Chapter Text
The house is too quiet for Jack’s comfort. After over a year of the three of them living in a state of high-energy friction and overlapping shifts, the silence feels heavy, almost suffocating.
In the main bedroom, the only light comes from the cracks in the plastic blinds covering the window; that is, if the rhythmic glow of a pulse oximeter clipped to Frank’s finger doesn't count.
Frank looks smaller than usual, buried under a mountain of blankets. His skin is waxy and sickly gray.
Jack hates that.
A particularly nasty strain of influenza hit Langdon like a freight train; Frank insisted the little tickle in his throat was nothing but allergies and fatigue from too many doubles. He powered through the first few days of body aches and low-grade fever with extra coffee and vitamin C shots, waving off Jack’s offers of rest and ignoring Robby’s pointed looks.
By the time the cough turned deep and constant, the flu had already set the stage for something worse. A bacterial superinfection moved in almost unnoticed, turning what should have been a miserable week in bed into this: crackling lungs, oxygen sats that just won’t hold steady, and a fever that refuses to break without aggressive intervention.
Jack sits in the armchair he dragged in from the living room, a bowl of lukewarm water and a washcloth on the nightstand beside him. He hasn’t slept more than two hours since the fever hit 103.8°F. Every time Frank’s breathing hitches or his cough turns productive and painful, Jack is on his feet, hand on Frank’s chest, waiting for the rattle to clear.
Abbot's phone buzzes on his lap. He doesn’t have to look at the ID to know who it is.
“Hey,” Jack whispers, his voice raspy.
“Hey, baby. How is he doing?” Robby says immediately.
There’s the distant sound of a cardiac monitor in the background. Robby’s voice is tight, thin with the kind of anxiety he only ever feels for two people.
Jack looks at the pulse ox. The little red numbers flicker again. “He’s at 93% on room air. Better than an hour ago. Fever’s down to 101.4, but he’s still pretty out of it.”
He hears Robby exhale, a long, shaky sound. “Did he take any fluids?”
“A few sips of Gatorade, but he threw most of it back up twenty minutes later,” Jack says, leaning forward to brush a damp lock of hair off Frank’s forehead. Langdon doesn’t even stir; he just lets out a weak, wheezing moan in his sleep. “He’s exhausted, Robby. I’ve never seen him this still.”
“Fucking hell,” Robby mutters. Jack can hear a pen clicking rapidly. “I should be there to help you. I’m no use here anyway. Dana is staring at me because I’ve checked my phone thirty times in the last hour. I should just call off, try to get Shen—”
“No,” Jack says firmly, though his heart aches at the thought of Robby not being home. “The ER needs you more. There’s nothing to do here but watch him breathe and keep him hydrated. If his O2 drops below 90%, I’m bringing him in. I’ve already got a bag packed for him.”
The bag is indeed prepared, laid by the bedroom door, already zipped. It’s a black duffel Jack usually uses for short trips, packed the second Frank’s fever tipped into dangerous territory. A change of clothes: sweatpants, a soft T-shirt, underwear, thick socks. Frank's phone charger is coiled neatly in the side pocket. Insurance card and ID are tucked into the front pouch.
There’s also a small toiletry kit with a travel toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and lip balm. Jack prepared a folder with a printed list of Frank’s meds and allergies too, because he doesn’t like leaving things to chance.
“Okay,” Robby sighs into the receiver. “Just tell him to keep resting, okay? And that I’m coming home as soon as I can.”
“He knows,” Jack says softly.
On the bed, Frank’s eyes flutter open, glazed and unfocused. He’s always vigilant when his name is brought up, even when wrecked by fever. He lets out a wet, rattling cough that shakes his whole frame, hand clutching weakly at the duvet. Jack is up in an instant, dropping the phone on the bedding to steady him.
“Easy, Frankie. Deep breaths for me. There you go,” Jack murmurs, his hand firm on Frank’s shoulder until the coughing fit subsides.
Frank squints at him. “Jack?”
“Right here.”
“That's Robby?”
Jack picks up the phone and hits the speaker button. “Yeah, he’s right here, Frankie. He’s still on the line.”
“I’m here, baby,” Robby’s voice comes through, raw and clearly desperate to be home with them. “I’m right here. Just breathe, okay? I’ll be home in four hours. Just four hours.”
Frank’s eyes close again, a ghost of a smile touching his chapped lips. “Okay. I’ll be waiting. Save some lives,” he wheezes.
“I’ll do my best,” Robby says, his voice thick with longing. “I’ll call you after my next patient. Love you both.”
“Love you too. Stay focused,” Jack says, and hangs up.
He then sits on the edge of the bed, taking Frank’s hot, dry hand in his and spends the next three hours exactly like this. He manages to take a short nap, if it can even be called that, whole body tense in anticipation of another coughing fit.
The transition between Jack leaving for the hospital and Robby coming home is a logistical nightmare fueled purely by adrenaline and caffeine.
Jack is already in his scrubs, badge clipped to his pocket, doing rounds around the bed like a nervous satellite.
“I put the Gatorade on the left, the water is on the right,” Jack says, voice tight as he adjusts the straw in the plastic bottle for the third time. “If you feel like you’re going to be sick again, the basin is right here. Don’t try to get up. Just wait for Robby.”
Frank shifts under the duvet, eyes barely slitting open. He looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge backward.
“Jack,” he croaks. “Go to work. People are sick.”
“You’re the only sick person I’m worried about.”
Jack moves to the nightstand. He picks up the pulse oximeter, checks the battery, puts it down, then picks it up again to angle it perfectly toward Frank’s hand for easy access. Next, Jack leans over, checking the distance between Frank’s hand and the phone. He’s already turned the volume to maximum, even though he knows the emergency bypass will let his and Robby’s calls scream through even if the phone is on silent. Jack touches the bottle of Tylenol, then the thermometer, then the pulse ox again. Just to double-check they’re all there.
He checks the thermostat—72 degrees. The humidifier—half full. He tucks the heavy wool blanket under Frank’s chin, then pulls it back an inch, worried about overheating. He presses the back of his hand to Frank’s forehead one last time. Still hot, but the sweat is breaking.
“I’m leaving the bedroom door open,” Jack announces. “I texted Robby the list of your vitals from ten minutes ago, but he’ll want to check himself.”
“Jack,” Frank wheezes, a tiny smirk ghosting his lips. “I’m a doctor. If I stop breathing, I’ll be the first to know.”
“Not funny,” Jack scoffs, though his eyes soften. He leans down and kisses Frank’s sweat-damp temple. “Forty-five minutes. That’s all. I’ll be at the hospital in fifteen, and we will be very quick about the handover. You won’t even notice you were alone.”
“Go,” Frank whispers, closing his eyes. “Robby’s probably vibrating with anxiety already.”
Jack takes one last look, one that scans for cyanosis and assesses level of consciousness, and forces himself into the hallway.
Robby practically breaches the front door. He doesn’t bother with the coatrack, dropping his jacket onto the entryway bench and kicking off his shoes without even unlacing them.
The house is unnervingly still. For a man who spent the last twelve hours surrounded by the cacophony of beeps and shouting, the silence of their home is ringing in his ears. It has been exactly forty-five minutes since Jack left, and to Robby, that is forty-four minutes too long for Frank to be left to his own devices.
Robby takes the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.
"Frank, you okay?" he calls out, his voice low but sharp with a clinician’s urgency.
He pushes the bedroom door open.
The room is dim, smelling of menthol rub and the heavy, stagnant scent of fever. Frank is exactly where Jack has left him, but he’s clearly struggled in the interim. The mountain of blankets is partially kicked off, and Frank is slumped awkwardly against the headboard, his eyes closed, his breathing coming in shallow, wet hitches.
Robby is at the bedside in a heartbeat. He doesn't say a word at first, just presses the back of his hand to Frank’s cheek.
"Still burning up," Robby mutters, more to himself than anyone.
Frank’s eyes flicker open. They are bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion. He squints at Robby, a slow, dazed recognition pulling at his features.
"You’re... late," he wheezes, the last word ending in a sharp, painful-sounding cough.
"I’m right on time," Robby corrects gently, his voice turning softer.
He reaches for the pulse ox Jack obsessively positioned and clips it onto Frank’s finger. He waits patiently, watching the red numbers climb.
92%. Stable, but it has dropped since Jack left.
"Jack... he’s a lunatic," Frank whispers, his head lolling back against the pillow. His voice is thick, wandering into that hazy territory where reality and the fever blur together. "He gave me a lecture on the Gatorade. Three times. I think he... drew a map."
Robby feels a flicker of a smile, the first one in hours. He glances at the nightstand. A glass of water and a bottle of blue Gatorade sit exactly where Jack has always put them. The map was clearly a delirium-induced masterpiece.
He sits on the edge of the mattress, the weight of his body shifting the bed. He reaches out and begins untangling the blankets, smoothing them over Frank’s shivering frame.
"He was worried, Frank. He probably did lecture you, but I promise there's no cartography involved. You dreamt it."
"It was very detailed," Frank insists with a weak, stubborn frown, though his eyes struggle to stay open. "The topography of the electrolytes. It was so confusing."
"I bet it was," Robby murmurs, amused despite the tight knot of worry in his chest.
He takes Frank’s hand, squeezing it firmly. He can feel the fine tremors running through Frank’s limbs. Robby leans down, resting his forehead against Frank’s for a brief, cooling second.
"I’m staying right here. I’ve got the thermometer, I’ve got the meds, and I’ve got a direct line to Jack if you so much as sneeze funny,” he murmurs.
Frank lets out a long, ragged sigh of relief, his entire body finally losing the tension it has been holding since Jack left.
"Good," he breathes out, his eyes drifting shut again as he keeps on mumbling. "The mountain pass to the orange flavor was treacherous. I don’t want to go there."
Robby lets out a soft laugh, tucks the covers under Frank’s chin, and settles in for the long haul.
The clock on the nightstand reads 2:14 AM. The witching hour for the ER—the time when the initial rush dies down and is replaced by the strange, jagged energy of the late-night arrivals. In the bedroom of their shared house, it is the hour of the rhythmic, rattling sound of Frank’s lungs as he catches up on sleep.
Robby has migrated from the edge of the bed to the armchair Jack abandoned. He’s made himself a command center with his laptop for catching up on charts, a cold cup of coffee he’s forgotten to drink, and the thermometer sitting right next to the pulse oximeter.
He is staring at Frank, watching the rise and fall of his chest, counting the respirations in his head out of habit. His phone suddenly buzzes, a frantic little jig on the bedside table.
Robby swipes to answer before the second vibration.
"He's okay," he whispers immediately, skipping the pleasantries entirely.
It is unusually quiet on the other end. Maybe Jack is in the lounge room, wanting some privacy.
"I didn't say anything yet," Abbot's voice comes through, sounding equally strained and amused.
"Yeah, well I'm your husband. I anticipate," Robby murmurs. He leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He’s sleeping. The Tylenol finally kicked in. Fever is down to 100.2°F and his O2 is holding at 94%. He’s stable."
He hears Jack let out a long, ragged breath that catches in the phone’s mic. "Stable is good. Stable is my favorite word right now. God, it’s a zoo here, Robby. We just had a GSW come in."
Robby lets out a soft, tired sigh. "Hang in there, baby. Remember to eat something."
"And you?" Jack asks, his voice softening, dropping the professional clip. "Did you eat something? Are you getting any sleep?"
"I've got the armchair," Robby says, glancing at the pile of blankets he’s dragged over. "I’m not leaving him. Every time he coughs, he immediately looks for one of us. I'm staying awake for the 4:00 AM med dose anyway."
"You're a masochist," Jack whispers, but there is an unmistakable note of love in it. "I wish I was there with you, though. I feel like I’m missing a limb being here while he’s like that, and you have to do it all alone."
"You're saving lives, Abbot. I'm just watching a man moan about Gatorade in his sleep. We're both doing our jobs."
Robby watches Frank shift under the covers.
Frank’s hand wanders across the empty space of the bed, searching, until it brushes against the pillow where Robby should have been. Robby stands up, stretching his aching back briefly, and walks over to the bed. He gently takes Frank’s hand, anchoring him.
Robby lets out a soft sigh: "I'm here with him. Go back to work. I’ll text you if the anything changes."
"Love you, Mikey," Jack says quietly.
"Love you too. Stay safe."
Robby ends the call and sits on the edge of the bed, Frank’s hand still clutched in his.
The house is quiet again, but for the first time since Frank got sick, the silence doesn't feel quite so heavy.