Work Text:
Jack notices the signs before Robby does.
He always does.
It starts small. Robby forgetting his water bottle on the counter. Coming home too wired to eat, claiming he’ll “grab something later.” Falling asleep on the couch still in his scrubs, badge pressed into his collarbone, shoes half on.
Jack nudges, gently at first.
“You drink anything today?”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know.”
Jack doesn’t push. Not hard. He knows how Robby gets when the pressure builds — how he starts trimming away his own needs like they’re optional extras.
But the days stack up.
Robby’s eyes are always red-rimmed now, shadowed. His hands shake faintly when he thinks no one is watching. He laughs it off when Jack points it out.
“Too much coffee,” Robby says. “I’m fine.”
Jack doesn’t believe him.
Robby has lost weight.
Not the kind that anyone comments on outright, but the kind Jack notices when Robby’s scrubs start hanging differently, when his collarbones are sharper, when his wedding ring spins a little too easily around his finger.
Robby waves it off every time.
“Stress,” he says. “I’ll eat when things slow down.”
They never slow down.
The morning Robby leaves for his shift after not sleeping at all, Jack stands in the doorway and watches him fumble with his keys.
“Robby,” Jack says softly. “You’re running on fumes.”
Robby forces a smile. “I’ll sleep after this shift.”
Jack crosses the room and presses a protein bar into his hand.
“Eat,” Jack says. “Please.”
Robby looks at it like it’s a foreign object, then tucks it into his pocket.
“Promise,” he says.
Jack watches him leave with a knot in his chest that doesn’t loosen all day.
On shift, Robby is running almost entirely on muscle memory. He moves fast—too fast—cutting corners in ways he’d normally catch. He forgets his water bottle again. He downs half a coffee before the nausea hits, hands trembling faintly when he sets the cup down.
Langdon notices before anyone else.
“You okay?” he asks for the third time that day as Robby breezes past him toward another room.
Robby doesn’t stop walking. “Fine.”
Langdon watches him go, frown deepening.
Robby feels like absolute garbage.
His head is pounding in a way that doesn’t respond to caffeine or ibuprofen. His stomach churns constantly, empty but nauseous. When he stands too quickly, black spots bloom at the edges of his vision like ink dropped into water.
He ignores all of it.
He has a department to run.
The crash comes suddenly.
Robby is halfway down the hall, tablet tucked under his arm, when the floor tilts violently. Not metaphorically—physically. Like someone grabbed the building and twisted.
He stumbles.
“Robby?” Langdon calls sharply from behind him.
Robby turns to answer and the hallway stretches, warps. The lights overhead smear into long white streaks.
“I—” he starts.
His knees give out.
Langdon catches him mid-collapse, barely managing to keep Robby from hitting the floor headfirst.
“Shit— Dana!” Langdon yells. “I need help!”
The world narrows to sound and sensation. Robby is vaguely aware of being lowered to the ground, of hands on his shoulders, of someone saying his name over and over again.
“Robby, stay with me.”
His vision tunnels.
Then goes dark.
Robby is dead weight in Langdon’s arms.
That’s the first thought that cuts through the shock — not poetic, not dramatic. Just clinical and horrifyingly precise.
“Hey— hey, I’ve got you,” Langdon says, voice already pitched too high as he slides to the floor with Robby, one arm braced behind Robby’s shoulders to keep his head from hitting the tile. “Robby. Stay with me.”
Robby doesn’t respond.
His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, his body slack in a way Langdon hates. It’s not the stiffness of pain or the tension of panic — it’s absence. Like Robby has stepped away from his own body and left Langdon holding the shell.
“Dana!” Langdon shouts again, louder now. “I need a gurney, now!”
Dana is already moving, calling for space with one hand while reaching for Robby’s wrist with the other. Her fingers find a pulse — weak, fast — and she doesn’t comment, but her jaw tightens.
“Clear the hall,” she says sharply. “Give us room.”
Langdon cradles Robby closer without meaning to, his arm tightening protectively around Robby’s shoulders. He keeps talking because silence feels dangerous.
“Robby, come on,” he says urgently. “Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
Robby’s head lolls slightly, breath shallow and uneven. Langdon leans in close, his voice dropping instinctively.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “It’s Frank. You’re okay. You’re at work. I need you to wake up.”
The gurney arrives with a clatter of metal and urgency. Together, carefully, they transfer Robby onto it — Dana guiding, Langdon reluctant to let go until Robby is settled, centered, safe.
Langdon keeps one hand on Robby’s chest as they move, feeling the faint rise and fall.
He’s breathing. He’s breathing. He’s breathing.
They push into an open room, curtains snapping closed behind them. The familiar chaos of an ED room erupts — monitors powering on, leads placed, oxygen ready.
“BP?” Langdon asks, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
“Low,” someone answers. “90 systolic.”
Dana swears under her breath.
“Okay,” Langdon says with calm he doesn’t feel. “Let’s slow this down. Robby, can you hear me?”
He presses gently but firmly against Robby’s sternum, not painful, just enough to provoke a response.
Robby groans faintly.
Langdon exhales shakily. “There. He’s there.”
Dana nods once. “Barely.”
Langdon steps back just enough to let them work, but his eyes never leave Robby’s face. He’s cataloguing everything automatically — pallor, respirations, the faint tremor in Robby’s hands.
“This isn’t cardiac,” Langdon says aloud, thinking as he talks. “No chest pain, no arrhythmia on the monitor.”
“Glucose?” Dana asks.
A finger stick. A pause.
“Forty-four,” comes the answer.
Langdon’s stomach drops. “Of course it is.”
“He hasn’t been eating,” Langdon adds quickly. “Barely drinking. He’s been running himself ragged.”
“Goddamn martyr.” Dana grouses affectionately. “D50?”
Frank nods. “Let’s get two liters NS going too. His turgor sucks."
The IV is ready in seconds. Dana administers it smoothly, watching Robby’s face closely.
“Robby,” Langdon says again, leaning in. “Hey. It’s Frank. You with us?”
Robby’s brow furrows faintly, like the effort to process language is enormous.
“Robby,” Langdon repeats, more insistently now. “Open your eyes.”
Robby’s eyelids flutter, then crack open just a sliver. His gaze slides past Langdon, unfocused, then back again, slow and uncertain.
“There you go,” Langdon says, relief crashing through him so hard his hands shake. “That’s it. Stay with us for a minute.”
Robby tries to speak. The sound that comes out is barely recognizable as a word.
Dana checks the monitor again. “Pressure’s coming up a bit.”
Langdon scrubs a hand over his face, heart pounding. “Jesus. I thought—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Dana glances at him briefly. “We’re not there yet.”
They keep working — fluids running, labs drawn, oxygen adjusted — ruling out stroke, seizure, cardiac event, each negative result a small, fragile mercy.
“You’re in Central 3,” Frank explains to him gently. “You collapsed in the hall. You scared the hell out of me.”
Robby blinks slowly, confusion deep but unmistakable.
Robby groans softly. “I’m fine.”
Langdon snorts. “Again I say: you passed out in the hallway. Not exactly the definition of 'fine' boss.”
Dana shoots Langdon a look. “Let him orient.”
She turns back to Robby. “Robby, honey, do you know where you are?”
“The Pitt,” Robby murmurs.
“What day is it?”
Robby hesitates. That alone makes Langdon’s stomach drop.
“…Tuesday?” Robby guesses.
It’s Friday.
Dana doesn’t react outwardly, but she makes a small note on the clipboard.
“Any chest pain?” she asks.
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Yes,” Robby admits immediately. “God, yes.”
Langdon leans against the counter, arms crossed tight. “When was the last time you ate?”
Robby opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Dana glances up sharply. “Robby.”
“…Yesterday morning,” he says finally. “I think.”
Langdon exhales hard through his nose.
“And water?” Langdon presses.
Robby doesn’t answer.
Langdon stays at Robby’s side, talking constantly, grounding him, tethering him to the room with words.
“…sorry,” he whispers hoarsely.
Langdon huffs a shaky laugh. “Don’t apologize. Just don’t do that again.”
As Robby’s eyes finally stay open, as his breathing steadies just enough to feel less terrifyingly fragile, Langdon feels the adrenaline begin to drain out of him, leaving behind a hollow, trembling exhaustion.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says quietly.
Langdon’s voice softens despite himself. “I know. But this is what it looks like when ‘I’ll deal with it later’ catches up.”
Robby turns his head toward Langdon, eyes glassy. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”
Langdon meets his gaze. “Neither do any of us. Until it is.”
Dana finishes her assessment and steps back slightly. “You’re staying put,” she says. “We’re going to rehydrate you and watch you. And I already called Jack.”
Robby groans. “Dana—”
“Too late,” she says calmly. “He should know.”
Jack arrives twenty minutes later.
One look at Robby—pale, sunken-eyed, IV fluids running—and his jaw tightens.
“Hey,” Jack says softly, moving to the bedside. “You look like hell.”
Robby manages a weak smile. “You always say that.”
Jack takes his hand, thumb brushing lightly over Robby’s knuckles.
“You scared me,” Jack says.
Robby swallows. “I know.”
Langdon clears his throat awkwardly. “He’s been running himself into the ground.”
Jack nods once. “I noticed.”
There’s no anger in his voice. Just worry. Deep, bone-deep worry.
Dana finishes charting and gives Jack a quick update—labs, fluids, plan—then leaves them a little space.
Jack squeezes Robby’s hand. “We’re going to fix this,” he says gently. “But we’re doing it my way now.”
Robby sucked in a breath, ready to argue, but Jack silenced him with a look.
“No, Mike, we tried it your way. You gave it a shot, but it’s not working. That doesn’t meam failure, just that we have to adjust our approach.”
Robby closes his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him under now that someone else is holding the line.
“Okay,” he whispers. Jack leaned in closer.
“I know admin and fucking Gloria have been riding you hard. I know we’re short-staffed right now. I know the department is overrun. But this isn’t the way to handle it. Take it from the former king of unhealthy coping mechanisms, ‘pushing through’ only leads crashing out. Promise me, promise me, you’ll let me help you this time.”
“I…I promise, Jack.”
The apartment feels too quiet.
Robby sinks into the couch like his bones have turned to sand, hoodie swallowed up by his frame, head lolling back against the cushions. His eyes are open, but unfocused—tracking something Jack can’t see. His skin looks almost gray in the afternoon light, lips dry, lashes casting shadows too deep for someone who’s supposed to be “home and stable.”
Jack sets the grocery bag down slowly. He’d ordered them while still at the ED. Thank you, drive up.
Now that they’re home, Robby’s crashing hard.
This isn’t dramatic lethargy.
This is the kind that makes his chest tighten.
“Hey,” Jack says softly, kneeling in front of him. “Talk to me.”
Robby blinks. It takes a second too long.
“Just… tired,” he murmurs. His voice is thin, frayed at the edges. “Can I sleep?”
Jack presses his thumb gently into Robby’s wrist, feeling the pulse there—present, but sluggish.
“I know you’re tired,” Jack says. “But you’ve got to get something in you first.”
Robby’s eyes drift closed. “Later.”
Jack shakes his head once, small but firm. “Not later.”
Robby opens one eye, a flicker of irritation passing over his face. “Jack, I don’t feel sick. I just feel… empty.”
Jack swallows.
“That’s what scares me.”
Robby exhales, too weak to argue properly. His head tips forward, chin dropping to his chest.
Jack stands, moves with purpose. He comes back with a mug of warm broth and a bottle of Gatorade, already open. He sits beside Robby, close enough that their knees touch.
“Okay,” Jack says gently. “We’re not eating. We’re sipping.”
Robby grimaces. “I don’t want to—”
“I know,” Jack interrupts softly. “You don’t have to want to. Just open your mouth.”
Robby hesitates, then does, obedient in a way that makes Jack’s throat tighten. Jack brings the mug to his lips, careful, steady.
“Just a little,” Jack murmurs.
Robby takes a sip. Swallows. His face tightens like it costs him something.
“Okay,” Jack says immediately. “That’s enough for now.”
Robby leans back, breathing shallowly, eyes closing again.
Jack watches him for a moment, then gently lifts Robby’s hand. It’s cold.
“You’re freezing,” Jack says quietly.
Robby nods faintly. “I can’t get warm.”
Jack doesn’t respond with words. He reaches for the thick blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it around Robby’s shoulders, tucking it in carefully. Then another blanket. Then he slips off his own hoodie and layers it over Robby’s chest.
He presses his palm flat against Robby’s sternum.
Cold. Still cold.
Jack sits back down and pulls Robby gently against him, wrapping both arms around him, using his own body heat like a warmIV drip.
Robby startles slightly, then relaxes, sinking into Jack’s chest with a weak sigh.
“You don’t have to sleep,” Jack murmurs near his ear. “Just rest. I’ve got you.”
Minutes pass.
Jack lifts the Gatorade and nudges it gently against Robby’s lips.
“Sip,” he says.
Robby groans softly, but opens his mouth. Takes a small swallow. Then another when Jack waits patiently.
“Good,” Jack whispers. “You’re doing great.”
Robby’s fingers twitch weakly in the blanket. “I hate this,” he says, barely audible.
“I know,” Jack says immediately. “I know. But this is temporary.”
Robby’s teeth chatter suddenly, sharp and involuntary.
Jack tightens his hold. “Okay. That’s my cue.”
He shifts them carefully, guiding Robby to lie fully against him, one arm cradling Robby’s shoulders, the other rubbing slow, firm circles along his back.
“Stay with me,” Jack says softly. “Don’t drift.”
Robby nods faintly. “I’m here.”
They spend the day like that.
Sip by sip.
Blanket by blanket.
Jack counting breaths, counting swallows, counting time.
Every so often Robby murmurs, “Too tired,” and Jack answers the same way every time—calm, steady, unmovable.
“I know. Just one more.”
And by evening, Robby’s eyes are clearer. His hands are a little warmer. His head stays upright on its own.
Jack doesn’t say I told you so.
He just presses a kiss into Robby’s hair and holds him close, grateful in a way that hurts that today, care was enough.
Finally, Jack speaks.
“You’ve lost weight.”
Robby freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Jack doesn’t accuse. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just states it.
Robby lowers the spoon. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” Jack says. “But you did.”
Robby rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion and shame tangling together. “I just kept thinking I’d get through the next shift. And then the next. And then I’d sleep, or eat, or—”
Jack exhales. “You keep treating yourself like an afterthought.”
Robby flinches slightly.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Jack says gently but firmly. “You’d never let one of your residents do this. You’d pull them off shift in a heartbeat.”
Robby’s voice drops. “I didn’t think I deserved that.”
Jack turns fully toward him. “Why?”
Robby stares at the floor, jaw tight. “Because everyone else needs it more.”
Jack shakes his head slowly. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how you work.”
He reaches out, cups Robby’s face carefully, thumb brushing beneath his eye.
“I don’t need you to be indestructible,” Jack says. “I need you alive.”
Robby’s eyes burn.
“Okay,” he whispers.
Jack presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
The bathroom light feels too bright.
Robby stands just inside the doorway, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wall like he’s pretending it’s casual. His hair is limp with sweat, curls flattened, his beard uneven and scruffy in a way that would normally annoy him. Tonight he just looks… worn down. Like gravity is doing more work on him than it should.
Jack notices immediately.
“You need a shower,” Jack says gently.
Robby nods, slow. “I know. I just—” He swallows. “I don’t think I can stand that long.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Then you won’t.”
He turns the tub on before Robby can protest, testing the water with his wrist, adjusting it until it’s just shy of hot—warm enough to soak into chilled bones without stealing what little energy Robby has left. Steam begins to curl upward, softening the room, fogging the mirror.
Robby watches from the doorway, shoulders slumped.
“I hate needing help with this,” he murmurs.
Jack looks at him, expression steady and kind. “I hate that you think this means something bad about you.”
Robby doesn’t argue. He’s too tired.
Jack helps him undress slowly, deliberately—no rushing, no sudden movements. Every time Robby wobbles, Jack is already there, a hand at his elbow, a palm at his back.
“Easy,” Jack murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Lowering Robby into the bath takes patience. Jack talks the whole time, grounding him—what he’s doing, where Robby’s feet are, when to bend his knees. When Robby finally settles into the water, he exhales a long, shaky breath, shoulders sagging as warmth wraps around him.
“Oh,” Robby whispers. “That’s… better.”
Jack smiles faintly. “Told you.”
He kneels beside the tub, rolls up his sleeves, and dips a washcloth into the water. He starts with Robby’s arms, slow and gentle, like this is something sacred instead of mundane. Robby closes his eyes, leaning back against the tub, trusting Jack to keep him upright.
When Jack moves to Robby’s hair, he pauses.
“Okay if I do this?” Jack asks.
Robby nods. “Please.”
Jack pours warm water carefully over Robby’s head, shielding his eyes, fingers massaging shampoo gently into his scalp. Robby makes a small, involuntary sound—half sigh, half relief—and Jack’s chest tightens.
“Sorry,” Robby murmurs. “That just feels… really good.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Jack says softly.
He rinses Robby’s hair slowly, thoroughly, making sure no soap is left behind. Then he reaches for the small trimmer he brought in earlier.
“I thought we could clean you up a bit,” Jack says. “If you’re up for it.”
Robby opens his eyes, meets Jack’s gaze. “Yeah. I am.”
Jack trims Robby’s beard carefully, steady hands, the way he’d clean up before a big shift. He wipes away loose hairs with a towel, checking Robby’s face like he’s memorizing it again.
“There,” Jack says quietly. “You’re still you.”
Robby swallows hard.
By the time the bath is done, Robby looks marginally more alive—but utterly spent. Jack drains the tub and helps him stand, wrapping him immediately in a thick towel, rubbing warmth back into his arms and shoulders.
Jack dresses him in clean, soft clothes—nothing restrictive, nothing that asks too much of his body—and guides him to bed, one careful step at a time.
Robby collapses onto the mattress with a soft groan.
Jack pulls the covers up around him, tucks them in tight, then sits on the edge of the bed, brushing damp curls back from Robby’s forehead.
“Thank you,” Robby whispers, eyes already fluttering closed.
Jack leans down, presses a gentle kiss to his temple.
“Anytime,” he says. “You don’t have to be strong tonight.”
Robby’s breathing evens out quickly, sleep claiming him almost immediately.
Robby knows it’s coming before it hits.
There’s a moment — a subtle one — where the room seems to tilt just a degree too far to the left, like someone nudged the world and forgot to set it back. His stomach tightens sharply, saliva flooding his mouth in a way that makes his pulse spike with instant dread.
“Jack,” he whispers.
Jack is already moving.
He crosses the room in two strides, one hand steadying Robby’s shoulder, the other bracing his back as Robby bends forward suddenly, breath coming fast and shallow.
“Okay,” Jack says calmly, low and even. “I’ve got you.”
Robby squeezes his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the wave of nausea crashing over him. The dizziness is brutal — not spinning exactly, but floating, like he’s not anchored to anything solid.
“I’m gonna throw up,” Robby says, embarrassed even now.
“That’s okay,” Jack replies immediately. “That’s allowed.”
He guides Robby carefully toward the bathroom, slow and deliberate, one hand firm at Robby’s waist, the other gripping his forearm so he doesn’t tip over. Robby’s steps are unsteady, knees threatening to give out, but Jack compensates without comment, adjusting his own balance to keep Robby upright.
They make it to the toilet just in time.
Robby retches hard, body folding in on itself as nausea overtakes him completely. Jack kneels beside him, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades, the other holding Robby’s hair back so it doesn’t fall into his face.
“It’s okay,” Jack murmurs. “I know. Let it happen.”
Robby gags again, dry this time, whole body trembling. Tears prick at his eyes — from the force of it, from the helplessness, from how awful he feels.
“I hate this,” Robby croaks.
“I know,” Jack says softly. “I hate it too. But you’re doing exactly what your body needs right now.”
When the worst of it passes, Robby slumps forward, forehead resting against the cool porcelain, breathing ragged and uneven. He feels hollowed out, weak in a way that makes his limbs feel detached from the rest of him.
Jack stays right there.
He reaches for a cool washcloth and presses it gently to the back of Robby’s neck, then to his forehead.
“Dizzy?” Jack asks.
Robby nods faintly. “Really.”
Jack adjusts his position so Robby can lean back against his chest, careful and controlled, easing him down to sit on the bathroom floor with Jack’s arms wrapped around him like a brace.
“Okay,” Jack says quietly. “Focus on me. You’re not falling. I’ve got you.”
Robby’s head lolls briefly, then he forces himself to keep his eyes open, anchoring on Jack’s voice, Jack’s warmth.
“Breathe with me,” Jack says, slow and steady. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
They do it together — Jack exaggerating each breath just enough for Robby to follow. The dizziness ebbs incrementally, like a tide reluctantly pulling back.
Jack brings a small sip of water to Robby’s lips, waiting patiently while Robby tests it.
“Too much?” Jack asks.
“No,” Robby whispers. “Just… don’t go fast.”
“I won’t,” Jack promises.
After a few minutes, Robby’s breathing evens out. The nausea lingers, a low, simmering threat, but the world feels more stable now.
“I’m sorry,” Robby says quietly, staring at the floor. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”
Jack shifts so he can look at him, tilting Robby’s chin gently upward.
“You’re not falling apart,” Jack says firmly. “You’re healing. And healing feels like hell sometimes.”
Robby swallows, eyes shining. “I don’t like needing this much help.”
Jack brushes his thumb across Robby’s cheek, wiping away a tear he didn’t realize had escaped.
“You don’t need less help,” Jack says softly. “You just need time.”
He helps Robby back to bed slowly, keeping him upright until the dizziness fully fades, settling him under the blankets, one hand resting reassuringly on his chest.
Jack stays there, listening to Robby’s breathing even out again, ready to move at the first sign the nausea returns — patient, steady, unshaken.
Langdon doesn’t text.
He shows up.
The knock comes mid-morning the next day, firm but hesitant, like Langdon isn’t quite sure he’s allowed to be there.
Jack opens the door.
Langdon shifts awkwardly in the hallway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “Hey.”
Jack steps aside. “Come in.”
Robby is curled up on the couch under a blanket, half-asleep, IV-site bruise still visible on his arm. He blinks when he hears Langdon’s voice.
“Oh,” he says faintly. “Hey.”
Langdon winces. “You look like hell.”
Robby huffs weakly. “So I’ve been told.”
Langdon crosses the room and sits on the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“You scared me,” he says quietly. “One second you were walking, the next you were dead weight in my arms.”
Robby swallows. “I’m sorry.”
Langdon shakes his head. “Not the point.”
There’s a long pause.
“You don’t get to collapse like that and then pretend it’s no big deal,” Langdon continues. “You’re not allowed.”
Robby gives a tired smile. “You’re not my boss.”
Langdon snorts. “I’m your problem, though.”
That gets a real smile out of Robby, brief but genuine.
Langdon sobers. “Look — I know you’re under pressure. But you don’t have to bleed out quietly to prove anything.”
Robby nods, eyes closing for a second. “I didn’t realize how far gone I was.”
Langdon stands, awkwardly pats Robby’s shoulder. “Next time you start running yourself into the ground, I’m dragging you to Dana myself.”
Jack smirks from the kitchen. “She’d appreciate the backup.”
Langdon heads for the door, pausing before he leaves.
“Take care of yourself, boss,” he says softly. “We need you.”
Robby watches him go, the words settling heavy and warm in his chest.
Robby lies awake long after the apartment goes quiet, staring at the ceiling while his mind replays shifts he didn’t even work that week. His body is exhausted, but sleep won’t come — or when it does, it’s thin and brittle, breaking apart at the slightest sound.
Jack wakes to movement.
Not loud. Just wrong.
He opens his eyes to find Robby standing in the doorway, barefoot, eyes open but unfocused.
“Robby?” Jack says softly.
No response.
Jack sits up slowly, heart rate ticking up.
Robby takes a step forward, then stops, like he’s lost track of where he’s going.
Jack swings his legs over the side of the bed and approaches carefully, like you would with a spooked animal.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re sleepwalking.”
Robby blinks once. Twice.
“I can’t find the bathroom,” he murmurs, voice flat and distant.
Jack’s chest tightens.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re safe. Come here.”
He guides Robby gently back toward the bed, one hand light at his elbow, the other warm at his back. Robby follows automatically, pliant and exhausted.
Jack sits him down, kneeling in front of him.
“Can you look at me?” Jack asks.
Robby does, slowly. Recognition flickers.
“Oh,” Robby whispers. “I’m… not okay, am I?”
Jack shakes his head. “You’re healing. That’s messy.”
Robby rubs his face with both hands. “I’m so tired.”
“I know,” Jack says. “Let’s make it easier.”
He dims the lights further, turns off Robby’s phone completely. He brings him water, then helps him lie back down, arranging the blankets with care, one hand resting firmly on Robby’s chest.
“Breathe with me,” Jack says softly.
They do box breathing together, Jack counting quietly until Robby’s breath slows to match his.
Jack stays awake longer than necessary, watching Robby’s face soften as sleep finally settles — deeper this time, less fractured.
When Robby stirs again later, murmuring incoherently, Jack tightens his hold just slightly.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into the dark. “You don’t have to go anywhere tonight.”
Robby doesn’t wake this time.
And for the first night in a long while, he stays in bed until morning.
The bowl sits between them, steaming faintly.
It’s nothing aggressive. Plain broth with soft noodles. Something that shouldn’t be difficult. Something Robby has eaten a thousand times without thinking.
He stares at it like it’s a test he didn’t study for.
Jack notices immediately.
He doesn’t comment. He just waits.
Robby picks up the spoon. His hand shakes — not violently, just enough to be annoying, enough to make him hyperaware of it. He lifts the spoon, pauses halfway, breath hitching.
Jack watches quietly, legs tucked under him on the couch, close but not looming.
Robby swallows, throat tight.
“It feels… wrong,” he says finally, voice low and embarrassed. “Like my body doesn’t remember how.”
Jack nods. “That makes sense.”
Robby frowns. “It does?”
“Yeah,” Jack says gently. “You’ve been running on empty. Your body’s been in survival mode. It’s not eager to switch back yet.”
Robby exhales shakily, relieved not to be argued with.
He tries again. Brings the spoon closer. The smell hits him and his stomach flips unpleasantly, nausea blooming sharp and sudden.
He freezes.
Jack’s hand comes to rest lightly on Robby’s wrist, steadying but not stopping him.
“You don’t have to force it,” Jack says softly. “We can go slow.”
Robby nods, eyes stinging.
“I want to eat,” he says quietly. “I’m just… scared it’ll make me sick.”
“I know,” Jack replies. “That’s okay.”
Robby lowers the spoon, breath coming shallow and uneven now. He presses his free hand against his sternum like he’s trying to calm his own body down.
Jack shifts closer, voice low and reassuring.
“Let’s make this smaller,” he suggests. “One sip. Not a bite. Just enough to remind your body it’s safe.”
Robby hesitates, then nods.
He lifts the spoon again, this time deliberately, intentionally slow. He sips just a little — barely more than a taste.
He waits.
His face tightens as he swallows, eyes squeezing shut like he’s bracing for impact.
Jack watches his throat work, his chest rise and fall.
“You okay?” Jack asks quietly.
Robby nods after a second. “Yeah. It’s… there. But it’s okay.”
Jack smiles faintly. “Good. That’s a win.”
Robby huffs out a shaky laugh. “That’s a depressing bar.”
Jack shrugs. “Temporary.”
They sit in silence for a moment. The broth cools. The world doesn’t end.
Robby manages another sip, then another. Each one takes effort, concentration, a little bit of courage.
At some point, his eyes fill unexpectedly.
“This is stupid,” Robby mutters, voice thick. “I save people for a living. Why is soup kicking my ass?”
Jack reaches up and brushes his thumb gently under Robby’s eye, catching a tear.
“It’s not stupid,” he says firmly. “It’s your body asking for kindness instead of discipline.”
Robby lets that sink in.
He leans slightly into Jack’s side, shoulder brushing Jack’s chest.
“Stay?” he asks quietly.
Jack wraps an arm around him without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They eat like that — slow, uneven, imperfect — but together.
And when Robby finally sets the spoon down, exhausted but proud in a way that feels almost ridiculous, Jack presses a kiss into his hair.
“That was enough,” Jack says. “You did good.”
Robby closes his eyes, letting himself believe it.
Later, when the apartment is quiet again, Robby sits at the kitchen table with a notebook Jack slid over to him.
“What’s this?” Robby asks.
Jack leans against the counter. “A plan.”
Robby sighs. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious about this,” Jack says. “You don’t have to overhaul your life. You just have to stop disappearing from it.”
They write things down together.
Sleep minimums.
Water goals.
Actual meals — not coffee and vibes.
Permission to tap out.
Robby stares at the list for a long moment.
“I hate that I let it get this bad,” he says quietly.
Jack softens. “I hate that you thought you had to.”
Robby reaches for Jack’s hand, fingers threading together.
“I’m scared,” he admits. “What if I can’t find the balance?”
Jack squeezes his hand. “Then we adjust. Balance isn’t a finish line. It’s maintenance.”
Robby exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something he’s been carrying alone for too long.
“Okay,” he says again — steadier this time.
Jack leans down and rests his forehead against Robby’s.
“That’s all I need,” he says. “Okay is enough.”
They sit there together, quiet and still, the world not ending, the department running just fine without Robby for one night.
And for the first time in a long while, Robby lets himself believe that taking care of himself doesn’t mean letting anyone else down.
Jack turns their kitchen into something like a lab, but softer.
There are sticky notes on the counter — not with calorie counts or macros, nothing clinical enough to make Robby bristle — just reminders written in Jack’s tidy, slanted handwriting.
protein + salt
iron
easy on the stomach
Robby sits at the table in socks and an old hoodie, watching Jack move. He looks tired in a deep, cellular way, like sleep alone won’t fix it. His color is better than it was in the ED, but not by much.
Jack notices everything.
He’s sautéing spinach slowly, deliberately, letting the garlic soften without burning. There’s chicken simmering gently in broth, rice resting under a lid. Everything smells warm. Safe.
“This feels excessive,” Robby says lightly.
Jack doesn’t look up. “You collapsed in the Pitt, Michael. This is like, the most conservative treatment option.”
Robby sighs. “I know, I know.”
Jack plates the food carefully, portions smaller than Robby would normally eat but arranged like they matter. He sets the plate down in front of him and adds a glass of water — not full, just enough not to be intimidating.
“You don’t have to finish it,” Jack says, sitting across from him. “Just start.”
Robby studies the plate, then nods.
He eats slowly, methodically. Jack doesn’t stare, but he watches out of the corner of his eye — how Robby chews, how often he pauses, how his hand drifts toward his stomach when nausea threatens.
“Take a sip,” Jack says gently when Robby stalls.
Robby grimaces. “I just did.”
“I know,” Jack says. “Another’s not gonna kill ya.”
That gets a weak smile.
Robby drinks, then exhales. “I hate that you’re right.”
Jack shrugs. “Get used to it.”
Morning comes, bright and slow. Jack’s already in the kitchen drinking coffee when Robby shuffles out to join him.
Jack slides a banana across the table, already peeled halfway. “Potassium.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Robby accuses.
“Maybe a little,” Jack admits. “But mostly I’m trying to fix your labs without jabbing you with another needle.”
Robby’s expression softens.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
They eat like that for days — soups, eggs, toast with peanut butter, things that rebuild gently. Jack keeps water nearby at all times, nudging instead of nagging.
“Just a sip.”
“Humor me.”
“Do it for your kidneys.”
Robby grumbles, but he drinks.
And slowly, imperceptibly, his body starts to believe him again.