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Stay With Me
The automatic doors never stop moving. They open and then they close again and then open, over and over so much it’s surprising the motor isn’t tired out. Inside the emergency department, time doesn’t pass so much as collide. Monitors chime in uneven rhythms competing with urgent voices overlapping.
A paramedic bursts through the entrance, rain still clinging to his jacket, calling out vitals before the wheels of the gurney have fully crossed the threshold. Someone else is already clearing a bay, tugging on gloves, snapping instructions across the room. The bright lights overhead illuminating everything in unforgiving detail like blood and exhaustion and worry.
At the central hub, there’s medics charting, discussing, some making casual conversation amongst the bustle. Nearby, a patient groans, another calls out, and somewhere behind the curtain, a monitor flatlines for half a second too long before erupting back into frantic beeping.
No one stops because they can’t.
Dr Michael Robinavitch stands in the eye of the storm, a still point that appears calm from a distance. Up close, he’s practically vibrating, waiting for the next call to come in, searching for his purpose in life. Not far behind him, the phone rings which Dana is quick to answer on only the second chime. “Pittsburgh PD is bringing in a GSW.” She shouts out. “It’s real bad apparently.”
Robby doesn’t hesitate. He pivots smoothly, already recalibrating. “Okay… Santos, Whittaker! Please move Mr Bridges to South 19 from Trauma 1. We have incoming.” He instructs, the team then moving instantly. He turns back to the charge nurse then, lowering his voice just enough to focus. “Is the patient an officer, victim, suspect?”
“Officer, I think. They mentioned SWAT.” This hits him differently.
SWAT. Pittsburgh PD. The day shift. Dr Jack Abbot.
To most here, Abbot is just the night shift attending with a lot of history on his back. He’s also occasionally a SWAT physician when they need some support on dangerous jobs where his army field experience could come into handy. It’s a way to keep him busy – a hobby he once described – something to stop the thoughts from racing as he combats PTSD and depression and grief.
But to Robby, he’s something, someone, much more than that. No one here knows the truth, knows how when their schedules do sometimes line up that they spend them together, on the good days in each other’s arms. He loses track, knowing where he is at all times, it’s not how their relationship works. Now, with this uncertainty hanging over him like a dark cloud, he wishes otherwise.
The attending swallows, forcing himself to refocus on the task at hand. “Trauma 1 ready?” He asks no-one in particular.
“Yes, all prepped.” Perlah comments as she passes.
“Good. Let’s get blood on hand and inform the OR that we may have a customer heading their way.” Concentrating on work, keeping things clinical, removing emotion from the equation, keeps him above water.
Don’t think the worse. Robby tries to tell himself, not wanting to consider that Jack could have been on call today, whether he was on the scene, whether he’s the patient being brought in on a gurney. He presses his palm briefly against the edge of the desk, attempting to anchor himself to the present. Treat what’s in front of you.
The doors at the end of the ED slide open again, slower this time, heavier somehow. The distant wail of sirens bleed into the department as the gurney comes into view, flanked by uniforms, urgency radiating ahead of them like heat. Robby steps forward, trying not to look for a familiar face. “Shit.” Dana mutters. “It’s Jack.” Everything in his body goes still.
“Fifty-year-old male, unconscious but breathing, with a GSW to the left shoulder.” The paramedic rattles off. “Entry wound anterior, no exit. Missed the tactical vest. BP’s dropping.”
GSW. Unconscious. Missed the tactical vest. It’s Jack.
Robby starts to feel himself fade away as chaos buzzes around him. Everyone seems to be shouting but he can’t discern the language, hands moving in a frantic blur, his feet somehow taking him to the trauma room. There’s an anxious need to stabilise Abbot who with each passing second, is starting to slip away, the invisible string keeping him tethered to this world weakening. He has to shake himself out of it.
“Get ready to move him.” He barks, the group surrounding the stretcher and getting into position. “On my count. One, two, three.” They move him over with a controlled efficiency that’s come from a lot of practice and routine – but it feels anything but routine right now.
He steps in at the head of the bed, eyes locking onto Jack’s face for the briefest fraction of a second, taking in how pale he is, how wrong he looks like this. “Jack, can you hear me?” He asks in the same tone he would use for any other patient even while his heart is threatening to shatter in his chest. “Stay with us.”
“He’s bleeding out.” Santos comments.
“Signs of hypovolemic shock.” Langdon piles on.
Robby can see it.
No response. The ashen complexion, lips turning blue, the critically low blood pressure. It’s textbook but it’s different when it’s happening to someone he cares so dearly for. Not Jack. “Pressure is tanking!” It’s Whittaker’s urgency that snaps him to attention.
“I want two units of blood hanging now for a transfusion! We need to intubate before he crashes.” Someone places the laryngoscope in his hand, and the muscle memory takes over, years of training overriding everything else screaming in his head. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. The clear steps, the right order, following protocol and years of experience in the field.
He works fast with precise movements, not daring to really look Jack in the face, knowing if he saw him as anyone other than another patient, he may struggle to keep his hands steady. “Come on, come on.” The mumbling under his breath isn’t like him and thankfully isn’t noticed by his peers who are too preoccupied in saving a colleague’s life to worry about their attending. “Tube’s in.” His says louder now, the next breath coming easier.
“End-tidal CO₂ is good.” Jessie replies.
“Good. Secure it.” The nurse moves his hands quickly, taping it in place, the group watching Abbot’s chest rise thanks to the ventilator. It’s not enough though.
“Pressure’s still dropping!”
“Fuck.” Robby runs his hand through his hair. “Let the OR know that we have an attending physician GSW skipping the queue. I don’t care what they say.” Princess is swift to grab the phone that hangs on the wall. “He needs blood faster. I want a second line… no, make it a central.” The words come automatically, and although they may seem calm, nothing about this situation is calm.
It’s now that he allows himself to look down at his patient, at the man who discreetly kissed him on the cheek in the bathroom this morning, now bare chest and bloody with his wound being packed and pressure applied. Santos works at the central line, Langdon inspects the extent of the injury, everyone trying to ignore that this isn’t just another patient. They’re part of The Pitt family. “Garcia says they can take him in ten. She’s just finishing up on Mrs Timmins.” Princess says.
“Tell her that the bullet is still in with possible vascular involvement. Patient is not stable.” BP continues to fall, blood continues to flood, Jack continues to slip away. This is bad, very bad. “Push another unit of O-neg!”
Everything narrows. Noises blur into a single continuous hum, broken only by numbers, commands, responses. “Pulse is thready.” Whittaker points out.
“I know.” Robby doesn’t look up from his partner, chest aching so much it may be him on a gurney next. “He’s losing blood faster than we’re replacing it.” For a split second, his shaking fingertips brush against Jack’s shoulder, knowing that he would know exactly what to do in this situation. “We need to get him up to the OR now. We can’t save him down here.”
And suddenly, they’re on the move.
Wheels rattle over thresholds, IV poles clatter, blood bags sway like pendulums with every sharp turn. Robby walks with them at first, eyes locked onto his lover’s face as they move, wanting him to just open his hazel eyes as a way to say that everything is going to be alright. “Keep pressure on the wound.” He reminds Langdon who nods, escorting the familiar patient into the elevator along with Santos and Whittaker and the porters and OR nurses – something they wouldn’t normally do.
Robby doesn’t follow. It may be under the guise that he needs to stay in his ED as the Chief but it’s really because if he sees them open up the man who is his everything, he will crumble into a million pieces.
He stands motionless, hands empty now, faint traces of his blood drying against his skin. His chest feels tight, like he has forgotten how to take a full breath. It’s bad. The thought relentlessly presses against him, making him gulp down nothing, staring at the elevator doors like he can see what’s happening beyond them.
Dragging a hand down his face, a shaky exhale comes before he forces himself to straighten his shoulders. The department continues to run, and patients still need him, and yet he doesn’t move. Internally praying in a way that he hasn’t in years, that this would go their way.
The touch comes out of nowhere.
Robby flinches, inhaling sharply, before exhaling less so when he spies Dana over his right shoulder. Her hand stays steady against his back, firm but also somehow gentle, already guiding him away from the noise, away from the doors he can’t stop staring at. “Come on.” She beckons and he doesn’t argue.
The staff lounge is empty thanks to the busyness beyond it. Usually, this is a con of the job but for once they’re relieved for the privacy. Robby makes it three steps in before the reality hits him. Not at all dramatically but enough to make him double over, bracing himself against the table as his body starts to shake. His breaths come too fast, too shallow, but he tries to slow them in the way that he tells his own patients – but it doesn’t quite work.
He doesn’t cry, not properly anyway. But his eyes burn, vision blurring as everything he’s been holding back forces itself to the surface. “Robby, hey…” Dana steps closer, her voice softer now, one hand sliding down his arm in a steadying motion. “He’s going to be okay.”
“You don’t know that.” The words come out rough, strained, pulled from somewhere tight in his chest.
“No…” She admits, not pretending. “But I do know how much he means to you.”
There’s something in the way she says it. It makes him look up, blinking hard, clearly caught off guard as he catches her gaze. “You… I… How…”
“What? I see everything around here.” She shrugs, acting like it’s nothing, hoping that helps him somehow.
Despite everything, a faint flush creeps into his cheeks. He breathes out shakily, looking back down at the table, like that somehow makes it easier to say. “I… I… love him.” The words hang there, fragile and real.
“I know you do, hon. I know.” The hand on his arm starts stroking carefully. “How long have you and him been you and him?”
“Around six months.” He admits for the first time ever, his grip tightening slightly against the edge of the table. “It just sort of…”
“Happened?”
A small, helpless huff of breath leaves him. “Hm.” He shakes his head, jaw tightening, willing for the tears not to fall. “He was fine this morning. They had a good shift here, we caught up, he was heading home to sleep. I-I don’t know when he was called in to do the SWAT stuff.” He sniffles before continuing. “If he doesn’t make it-”
“Don’t talk like that.” Dana’s voice is firmer now, not harsh, but necessary. “He’s in the best place he could be. You know that.”
Robby nods, but it’s not full of conviction. It’s just something to hold onto while everything else threatens to slip.
xxx
The chair is as bad as everyone says it is. Hard plastic, slightly uneven, designed like it’s trying to discourage anyone from staying too long. Robby though hasn’t moved from it in over an hour. The room in the ICU is dim, quieter than the rest of the hospital but not silent. Machines murmur quietly, monitors pulse in steady, reassuring rhythms that he’s learned not to trust too quickly.
Jack lies in the bed, pale but alive.
Four hours in surgery. Four hours of Robby pacing, pretending to work, failing to focus on anything but the clock and the doors and every worst-case scenario his mind could conjure. But Abbot made it through – just about.
The surgeons – Garcia included – have been cautiously optimistic. The bleeding was controlled, the bullet removed, and they repaired what they could. No immediate catastrophic damage but there’s still so many ifs. Too much of “we will have to wait and see” and it’s that uncertainty that weighs heavy on his mind.
Jack lost a lot of blood. Enough to starve organs, to leave damage that doesn’t show itself right away, to the heart and the brain and the kidneys. Things that don’t forgive easily. Then there’s the potential state of his shoulder. Robby jaw tightens, breaths coming out as a shudder.
Anywhere would be a bad place to get shot but this is a very complex location. Too many structures packed into too small a space like arteries and nerves and muscle. The surgeons did what they could, but nerves don’t come with guarantees. Will he have full function? Will he be able to lift his arm? Hold instruments? Do his job?
Jack is already an amputee – collateral damage to being a solider in Afghanistan he once reasoned – and he has had to adapt. Stubbornly refused to let it define him but this? If he loses function in this arm too…
Robby’s thoughts spiral, fast and relentless. More complications, more limitations, more things taken from the man he loves. He shakes his head then, trying to focus on the positives that he’s still here and fighting and for now that should be enough. So he clears his throat and leans forward to take Jack’s hand in his, the warmth comforting amongst all the tubes and wires.
“Hey, you made it through.” He murmurs softly, voice rough from disuse. “And I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”
The oxygen mask fogs faintly with each breath. It’s uneven at times, not alarmingly so, but enough that the day shift attending notices. Of course he does. He tracks the rhythm without meaning to, eyes flicking between his partner’s chest and the monitor like it’s second nature.
Thankfully he’s not on a ventilator now. The call had been made to extubate early to avoid the added strain on his body which has already experienced so much trauma. Robby hadn’t argued, he almost even agreed, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t watching every breathe like it might be the one that changes everything.
He has no notion of how long he sits there. Time in the ICU doesn’t move properly, it’s like it stretches and stalls and sometimes even folds in on itself. The only real markers are the monitors, how they beep and how the numbers change periodically. He wants Jack to wake up so bad, to tell him that his anxiety is silly, but he also understands the body’s need to heal.
So for now, all he can do is hold his hand, stroke the back of it with his thumb, and wait.
That’s when the door clicks open. His stare immediately looks in that direction as Whittaker leans in slightly, not quite stepping fully into the room. “Can I…?”
Robby nods immediately, gently easing his hand away from his partner, wiping quickly at his eyes with the back of his wrist like it’s nothing. “Yeah. Course.” His voice is quieter than usual. “You’re here late.”
The young doctor gives a small shrug as he steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. “You know how it is.” His gaze then drifts to Abbot, taking him in a way that’s professional and personal all at once. “He’s not woken up yet?”
“No.” He sighs. “It was a long surgery. Would’ve taken it out of him, but hopefully soon.” Robby then weakly smiles in his junior’s direction. “It’s nice that you checked on him.”
Whittaker hesitates, hovering uncertainly near the closed door as he mulls this over. “I’m actually checking on you.” He confesses and the older man’s mask slips slightly out of place, only for a second. “Dana mentioned you were up here before she left. Y-You don’t need to tell me anything, but-”
“We’re together.” It comes out more direct than anything else Robby’s said all day. There’s no deflection or lack of surety, just truth. “Me and him.” Robby swallows, glancing briefly at Jack before looking back at Whittaker. “It was my decision to keep it under wraps. He didn’t care about people knowing. Doesn’t care.”
Whittaker takes that in, nodding slowly without an ounce of judgement. “Okay.” Is all he says, taking another awkward step closer to the couple. “For what it’s worth… he’s tough. If anyone’s getting through something like this-”
“Yeah.” Robby interrupts, releasing a wobbly breath. “I know.” He moves his hand back, resting it lightly against Jack’s again, this time without hesitation. “All I can think about is my training. The knowledge of what that amount of blood loss can do to a person.” His thumb shifts slightly against Jack’s hand, almost unconsciously, like he’s checking for something that isn’t measurable that way.
“Hypoperfusion, organ damage… delayed complications.” He continues, voice slipping back into that clinical rhythm without meaning to. “You don’t always see it straight away. And… and I keep running through it, through every scenario, every possible outcome.”
Whittaker remains stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he considers what he could say to make this all better. “That’s kind of the problem with knowing too much, isn’t it?”
His superior huffs with a minute nod of his head. “Can’t… Can’t switch it off.”
“You’re also only running the worst versions of it though.” This makes Robby glance up, just briefly. “You’ve seen the bad outcomes. So that’s where your brain goes. But you’ve also seen people come back from worse than this.”
“This is different.”
“Because it’s him.”
“Yeah.” There’s a pause then, one that feels heavy in the small room. “He lost a lot of blood and the shoulder with the nerves and f-function. He’s already dealing with-” He stops himself then, it not feeling fair to be truthful about Jack’s struggles on his behalf. “I’m a doctor and this is the man I love. I should be able to do something to fix this. How do I just sit here and not fix it?”
“You sit here anyway.” It may seem blunt, but a little brutal honesty is what Robby needs to hear right now. It’s how people can get through to him if they ever can get through to him. “Can I get you anything?”
Robby shakes his head almost immediately. “No.” His voice is tired, but steadier than before. “You go home. Get some rest. I will see you in the morning.”
Whittaker hesitates, but only for a second. “Alright.” He says somewhat reluctantly, wanting to do more. “You too, if you can.” They both know though he’s not leaving. Not until he sees those hazel eyes he adores again.
xxx
For a second, Robby doesn’t know where he is.
Everything is heavy from his neck shoulders to the dull ache running down his spine from the way he inadvertently folded himself awkwardly over the bed. His cheek is pressed into the blanket, the fabric scented by cheap detergent, and there’s a faint, repetitive sensation threading through his awareness thanks to fingers in his hair. Fingers in his hair. His body tenses instantly, heart kicking up as he drags himself upright too quickly, blinking hard as the room swirls back into focus.
And then he sees him, his Jack, awake, hazel eyes open but heavy-lidded, just staring at him. The oxygen mask still sits over his face, fogging faintly with each breath, but there’s awareness behind his gaze, recognition, and relief hits so hard it almost hurts. “Fuck.” Robby breathes, straightening then, rolling his shoulder blades to stretch them out. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
Seeing him sitting up in bed is almost surreal. He’s heavily propped up of course and is practically the same colour as the white sheets but he’s alive. Robby knows that the moment he pulled through surgery without a hitch that he could have worried a lot less about him dying, but he couldn’t, because he knows how quickly things can go downhill.
Jack’s hand manoeuvres weakly towards the oxygen mask, fingers fumbling slightly against the plastic. “Hey, easy.” His partner murmurs, already leaning forward to help guide the mask away, taking his time, keeping a close eye on his breathing as he lowers it just enough to give him a break.
“How-?” The word barely makes it out, dry and strained.
“Wait, hang on.” Robby reaches for the jug at the bedside, pouring a small amount of water into a cup. One hand steadies Jack’s good shoulder while the other brings the cup up to his chapped lips. “Slow.” He reminds him, watching how small the sips he takes are until there’s a nod that reads ‘I’ve had enough’.
“Thanks.” Jack mutters once he’s done, voice still hoarse but clearer. “How… How bad was it?”
“Bad.” The word hangs there and then everything the day shift attending has been holding back finally gives way. “I-I was so scared.” His voice cracks, tears spilling over before he can stop them. He looks down for a second, shaking his head like he’s frustrated with himself, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t hide.
“It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in hospital after emergency surgery.” Is the response and it’s meant to reassure, it always is. “I’ve been shot before. Blown up.”
Robby lets out an unsteady breath, looking back at him, eyes red, jaw tight. “Doesn’t make it okay though.”
“No.” He agrees quietly. “I suppose not.”
A silence falls over them then only broken by a slightly fragmented inhale from the man in the hospital bed making Robby spring back to action, the medic in him taking over as he readjusts the oxygen mask back into place properly this time. “Keep that on.” All Jack can do is nod.
That’s when Robby starts to explain everything his partner has been through, knowing full well it’s what he wants even if he doesn’t verbalise it. He takes his hand first, loosely, not wanting to put too much pressure on it when he’s healing, thumb brushing faintly over his skin like he needs the contact to keep going. “You came in with a GSW to your left shoulder. It missed your vest. Entry wound only, no exit…”
He talks about Abbot’s hypotension, how he lost a lot of blood, the transfusion, the surgery, how long it took to get him stable. He then focusses on the blood loss, reeling off the list of potential complications like he’s speaking to a normal patient – all complications that Jack is very much aware of.
Realising this, he shakes his head at himself and steers the one-side conversation in a different direction. “We had to intubate.” He continues. “I-I intubated you.” It felt wrong, doing that to someone he cares so much for. The memory has him unintentionally squeezing Jack’s hand tighter. The other man weakly grips it back, making Robby aware what he is doing so he relaxes his hold. “Garcia said the repair went well. No major structures completely destroyed. That’s… that’s a good sign.”
Silence settles again, quieter this time. Robby’s voice softens as he finishes, the clinical edge slipping just slightly. “You scared the hell out of me.” His thumb brushes over Jack’s hand again, slower now. “But you made it.” His brown eyes flick back up to meet his lover’s hazel ones when he takes another breath. “You should sleep. It’s the best thing for you right now.”
Jack’s response is slower and muffled behind the oxygen mask. “You should too.”
Robby huffs faintly, shaking his head. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” That’s when the night shift attending extends his right arm slightly across the bed, a wordless invitation. “Don’t even.” He chuckles once he clocks it. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
xxx
The sound is what wakes him this time. It’s not loud it’s… wrong. A strained, broken noise, dragged out of someone trying not to make one at all.
Robby jerks upright, disoriented for half a second, neck protesting sharply from the angle he’d fallen asleep in. His eyes snap to the bed, to Jack who’s awake again but this time the atmosphere in the room is different. The grey-haired man’s body is tense, rigid beneath the sheets, breaths coming sharp and uneven through the mask. A low, involuntary sound slips past it again, somewhere between a groan and something more desperate.
He’s in pain. Severe pain.
Robby is on his feet instantly. “Hey, hey I’ve got you.” Looking at the monitors to see that his heart rate is climbing, BP shifting. Something is wrong. “Brother look at me.” He urges, leaning into his line of sight but Jack’s expression is so screwed up in agony that he can’t see his partner. “I’ll get help.”
He moves fast now, pacing towards the door which he yanks open before calling down the corridor sharply. “I need pain relief in here, now!” He then walks back to Jack’s bedside, taking his hand, linking their fingers together. “I know, I know baby. I’ve got you. We are going to look after you.”
A nurse rushes in, eyes already scanning the monitors, the lines, the setup in the private ICU room. Robby doesn’t let go of Jack’s hand. “Pain is completely uncontrolled.” Is all he needs to say.
The nurse checks the morphine drip and then frowns. “This isn’t working.” She mutters after pressing a button to see that nothing happens. “Faulty. He hasn’t been getting…” She only doesn’t finish her sentence because of the fury that clouds Dr Robinavitch’s expression.
He’s been lying here in pain with nothing. For a split second, it’s all he can think about.
But Jack’s grip tightens weakly in his hand, another strained sound breaking through, and that anger gets shoved down hard, locked away for later. “Fix it.” He says in a clipped tone. “Now.”
“I’m giving a bolus first.”
“Good.”
Robby makes himself sit down, wanting to remove some of the anxious energy from the room but it’s still there, clear by how his free hand nervously threads through his thinning hair, mirroring what his lover had done earlier to wake him. “I know this is bad. Just hang on a second longer. Can you do that for me?” Jack’s breathing is jagged, body still tight with pain but there’s a faint nod there too.
The nurse finishes priming the new line. “Bolus going in now.”
“Hear that?” He asks his partner, lifting his hand up to kiss his knuckles, not caring about the rumours that will now spread through the hospital like wildfire. “You’ll start to feel better soon. I promise.” The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but right now Jack comes first.
After a little while, it does start to hit him. At first, nothing changes which is almost as painful to witness as it is to experience. The seconds stretch, each one too long, Robby tracking every breath, every flicker of tension in Jack’s body like it’s a warning sign. But then there are subtle signs of improvement.
Jack’s grip on his hand slackens, just slightly. His posture becomes less tense and his breathes not as strained. “There we go…” Robby murmurs, catching how the heart rate on the monitor does start to go down, less frantic. “Feeling better?” His partner nods lethargically, looking like he could fall back asleep in no time. “Good.”
The nurse lingers just long enough to confirm the drip is running properly now, then steps out, leaving them in the dim quiet again. Robby’s grip changes slightly, gentler now, thumb still stroking slow, repetitive patterns against Jack’s skin. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. I should have spotted it wasn’t working properly.” His gaze flicks briefly to the pump, which is working now, before returning to Jack.
Who’s removing his oxygen mask again. He eases it away from his face, letting it rest to just beneath his chin. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Blame… Blame yourself.” It hurts to breathe, hurts to do anything, but he can’t be listening to his man beat himself up for something that definitely isn’t his fault. “What time is it?”
Robby fidgets in the uncomfortable chair, peering down at his watch, considering how time now has no meaning. “Almost four.”
“Hm. What happens next?”
“You’ll get a full work-up in the morning.” Robby explains as if Jack has no prior knowledge of anything medical. “Bloods, imaging, neuro checks. We- They will be looking for any lingering issues from the blood loss or the injury.”
Jack hum, shifting on the bed but that just brings a sharp string to his shoulder that has him hissing. “What if there’s something wrong with my heart?” He asks, trying to disguise the discomfort and failing.
“Your vitals are good.” Robby says, peering over at the monitor again. “Heart rate is settled. No immediate signs of compromise.”
“My kidneys?”
“Then we treat it.” He replies without hesitation. “Fluids, support, whatever you need. We catch it early.”
“My brain?” A small pause and then, with the faintest edge of his dry humour. “Okay, my brain seems fine.” Robby almost smiles at this, but not quite, this all feeling far too raw to make light of yet. “What I’m trying to ask you, is…” His voice softens, more serious now. “Is this too much for you?”
This hits Robby harder than anything else. He stills and for a moment he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops briefly to where their hands are still limply connected. Is this too much for you? It’s a get out of a jail free card, an opportunity to move on, protect himself and his own mental and emotional health before anything else.
But this is Jack. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As the words sink in, Robby watches the shift in Jack’s expression as real vulnerability pushes through to the surface. The kind of vulnerability he doesn’t display to anyone else. “What if there’s nerve damage?” The question is heavier than the others and asked much more quietly. “What if I can’t do this job anymore?” The idea of this being the case is too much to even contemplate.
Because Robby knows exactly what this job means to him. What it’s always meant. The purpose and the identity it provides in a world of chaos that has treated Jack Abbot so poorly. He doesn’t answer straight away. Not because he doesn’t have something to say, but because it has to be the right thing. In recent times, this man has been his rock, his anchor, his grip to reality – it’s time for him to return the favour.
“We will work something out.” It comes out surprisingly steady. “I promise.” Jack’s gaze searches his, like he’s trying to measure how much of it is truth and how much is comfort. Robby doesn’t look away. “You’ve rebuilt before, becoming one of the finest attendings this country has seen. And I don’t just mean your looks.”
This earns a chuckle, faint and yet real, appreciative, grateful for a fleeting reprieve. “And we don’t even know what’s going to happen yet. It’s barely been over twelve hours since you were brought in.” He continues. “But if things are different… then we adapt. Together. You’re not doing this on your own remember.”
When Jack was invalided home from Afghanistan with one less limb than he went out there with, he had his wife to help him through it. He was barely back on his feet again and working at The Pitt when she got sick. He shouldered everything alone from when things started to get really bad until he felt himself being able to open up to Robby more. He still finds it difficult, usually his pride gets in the way, but it’s something that they push through together.
This is potentially the biggest thing they’ve had to face together, not just as a romantic couple but also friends too. “You may have to be on top for a while.” He says to lighten the mood, the corner of his mouth curling upwards into a sly smile.
For a second, Robby just stares at him. Then despite the exhaustion and the fear still sitting heavy in his chest, a quiet laugh slips out. “Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?” He asks, eyebrows lifting, an amalgamation of amusement and disbelief breaking through properly for the first time.
“Always. You know me.” The other man smirks.
“You horndog.” He’s also grinning now with a cheekiness that only his partner has been able to bring out of him recently. “Although, that intubation tube isn’t the only thing I’ve squeezed down your throat.”
“Don’t make me laugh.” Jack mutters, breath hitching slightly as he winces. “Hurts.”
This is sobering enough. “Yeah alright, maybe let’s not test that.” He says, reaching forward to place the oxygen mask back over his lover’s nose and mouth. “Rest now. Things are going to be alright.”
xxx
A week later, the world is no longer wrongly tilted on its axis. The chaos of that crazy twenty-four hours has faded into something more manageable. It lingers in the little thing like the way Robby still checks his phone more often than necessary and the way Jack moves a little more carefully than he used to, even when he tries to hide it.
He only lasted three days in hospital. By day two he was already restless, by day three borderline impossible. He pushed and negotiated and ultimately wore down the team enough to get discharged with strict instructions. The ICU were probably secretly glad to see the back of him for being a “difficult customer”.
The most important news is that he got lucky. There’s no major organ damage, no cardiac complications, his kidney function is holding steady and he’s neurologically intact. Even his shoulder, the biggest question mark, has showed no immediate signs of lasting nerve damage. There’s still recovery ahead, still physio, still a whole lot of caution, but all signs point towards a full recovery – plus he vowed not to get involved in SWAT again.
Robby insisted Jack stay with him while he recovered. That hadn’t been a fight, Jack agreed almost immediately, quite looking forward to the prospect of being doted on by the man he loves.
The only argument came later about Robby taking time off work. Jack pushed back on that one, stubborn as ever, insisting he didn’t need babysitting, that Robby had a department to run. There was a lot of back and forth which ultimately ended with no time off, but more checking in and planning and looking after.
Most days, Jack ends up on the couch. Under a blanket, with the remote in hand, flicking through old movies and reruns of cop shows with a level of critique that borders on professional offense. It keeps him occupied, even if he dozes through half of them.
Robby makes sure everything else is handled. Lunch is prepped before he leaves already plated in the fridge, snacks kept within easy reach. Water, medication, everything laid out so his partner doesn’t have to push himself more than necessary. Dinner is different. That’s when Robby returns from shift usually with takeouts, something warm to fill their bellies.
Jack’s appetite isn’t great, the painkillers dull it, makes food feel more like a task than anything else. Still he tries to eat, even if it’s just a few bites and takes longer than it should. He would do anything to speed up recovery.
Today though, Robby decides to cook beef chilli – one of Jack’s favourites.
He manages to leave The Pitt on time for once, after the kind of rare, almost suspiciously calm shift where the ED never quite tipped into chaos. It doesn’t mean he isn’t exhausted. The fatigue has been building for days now from adrenaline crashes, broken sleep, the constant edge of worry he hasn’t quite shaken.
Still, he stops at the shop to get what he needs because it feels important. For some normalcy if nothing else.
Robby closes his front door with less grace than usual, juggling a grocery bag and his bike helmet, keys nearly slipping from his fingers. He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he steps inside, the quiet of the ground floor apartment settling around him. His eyes flick instinctively to the living room, but he finds the couch empty. The blanket Jack’s been practically living under is pooled at one end, abandoned.
He frowns, setting the groceries down, quickly stashing what needs refrigerating before heading down the short hallway towards the bedroom. “Jack?” He calls, pushing the door open. It creaks faintly.
The blackout curtains are drawn (a necessity for shift work), keeping the room dim despite the bright streetlights outside, but the bedside lamp casts an amber glow across the bed where Jack lies. On his good side. Face half-buried in the pillow. “Where’s my welcome home kiss?” Robby jokes lightly, stepping closer, something easy and familiar in his tone-
But then he sees him properly.
Everything in him drops. Jack’s skin is damp, a sheen of sweat across his forehead, his body trembles under the covers, subtle but unmistakable. His face is tight with discomfort, breathing uneven. “Jack!” The humour vanishes instantly. He’s at his side in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the bed, one hand already reaching out, brushing against his arm. “Are you okay?
Jack tries to respond but it’s like he’s physically unable to. “I…” His eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. “I…” Robby’s heart rate spikes, all the fatigue gone in an instant, replaced by sharp, clinical focus that’s he’s grown used to – but this is different.
“Jesus Jack, you’re burning up.” His hand is already at his forehead, then his neck, confirming it, confirming the heat radiating off him. His stomach churns. “Shit.” He mutters, sliding an arm carefully around Jack’s shoulders and easing him onto his back. It’s a little awkward because of how he has to be mindful about his injured side, but he manages it, adjusting the pillows quickly to support him. “How long have you been like this?”
Jack tries to answer, lips parting, but nothing coherent comes out, it’s garbled nonsense like something is affecting his neuro pathways. “It’s okay. Don’t force it.” But it isn’t really okay, not when something is clearly wrong. Robby’s mind is already moving ahead, connecting pieces too fast. The fever and sweating and altered responsiveness all lead him to one conclusion. Infection.
His hands move to the buttons of Jack’s pyjama top, fingers fumbling once before he forces them steady. The groaning figure is usually more of a t-shirt guy in bad, but with the limited mobility to his shoulder this is the best solution they found that didn’t leave him topless every night. The climate is too cool for that right now. “I need to check your shoulder, alright?”
He works the fabric open carefully, peeling it back from the injured side, trying not to jostle him more than necessary. The dressing comes into view – but the wound has wept through it. “Jesus…” He takes a breath before peeling it away from the skin.
The smell hits first, metallic and sour, but then he inspects the injury site and- “Fuck.” The wound is angry. All red and swollen with the skin around it inflamed and tight. There’s discharge at the edges, not clean, not what it should be. The sutures look strained against the swelling, the area hot to the touch. “You’ve got an infection, baby.”
Robby’s jaw clenches hard, frustration and guilt hitting in equal measure. How did this happen? He has been checking it, cleaning it, keeping an eye out for signs. He knows about this stuff, trained for it, and yet the man he loves is in a bad way and suffering.
“I should have…” He stops himself, shaking his head to refocus on what’s important. Jack. Jack is what or rather who is important. “We got to get you to The Pitt. D-Don’t worry, you’re going to be alright.” This is more hope than a guarantee. “I will be right back.”
Standing abruptly with his heart racing, Robby paces out of the bedroom, grabbing Jack’s truck keys from the coffee table where they’ve been sitting since he brought him home in it. His bike helmet gets shoved aside without thought as he heads straight for the door.
The night air hits him abruptly as he runs outside, unlocking the truck with a click that feels too loud in the quiet street. He yanks the passenger door open, leaving it wide before rushing back inside. “Jack, hey I’m here.” He says as he re-enters the bedroom, breathing slightly uneven now from the urgency.
He moves to the bed again, sliding one arm behind Jack’s back, the other under his legs, trying to be careful but his partner lets out a pained groan making him wince. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry baby, I don’t mean to hurt you.” He adjusts his grip immediately, trying to minimise the strain, holding him as securely and gently as he can. “We’re going to make you better.” Jack’s head lolls slightly against him, still conscious, but barely.
The drive feels endless. It isn’t, Robby knows that, he’s driven this route a hundred times on his bike, could probably do it blindfolded. But tonight every red light feels personal, every second stretched thin with urgency.
Jack is slumped in the passenger seat, barely conscious, head tilted awkwardly, breaths shallow and uneven. The fever hasn’t broken. If anything, it’s worse with his skin still flushed and damp with sweat. “Can you hear me, Jack?” He doesn’t respond, but thankfully the hospital comes into view.
Robby doesn’t even think about parking properly, he swings straight into the ambulance bay outside The Pitt’s emergency department, brakes hard, engine barely off before he’s out of the truck and darting to the other side to pull open the passenger door. “I’ve got you.” He says, sliding his arms around his partner again, hearing him whimper as his head falls against his shoulder.
That’s something, at least he isn’t completely unresponsive.
Through the sliding doors, straight into the controlled familiar chaos of the ED, Robby calls out. “Hey! I need help here!” Heads turns and it’s Ellis who’s the first to reach him, eyes widening at the image in front of her.
“Robby! What’s wrong with him?” She asks, already moving in, panic flickering under her professionalism.
“Bad infection. I-I don’t know how.”
They don’t waste time. A gurney is pulled in fast, staff converging, hands reaching to take over but carefully, guided by Robby’s grip. Together they transfer the night shift attending onto the bed. He barely reacts, too far gone, a faint sound catching in his throat. “Trauma 2. Now!” Ellis orders and everything happens so quickly.
Robby follows the gurney into Trauma 2, wanting to take hold of his lover’s hand but knowing it’s not practical. “I should have called ahead. Wasn’t thinking.” He murmurs, relieved that the night shift seems to be in the position to be able to react quickly despite this.
People move rapidly, gloves snapping on, monitors connecting, voices layering over each other in almost rehearsed urgency. “BP is dropping slightly.” Someone calls.
“Temp is really high.” Someone else chimes.
“What's happening?” Shen steps into the room, already assessing the scene in front of him. He takes in Jack on the bed, the flushed skin, the dressing half-removed, the tension in the room.
“Abbot has a bad infection.” Ellis answers quickly, not breaking stride as she continues her work.
“I found him after shift.” Robby explains, throat tight but somehow the words manage to push through in a rush. “Burning up and barely… barely responsive.” If only he hadn’t gone to the shop on his way home, maybe those twenty minutes he was waylaid will make the difference.
Shen nods once, seemingly processing this. “We need to drain the wound of any pus, irrigate it thoroughly.” He instructs, moving closer with his gloved hands reaching for the exposed shoulder. “Let’s get surgery down here to consult in case this needs escalation-”
“He needs IV antibiotics.” The day shift attending cuts in, stepping nearer without realising it. “And something to bring down his temperature. He could be septic or heading that way-”
“I know, Robby.” Shen’s voice isn’t sharp nor confrontational, just steady, to the point. “Let me take the lead here.” He’s right. He’s the lead of the night shift while Abbot recovers, and Robby is way too close to any of this.
“Okay.”
Robby doesn’t speak again – he can’t. He stands just off to the side of the bed, close enough to see everything, far enough not to be in the way. His hands hang uselessly at his sides, fingers flexing now and then like they’re searching for something to do. The room moves without him.
The smell of antiseptic cuts through the air as the dressing is fully removed, exposing the wound in harsh, clinical light. It looks worse here than it did at home. It looks angrier, deeper, the surrounding tissue swollen and flushed.
Someone starts fluids, another draws bloods, all while a nurse calls out numbers that tell the room that Abbot’s temperature is high, his heart rate is elevated, pressure dipping but holding.
Shen works at the shoulder, the first incision to reopen part of the wound is small but calculated. Almost immediately, there’s a release of pressure as infected fluid drains. Suction follows and then irrigation, the process happening over and over in a way that’s almost hypnotic. Or maybe Robby is swaying on his feet because the stress is making him dizzy.
Time drags and he tracks everything without meaning to. The way Jack’s chest rises and falls with some difficulty, the slight tremor in his fingers, the numbers on the monitor that gradually start to mend. “Signs of improvement.” Shen comments, still irrigating the wound but there’s less urgency now and splatter.
Jack’s face changes next. It’s subtle but the tension does begin to ease. His eyebrows are not as scrunched together, his jaw not set as tightly, appearance looking more natural and not coiled in pain.
And then there’s the movement behind his eyelids. A flicker so faint that most wouldn’t catch it but Robby notices immediately.
Jack’s fingers twitch weakly against the sheets, like his body is remembering itself piece by piece. The monitor reflects it, rhythm stabilising, numbers settling into something closer to normal. A hum escapes him then, not from discomfort but from awareness that he’s being pulled back to consciousness.
Shen finishes the irrigation, stepping back just slightly, giving space as the immediate crisis begins to ease. The treatment isn’t done, there will be the need for the surgery consult and stitches, but the room no longer feels like it’s running on pure adrenaline.
When he opens his eyes, blinking heavily as he tries to get the ceiling into focus, Robby exhales from relief. This is positive progress, to have him conscious and somewhat responsive after having quite the scare. There’s still a lot to do, a lot that can happen, but perhaps it’s enough for now that he’s simply still here.
Ellis glances down at Jack as she adjusts a fresh dressing while they wait for surgery to come down, not wanting to leave the wound completely exposed for too long while he’s vulnerable. A hint of a teasing smirks breaks through her clinical focus. “Trust the doctor to get an infection.” She says lightly, an attempt to cut through the tension still hanging in the air.
It does help. “Shut up.” Jack mutters, voice gravelly and strained. “Is Robby-”
He doesn’t even finish the question before Robby is stepping forward into view. “I’m right here, baby.”
The word slips out naturally without being filtered. There’s a spark of awareness around the room, evident by how Ellis glances up briefly and Shen pauses for half a second, but it passes just as quickly without judgement. There’s no reaction, no feedback, just quiet understanding. The rumours are true… and that’s okay.
Jack attempts a smile, but it’s all lopsided and wrong. Robby takes comfort though in how he attempts to reach out to him, hand shaking slightly until he takes hold of it firmly, showing his partner that he’s very much present. “You’re going to be okay.” Behind him, the team continues tidying, documenting, transitioning fully out of crisis mode, working out what’s next.
Some of them filter out of the room, to go meet a different trauma patient heading in the ED. They’re hardly alone – Robby and Jack – but when the day shift attending only has eyes for the closest thing he has to family lying in the bed, it’s as if they are. He swallows down nothing, trying to appease the anxious fluttering in his chest but it doesn’t go away. “I’m sorry.”
The words come out low, rough around the edges, as if they’ve been sitting there since the moment he saw the wound back at his apartment. Abbot’s brow dips, obviously confused by the apology, not helped by the fogginess to his head. “Why are you sorry?”
“This shouldn’t have happened. I-” He sucks in a breath, his grip tightening just slightly around Jack’s hand. There’s frustration in his tone, guilt, as he keeps replaying in his head every dressing change, every check, every moment he might have missed something. “I should have seen this coming. Stopped it from happening.”
Jack watches him for a second, really watches him. Then, despite the discomfort he is in, he forces his expression to soften. “Sweetheart… I’m a doctor too.” He says sweetly, voice still hoarse but a little clearer compared to before. “We know infections can just happen. Even when we do everything right.”
He’s right, of course he’s right. When is he not? “I should have caught it earlier.” But that doesn’t stop Robby’s self-critical reply, even as his posture loosens.
Jack’s thumb moves weakly against his hand, the smallest attempt at reassurance. “You caught it when it matters.” He makes it sound so simple. “And I’m still here because of it.” The following few breaths come easier, helps by him asking, “Now… is it too soon to ask for a pudding cup?”
xxx
The emergency department is back to its usual unyielding rhythm. Monitors beeping all the time, not quite syncing up, phones ringing, and so many voices. A trauma rolls towards the elevator to take them up to the OR, a frustrated relative argues at the desk, and somewhere behind a curtain a patient is shouting about how long they’ve been waiting.
Robby has become an expert at blocking the unnecessary noise out. He moves through it all like he always does, with focus and leading from the front. “Dr Santos, assist Dr King in South 17. It’s a good learning case.” He instructs, placing one of the ED tablets back on its charging dock. “Dana can you chase Mr Hibberts bloodwork please? It feels like we’ve been waiting all day and his condition is deteriorating.”
“You got it Cap.” The charge nurse replies, going to grab the phone when she pauses, her face lighting up in the direction of the sliding doors. “You’ve got a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Robby swivels on his heels and immediately senses a flutter in his stomach.
Standing just inside the department like he belongs there (because he does), a paper bag in one hand, his left arm secured in a tight sling across his chest is Dr Jack Abbot. He looks better with colour back in his face and he’s much steadier on his feet, but he still has a way to go before he can get back here properly.
It’s good to see him in the space though, for a reason that isn’t life or death. But that’s when the attending frowns – because why is he here? “I thought your physio wasn’t until Thursday.” He states, attention immediately on his loved one.
Jack raises an eyebrow slightly, that familiar teasing edge already back in place. “Hello to you too.” He holds out the paper bag. “You forgot your lunch.”
“You didn’t have to come all this way.” But that doesn’t mean he isn’t touched by the thoughtfulness. “How did you get here?” He directs this question into the paper bag which he has unfolded the top of with a rustle to peek inside.
“I drove.” Robby’s head snaps up, alarm immediate and unmistakable. Jack grins. “Kidding. Uber exists, baby.” This makes him take a breath, reminding himself that he doesn’t have to be in fight or flight all the time. “I was also desperate to get outside."
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“And you’re supposed to be eating.” Jack counters, nodding towards the bag in his hands.
“I will.” He smiles. “Later.” But the night shift attending’s focus is already elsewhere, taking in the sight of the ED, the busyness, the way the show has gone on without him. Something almost wistful flickers across his face, making Robby put down the bag and lean across the desk to get closer to him. “Do you miss it?”
“Of course. This is what I’m supposed to do.” He then turns back to face his partner, also leaning across the desk, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip before he admits with a cheekiness. “I also miss sex.”
Robby stares at him for half a second before a surprised laugh escapes him. “Oh.” Jack’s mouth twitches with satisfaction at getting the reaction. “We can go back to that once you’re a bit sturdier. We both know you can’t hold back in the sack.”
“You rapping now?” He teases. “Can’t hold back in the sack.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.” It sounds daring and it’s like the ED fades away around them, now unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
At some point, they won’t be able to do this anymore. They will retire and have to find hobbies that are less fast paced, but they hope to still have each other. “Maybe I can treat you to a little something later though.”
“Only if you let me reciprocate.” Their fingers brush on the counter, barely there, but enough for a jolt of something electric to pass through them. Their heartrates pick up, pupils blow wider, body parts twitch where they’re contained. It’s wrong to think this way here. “I am going to pay a physiotherapist to come to the house.” That may be why Jack chooses to change the subject. “That way I can have more regular sessions and be back here sooner.”
“Good idea.” Robby agrees without hesitation. “I will happily chip in.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He shrugs, acting like it’s nothing – a nonchalance his partner always finds sexy. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
Jack sighs, glancing down at the tight support sling around his shoulder, keeping his arm strapped to his chest. “Depends if I can bring myself to come back for desk duty or not.”
Robby snorts softly. “Oh, we both know you wouldn’t be able to hold back from being involved.”
“True.” There’s no argument there. “In which case… maybe six weeks for light clinical duties. A couple months before normal service resumes. Assuming physio goes well.”
The man is already going stir crazy at home. He’s someone who’s used to action, it has given him purpose during the dark times, people to share the good times with, an opportunity to feel useful. At the apartment, his snarkiness is aimed at the television, his wit bottled up all day until it explodes when he’s no longer alone, his energy fuels his pacing and his knee bouncing up down when he sits on the couch. “You’re going to need a hobby.”
Jack looks at him then, expression shifting into something softer without a trace of teasing. Just raw honesty. “Maybe I like playing house husband.”
Robby’s eyebrows rise immediately. “Husband, eh?”
Jack holds his gaze without flinching. “You heard me.” Leaving his partner completely speechless – but he smiles, he really smiles, he may even grin.