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the exhausted, curled-up-on-the-couch quiet Robby had been hoping for. This is the kind that steals the air out of the room without making a sound.
They’re sitting on the floor of the living room because Jack said the couch felt “too tall,” his back against it, knees drawn up loosely. Robby is a few feet away, giving him space but watching every micro-movement the way you do when you’re afraid to blink.
Jack’s eyes are fixed on the wall.
He’s not blinking.
“Jack?” Robby says softly.
Nothing.
Robby’s pulse jumps. He shifts closer, careful not to startle him.
“Hey,” Robby says again. “Can you look at me?”
Jack doesn’t.
His chest rises with a slow, deep inhale.
And then… stays there.
Robby notices at first with clinical curiosity — that’s a long breath — and then with mounting unease as seconds pass and nothing follows it.
“Jack,” Robby says, sharper now. “Breathe.”
Jack’s shoulders are tense, muscles locked like he’s holding himself together through sheer will.
“Jack,” Robby repeats, dropping fully into a crouch in front of him. “Hey. Exhale for me.”
Jack’s lips part slightly.
No air comes out.
Robby’s heart slams into his throat.
“Okay,” Robby says quickly, forcing calm into his voice. “Okay. You’re holding your breath. You need to let it go.”
Jack’s eyes flick — just barely — toward Robby’s face. They look wrong. Distant. Like Robby is a thought Jack hasn’t fully reached yet.
The seconds stretch on…then minutes.
Throughout it all, Robby does everything her can to pull Jack out of it.
His lips start to turn faintly blue at the edges.
Robby’s hands shake as he reaches out, cupping Jack’s jaw gently but firmly, forcing him to focus.
“Jack,” Robby says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “You know how to breathe. Your body knows how to breathe.”
Jack shakes his head, a tiny, helpless motion.
Robby feels the full weight of terror crash over him. His mind races through every worst case scenario, no matter how improbable.
This is how seizures start.
This is how autonomic shit goes wrong.
This is how people die while you’re begging them not to.
“No,” Robby says, louder now, desperation leaking through. “No. I need you with me.”
Robby presses his forehead to Jack’s, breathing deliberately, exaggerated, loud.
“Watch me,” Robby says. “In. Out. I’m doing it. Do it with me.”
Jack stares at him, frozen, chest still locked in that awful suspended inhale. His hands are trembling now, fingers clawing weakly at his thighs like he’s trying to anchor himself to his body.
“I’m scared,” Jack whispers tightly.
That’s it.
That’s the moment Robby breaks.
“I know,” Robby says, voice shaking openly now. “I know, baby. I’m right here. You’re not dying. It just feels like it.”
Jack’s eyes squeeze shut.
Seconds stretch impossibly long.
Then — finally — Jack’s chest shudders.
A harsh, ragged exhale tears out of him like his lungs are being wrung dry.
Then another breath comes crashing in, uncontrolled, followed by coughing — violent, desperate, terrifying.
Robby pulls him forward instantly, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him upright as Jack coughs and gasps and sucks air like he’s been underwater too long.
“That’s it,” Robby murmurs over and over. “That’s it. Breathe. I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, Jack.”
Jack collapses against him, shaking violently, breath coming in uneven gulps now but at least coming.
“I thought I was disappearing,” Jack sobs, fingers fisting in Robby’s shirt. “I thought my body forgot me.”
Robby’s tears spill freely now, soaking into Jack’s hair as he cradles his head.
“You’re here,” Robby says fiercely. “You’re still here. I won’t let you go.”
Jack’s breathing evens out slowly, but he doesn’t let go. He clings like if he loosens his grip, the world might slide away again.
Minutes later — or hours, Robby can’t tell — Jack stiffens suddenly.
“I need to go,” Jack says urgently, trying to stand again.
Robby catches him just in time.
“No,” Robby says, heart racing all over again. “Go where?”
“Outside,” Jack insists, panic flaring anew. “I can’t be in here. The air’s wrong.”
“It’s not,” Robby says firmly, wrapping both arms around Jack’s torso from behind, grounding him with his full weight. “You’re staying with me.”
Jack struggles weakly, then slumps, strength draining out of him like a cut string.
“I hate this,” he whispers. “I hate not trusting my own brain.”
Robby guides him gently back down to the floor, settling them both against the couch, Jack half-curled into his chest now.
“I know,” Robby says softly, one hand pressed flat against Jack’s sternum, feeling every shaky breath. “And I hate that you’re going through it. But I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.”
And Robby will stay right here until the world stops trying to take him apart.
Jack falls asleep like someone losing a battle.
Not gently. Not gradually. One moment his eyes are open, glassy and exhausted, fixed on Robby’s chest rising and falling as if he’s memorizing the pattern — and the next, his body simply gives up. His head drops against Robby’s shoulder, all the tension draining out of him at once, leaving him heavy and boneless.
Robby freezes.
He doesn’t dare move.
Jack’s breathing evens out, shallow but regular now, the earlier hitching gone. Robby counts each breath anyway, silently, obsessively, the way he did when Robby was a resident and couldn’t sleep after bad codes. The way he did after the rockslide. The way he did after seizures, after surgeries, after every night that taught him how fragile bodies really were.
Then…
Jack twitches. Just a little at first — fingers flexing, jaw tightening. Robby stills further, heart rate spiking again.
“It’s okay,” Robby whispers, barely audible. “You’re safe.”
Jack’s brow furrows. His breathing changes, growing uneven, faster. His chest rises sharply, then stalls for a fraction of a second too long.
“No,” Jack murmurs in his sleep. “No, no—”
Robby’s throat tightens.
Jack’s body jerks suddenly, a sharp, involuntary movement like he’s trying to pull away from something only he can see. His hands claw weakly at Robby’s shirt, fingers curling tight, desperate.
“Hey,” Robby says softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Jack’s head, anchoring him. “It’s okay. You’re dreaming.”
Jack doesn’t hear him.
“Get down,” Jack whispers hoarsely, voice rough and terrified. “Get down—”
Robby closes his eyes briefly.
He knows this voice.
This isn’t the Jack who jokes his way through trauma codes or argues with walls. This is the Jack who’s back somewhere hot and loud and unforgiving, where the ground doesn’t stay where it’s supposed to and breathing is a luxury.
Jack’s breathing turns ragged. His chest locks up again, not fully this time, but enough to make Robby’s heart leap into his throat.
“No, no, no,” Jack gasps in his sleep. “Can’t— can’t see—”
Robby leans in, pressing his forehead gently to Jack’s temple, grounding him with proximity and warmth.
“Jack,” Robby says firmly but softly. “You’re home. You’re in the apartment. It’s night. You’re safe.”
Jack thrashes weakly, a broken sound tearing out of his chest. “Robby—”
The name lands like a knife and a blessing all at once.
“I’m here,” Robby says immediately. “I’m right here.”
Jack’s eyes flutter beneath closed lids. His grip tightens painfully, nails digging into Robby’s arm like he’s afraid Robby might disappear if he loosens them.
“I can’t breathe,” Jack whimpers.
Robby’s heart fractures.
“You are breathing,” Robby says steadily, one hand pressed flat against Jack’s chest so he can feel it himself. “Feel that? In. Out. I’ve got you.”
Jack’s chest shudders. His breathing stutters, then slowly — painfully — falls back into rhythm.
The nightmare doesn’t let go all at once.
Jack whimpers softly, half-formed words tumbling out — fragments of fear, of memory, of the helplessness that still lives too close to the surface. Robby stays exactly where he is, murmuring reassurance, keeping one hand firm and grounding, the other threading gently through Jack’s hair.
“I’m not leaving,” Robby whispers. “I’m right here. You don’t have to fight this alone.”
Eventually, the tension bleeds out of Jack’s body. His grip loosens. His breathing steadies. The furrow in his brow smooths.
Robby doesn’t move.
He stays awake long after Jack sinks back into deeper sleep, eyes burning, body aching, holding him like this is the only thing keeping the night from breaking them both open again.
Every so often, Jack twitches — a reminder that the war inside him doesn’t sleep just because his body does.
And every time, Robby tightens his hold just a little.
Just in case.
Jack’s mind doesn’t wake up.
Not really.
His body does — sudden, explosive motion — but his mind stays somewhere else entirely.
One second Robby is sitting on the floor with Jack half-curled against his chest, breath finally steady after the nightmare. The next, Jack’s entire body goes rigid.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Too fast.
Jack surges upright with a sharp, guttural shout, eyes wild and unfocused. Before Robby can even process what’s happening, Jack is on him — all muscle memory and instinct, strength coming from a place Robby has never seen before.
“Jack—!” Robby gasps.
Jack doesn’t hear him.
In Jack’s mind, the apartment is gone. The couch, the dim lamp, the safety of home — all of it replaced by something loud and chaotic and wrong. Robby is just a shape in front of him. A threat. An enemy.
Jack tackles Robby backward, the impact knocking the breath clean out of him as they hit the floor hard.
“Jack, it’s me,” Robby says desperately, hands coming up instinctively but refusing to strike back. “It’s Robby—”
Jack doesn’t recognize the name.
His hands are already at Robby’s throat.
Not in a controlled way — not precise — but relentless, desperate, like Jack is trying to make something stop.
Robby’s vision starts to blur at the edges almost immediately.
“Jack,” he chokes, voice breaking. “Please. Look at me.”
Jack’s face is contorted with terror, teeth bared, breath ragged.
“Don’t fucking move,” Jack snarls, voice not his own. “Don’t—”
Robby’s hands tremble as he grips Jack’s wrists, not to hurt him, just to slow him down. He could fight back harder. He’s got the size advantage. He knows how.
He won’t.
“Jack,” Robby manages, fighting the encroaching darkness. “You’re not there. You’re home. You’re safe.”
Pressure builds. Robby’s chest burns. His thoughts scatter, slipping away like water through his fingers.
This is how it ends, a small, distant part of him thinks. Consciousness bleeds away.
I’m dying, he thought distantly. Jack’s killing me in our living room.
And then—
Jack freezes.
Something flickers across his face — confusion slicing through terror like a crack of light.
Robby gasps as the pressure eases just slightly.
“Jack,” he whispers hoarsely. “It’s me. Please.”
Jack’s hands fall away suddenly like he’s been burned.
He stumbles backward, scrambling away on hands and knees, horror dawning in his eyes as reality slams back into place.
“Oh my God,” Jack whispers. “Oh God— Robby—”
Robby sucks in air desperately, coughing, rolling onto his side, lungs screaming as oxygen floods back in. He presses a hand to his throat, chest heaving, vision swimming.
Jack bolts.
He staggers to his feet and runs down the hall, slamming the bathroom door so hard the walls shake. Robby hears the lock click into place.
“Jack!” Robby calls, voice raw. “Jack, wait—”
The shower turns on. The hell is he doing?!
Robby drags himself upright slowly, every movement sending sparks of pain through his body. His hands are shaking violently, adrenaline still roaring, but he forces himself to move.
He pounds weakly on the bathroom door.
“Jack,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tremor running through it. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m okay. Please open the door.”
No answer.
Only the relentless hiss of water.
Fear spikes again — sharp and sickening.
Robby searches frantically, moving through the apartment with unsteady steps, throat still aching, chest tight. He paws through drawers he barely remembers opening, fingers fumbling until—
The spare bathroom key.
His hands shake so badly he almost drops it.
“Okay,” Robby whispers to himself. “Okay.”
He unlocks the door slowly, carefully.
Inside, the bathroom is damp and cold. Water pours down in a steady sheet.
Jack is huddled fully clothed in the shower, back against the tile, knees pulled to his chest. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his skin pale and trembling violently.
He looks wrecked.
Broken open.
Robby’s heart splinters. He steps in slowly, crouching just outside the spray.
“Hey,” Robby says softly. “I found you.”
Jack doesn’t look up.
“I hurt you,” Jack says, voice barely audible over the water. “I could feel it. I thought—.”
Robby reaches out, gently but firmly turning the water warmer, then off entirely.
“You stopped,” Robby says. “You recognized me. That matters.”
Jack shakes his head, arms wrapping tighter around himself.
“I don’t deserve—”
Robby cuts him off immediately.
“Don’t,” he says, voice firm despite the rasp in it. “Do not do that.”
Jack finally looks up.
His eyes fill instantly with tears.
“I thought you were the enemy,” Jack says, horrified. “I thought I had to—”
“I know,” Robby says, moving closer now, kneeling in front of him. “Your brain lied to you. That’s not who you are.”
Jack breaks.
He folds forward with a sob, forehead dropping against Robby’s chest, shaking violently.
“I almost killed you,” Jack whispers.
Robby wraps both arms around him without hesitation, ignoring the ache in his throat, the bruises blooming across his shoulders.
“You didn’t,” Robby says firmly. “You didn’t. I’m here.”
They stay like that for a long moment, water dripping, bodies trembling.
When Jack’s shaking eases just a little, Robby helps him up, guiding him gently out of his soaked clothes, wrapping him in towels, hands careful and unhurried.
He helps Jack into dry clothes, sits him on the edge of the bed, presses a warm blanket around his shoulders.
Jack stares at the floor, hollowed out.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
Robby sits beside him, close but not trapping.
“I know,” he says. “And we’re going to talk about this. Tomorrow.”
Jack nods faintly.
For now, Robby lies down beside him, one arm draped protectively across Jack’s chest, feeling every breath.
He doesn’t sleep.
Not after this.
But Jack does — finally — curled inward, clinging to Robby like an anchor.
It isn’t until later—when Jack is asleep again, this time deeply, mercifully—that Robby lets himself feel it.
He sits alone on the couch, lights low, the apartment quiet in a way that feels almost accusatory. His body starts shaking without warning, adrenaline finally draining now that the danger has passed.
His throat tightens.
He presses his fingers there unconsciously, breath hitching as the memory flashes sharp and vivid—Jack’s weight, the panic and hatred in his eyes, the pressure that stole his air.
Robby folds forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.
He cries silently.
Not loud sobs. Just tears slipping out, unstoppable, as his brain replays every moment.
He hates that part of himself that catalogued time-to-unconsciousness even as he begged Jack to recognize him.
He hates that he was scared of Jack.
And he hates that none of that changes how much he loves him.
Eventually, Robby wipes his face and stands. He walks back to the bedroom, pauses in the doorway.
Jack is asleep, curled on his side, one hand fisted in the blanket like he’s holding onto something even in rest.
Robby crosses the room and lies down beside him carefully.
Jack stirs, murmurs something incoherent, then reaches out blindly until his hand finds Robby’s arm. He clings there, instinctive and desperate even in sleep.
Robby wraps an arm around him, pressing his forehead gently to Jack’s shoulder.
“You’re still here,” Robby whispers. “So am I.”
And Robby stays awake, holding him, knowing two things with painful clarity:
They survived the night.
And they can’t pretend it didn’t happen.
Morning arrives quietly, like it’s afraid of what it might find.
The light creeps in through the blinds in thin, hesitant stripes. Robby has not slept. Not really. He’s dozed in fragments—never fully unconscious, never letting go of the steady rise and fall of Jack’s chest beneath his arm.
Jack is still curled toward him, breathing evenly now, face slack with exhaustion. In sleep, he looks younger. Less armored. Like someone who has been emptied out.
Robby watches him for a long time.
His throat aches when he swallows. There’s a dull bruise blooming along his collarbone, a tenderness that flares when he shifts even slightly. He catalogues it automatically—pressure injury, superficial, nothing dangerous—then feels sick with himself for doing that instead of just feeling.
Jack stirs.
Robby stiffens instinctively, heart rate spiking again, but Jack only exhales and turns his head slightly, eyes fluttering open.
For a moment, there’s nothing but confusion.
Then memory hits.
Jack bolts upright with a sharp gasp, scrambling backward until his shoulders hit the headboard.
“Oh God,” he says hoarsely. “Robby—”
“I’m here,” Robby says immediately, voice absolutely wrecked, staying seated but not closing the distance too fast. “Easy.”
Jack’s eyes race over him—face, neck, hands—searching frantically.
“I— did I—” Jack’s voice breaks. “Did I hurt you?”
Robby swallows. Evades the question. “You scared me.” He says cautiously.
Jack’s face crumples.
“I knew it,” he whispers. “I knew I did something.”
Robby reaches out slowly, giving Jack time to pull away if he needs to. Jack doesn’t. He just sits there shaking, hands clenched in the sheets like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.
“You did nothing wrong,” Robby says gently. “I’m okay. You stopped.”
Jack squeezes his eyes shut. “I had my hands on your throat.”
Robby doesn’t deny it.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”
Jack’s breath stutters. “I could’ve killed you.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable.
“But you didn’t,” Robby says. “And you recognized me. And you stopped.”
Jack shakes his head, horror deepening. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” Robby agrees softly. “It doesn’t. But it matters.”
Jack folds forward suddenly, burying his face in his hands.
“I don’t trust myself,” he whispers. “Not after that.”
Robby’s chest tightens painfully.
“I do,” he says. “And that’s why I’m gonna get you through it.”
Jack looks up at him, eyes red and raw.
“You’re not leaving?”
Robby’s answer is immediate. “No.”
They don’t rush the conversation.
Robby makes coffee with shaking hands. Jack sits at the table, wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big, staring into the mug without drinking it. The silence between them isn’t empty—it’s dense, packed with things neither of them is ready to say all at once.
Eventually, Jack speaks.
“I didn’t know where I was,” he says quietly. “I was back there. Everything was loud and wrong and—” He swallows. “You weren’t you.”
Robby nods. “I know.”
Jack’s voice drops even lower. “That doesn’t change what I did.”
“No,” Robby says. “But it changes why.”
Jack laughs weakly. “That feels like a technicality.”
Robby leans forward, elbows on the table. “It’s not. Intent matters. Capacity matters.”
Jack flinches. “Tell that to my hands.”
Robby reaches across the table, resting his palm over Jack’s clenched fist. Jack tenses, then slowly lets his fingers uncurl.
“You didn’t choose that,” Robby says firmly. “Your brain was hijacked. That doesn’t mean we ignore it. It means we treat it.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “What if it happens again?”
Robby doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Then we make a plan. We don’t pretend this was a one-off and move on like it didn’t almost break us.”
Jack looks at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” Robby says softly. “And I don’t want to lose you to shame.”
Jack exhales shakily.
The next day is quiet by design.
No errands. No plans. Robby insists on it with the same tone he uses when patients try to downplay chest pain.
“You’re not ‘fine,’” Robby says, handing Jack a mug of tea. “You’re recovering.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “From seeing God in the drywall?”
Robby raises an eyebrow. “From a neurological event that terrified both of us.”
Jack opens his mouth to deflect.
Robby cuts him off gently. “Hey. Don’t.”
Jack sighs, shoulders slumping. “I don’t want to make it a thing.”
“It is a thing,” Robby says quietly. “You were scared. You didn’t recognize me. That matters.”
Jack looks down at his hands — still the same hands he’d marveled at, then feared, then nearly lost.
“I thought I was broken,” he admits. “Like my brain finally decided it’d had enough.”
Robby sits beside him, close but not crowding.
“And what do you think now?”
Jack considers. “I think… my brain got overwhelmed. And I survived it.”
Robby smiles faintly. “That’s my read too.”
Jack leans back into the couch, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For not leaving. For not making fun of me. For catching me when I tried to escape the apartment like a raccoon.”
Robby snorts. “You were very determined.”
Jack closes his eyes, head resting against Robby’s shoulder.
“And for staying…even though I tried to kill you.”
Robby considers for a moment. “I could’ve gotten free. If it had gone on any longer, I think I would’ve. I just…can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”
Jack exhales, tension finally draining.
“Next time,” he mutters, “I’m wearing a hazmat suit.”
Robby laughs softly, holding him a little closer.
And this time — the walls stay still.
Jack almost doesn’t come in.
Not because he isn’t cleared — he is — but because the idea of walking back into the ED makes his stomach turn in a way that has nothing to do with lingering nausea and everything to do with memory. The fluorescent lights. The walls that breathed. The moment he didn’t know Robby’s face.
He stands in the locker room longer than necessary, tying and retying his shoes, grounding himself in the mundane.
You’re fine, he tells himself. You’re yourself again.
The doors slide open and immediately —
“Well well well,” Ellis says loudly. “Look who’s lucid.”
Jack winces. “Good morning to you too.”
Shen looks up from the charge desk, iced coffee already in hand, expression maddeningly serene.
“Morning, Abbot,” Shen says. “How are the walls today?”
Jack groans. “I hate you all.”
Lena walks by just in time to catch that. “Too late. You’re stuck with us.”
She pauses, studying him more closely. “You okay?”
Jack nods. Then, after a beat, shakes his head slightly. “Mostly.”
Lena accepts that. “Good. Go be normal. Or whatever passes for it.”
Ellis claps Jack on the shoulder as they pass. “For what it’s worth — you were kind of poetic before the panic hit.”
Jack squints. “What did I say?”
Ellis thinks. “Something about bones deserving gratitude.”
Jack groans again. “I’m never living that down.”
But as he moves through the department — answering questions, placing orders, cracking dry jokes — something solid settles in him. The rhythm returns. The fear stays quiet.
Still there.
But quiet.
It hits him later.
Not during a trauma. Not during anything dramatic. It hits him when he’s at home, washing dishes while Robby sits on the couch pretending not to watch him too closely.
Jack freezes mid-motion.
His reflection in the darkened window looks… wrong. Just for a second. His face unfamiliar, eyes too sharp, expression slipping sideways.
His heart rate spikes.
He grips the counter, breath shallow.
It’s happening again.
Robby notices immediately.
“Jack,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”
Jack swallows. “I— I just… thought I was losing it again.”
Robby’s voice stays calm. “Are you?”
Jack checks himself the way therapy taught him to.
Name five things you can see.
Four you can feel.
Three you can hear.
“No,” Jack says after a moment. “I’m not.”
Robby stands and crosses the room, stopping just short of touching him.
“Do you want me closer?”
Jack nods.
Robby steps into his space, resting a hand lightly at Jack’s back.
“It’s been freaking me out,” Jack admits quietly. “Not just that night. The idea that I could… disappear like that.”
Robby exhales. “You didn’t disappear. You were altered. Drugged. There’s a difference.”
Jack’s jaw tightens. “It didn’t feel different.”
“I know,” Robby says. “That’s why it’s scary.”
They stand there for a long moment, the silence heavy but not hostile.
“I don’t like not being in control,” Jack says finally.
Robby huffs softly. “You’re terrible at it.”
Jack almost laughs.
Almost.