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Robby had learned, over time, that hospitals had their own kind of rhythm.
Not the obvious ones—the steady beeping of monitors, the distant roll of gurneys, the clipped urgency of voices calling out vitals—but something quieter underneath. A pattern in people. The way good days moved lightly, almost invisibly, and bad days dragged, thick and heavy, clinging to everything.
Today felt heavy.
He noticed it before he even saw Jack.
It was in the way the morning handover dragged longer than usual, in the way one of the nurses snapped at an intern over something minor, in the way the air itself seemed just slightly too still. Robby leaned against the counter, half-listening, half-scanning the room out of habit.
That’s when he spotted him.
Jack stood a little apart from the others, posture straight but stiff in a way that wasn’t quite normal. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like focus—like he was just paying attention, locked in. But Robby had known him long enough to know the difference between concentration and tension.
This was definitely tension.
Jack’s jaw was tight, the muscle feathering slightly. His arms were folded, not casually, but like he was holding himself together. And there was something else—something in the way he shifted his weight, just barely, like standing still was costing him more than it should.
Robby frowned.
He didn’t say anything right away. Jack hated being fussed over, and if Robby had learned anything, it was that pushing too early just made him shut down faster. So, he stayed quiet, let the handover finish, let the team scatter into the controlled chaos of the day.
But he kept watching.
By mid-evening, it was obvious something was off.
Jack was still working—efficient, sharp, doing everything right—but there were cracks if you knew where to look. He took longer between patients, pausing just a second too long at the end of each bed. He leaned more heavily on the counter when writing notes. Once, Robby saw his hand twitch faintly at his side, like he was resisting the urge to reach down.
That’s when it clicked.
The leg.
Robby exhaled slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck.
Chronic pain.
It didn’t happen often—or at least, Jack didn’t let it show often. But Robby had seen it once before, months ago. A shift that started normal and unravelled gradually, Jack growing quieter, tighter, like something invisible was gnawing at him from the inside.
He remembered how stubborn Jack had been then, too. Refusing to step back, insisting he was fine long past the point where “fine” meant anything.
Robby watched as Jack moved toward the next patient bay, his gait just slightly uneven. Not enough for most people to notice. But enough for Robby.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
He gave it another ten minutes.
Ten minutes of watching Jack push through, of noticing the way he braced his hand against a bedrail when he thought no one was looking, the way his breathing hitched once—just once—as he turned too quickly.
That was enough.
Robby grabbed a chart he didn’t really need and headed after him.
Jack was at the far end of the ward, talking to a patient, voice steady and professional. If Robby hadn’t been paying attention, he might’ve missed the slight strain underneath it.
He waited until the conversation wrapped up, until the patient settled back, reassured. Jack turned away, and for a brief second, his expression dropped.
Pain.
Sharp, unguarded, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Robby stepped in before he could rebuild the mask.
“Hey.”
Jack blinked, startled for half a second before his face smoothed out. “Hey. You need something?”
Robby leaned casually against the nearby counter, like this was nothing. “Yeah. You.”
Jack huffed faintly. “I’m flattered, but I’m a bit busy.”
“Yeah,” Robby said, watching him closely. “I can see that.”
There was a pause. Jack glanced down at his notes, flipping a page that didn’t need flipping.
“I’m fine,” he said, a little too quickly.
Robby didn’t argue. Not yet.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly. “Cool. Then you won’t mind if I steal you for a minute.”
Jack’s jaw tightened again. “Robby—”
“Just a minute,” Robby cut in, softer now. “Come on.”
For a second, it looked like Jack might refuse. The stubbornness was right there, clear as day. But then something flickered across his face—fatigue, maybe, or the simple realization that Robby wasn’t going to drop it.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Robby pushed off the counter and gestured toward a quieter corridor off to the side. Jack followed, each step controlled but just slightly off rhythm.
They stopped in a bay, out of the main flow of traffic. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Up close, it was worse.
Jack looked pale, a sheen of sweat at his temple despite the cool air. His shoulders were drawn tight, like every muscle was bracing against something.
Robby crossed his arms, studying him.
“Pain?” he asked, gently.
Jack’s eyes flicked up, surprised. Then he looked away.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
Robby let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Right. Because you always look like you’re about to punch a wall when it’s nothing.”
Jack almost smiled at that, but it didn’t quite land. “I’ve had worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
Silence stretched between them.
Jack shifted his weight again—and this time, he didn’t quite hide the wince.
That did it.
“Okay, no,” Robby said, more firmly. “You don’t get to just tough this out like it’s a headache. How bad is it?”
Jack hesitated.
Robby softened his tone. “Jack.”
A long pause.
“…Six,” Jack admitted finally. “Maybe seven.”
Robby swore quietly under his breath. “And you’re still on shift why?”
Jack shrugged, but it was tight, defensive. “We’re short. It’s manageable.”
“You’re not managing,” Robby said. “You’re compensating.”
Jack’s expression sharpened slightly. “I’m doing my job.”
“And I’m telling you it’s costing you more than it should.”
That hit a nerve. Robby saw it in the way Jack’s shoulders squared, in the flicker of frustration in his eyes.
“I don’t need—”
“I know,” Robby cut in, holding up a hand. “You don’t need help. You don’t need special treatment. You don’t need me hovering.”
Jack pressed his lips together.
“But,” Robby continued, quieter now, “you’re in pain. And pretending you’re not isn’t helping anyone. Least of all you.”
Jack looked away again, jaw working.
For a moment, Robby thought he might push back harder, might shut him out completely. That was always the risk.
Instead, Jack exhaled slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of him.
“It’s just… one of those days,” he said. “It’ll pass.”
“Yeah,” Robby said. “It will. Doesn’t mean you have to grind yourself into the floor while you wait for it.”
Jack let out a weak huff of a laugh. “You’re very motivational, you know that?”
“I try.”
Another pause.
Then, more quietly, Jack said, “It feels like it’s still there.”
Robby didn’t interrupt.
“Like my legs—” Jack gestured vaguely, frustrated. “Like it’s twisted wrong. Or cramping. And there’s nothing to fix because it’s not actually—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.
Robby nodded slowly. “Yeah. I remember you saying that.”
Jack rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not even real pain,” Jack muttered. “It’s just my brain misfiring.”
Robby’s voice stayed steady. “If it hurts, it’s real.”
Jack didn’t respond to that.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the ward.
Then Robby pushed off the wall.
“Come on,” he said.
Jack frowned. “Where?”
“Break room. Five minutes.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can,” Robby said. “And you are.”
Jack hesitated again, instinctively resisting.
Robby met his gaze. “Five minutes won’t kill the ward. But pushing through a seven out of ten might kill you.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Robby said. “I’m a dramatic guy. Let’s go.”
Jack stared at him for another second.
Then, finally, he sighed.
“Five minutes,” he said.
“Five minutes,” Robby agreed.
They walked together this time, slower. Robby matched Jack’s pace without making it obvious. The break room was mercifully empty.
Robby pushed the door open with his shoulder and held it for Jack, watching the way he stepped inside—careful, controlled, like each movement had to be negotiated first. The second the door clicked shut behind them, something in Jack gave.
Not completely. Not dramatically.
But enough.
He exhaled, long and quiet, and made his way to one of the chairs. When he sat down, it wasn’t the usual casual drop—there was a slow lowering, deliberate, like he was bracing all the way through it. His shoulders stayed tense even after, like his body hadn’t quite realized it was allowed to stop.
Robby didn’t rush him.
He moved around the small space with quiet familiarity, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. The hum of it filled the silence for a second before he shut it again and crossed back over.
“Here,” he said, placing it into Jack’s hand rather than just handing it over—grounding, intentional.
Jack’s fingers were colder than they should’ve been.
“Thanks,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap. He took a few slow sips, like even that needed pacing.
Robby leaned back against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching—but not staring. Giving him space while still being present.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Jack’s eyes slipped shut, his head tipping back slightly. The lines in his face didn’t disappear, but they shifted—less guarded, more tired. His free hand rested against his thigh, fingers flexing faintly, like he couldn’t quite stop himself from reacting to something no one else could see.
Robby let the silence sit for a beat longer before speaking.
“Where is it?” he asked quietly.
Jack didn’t open his eyes. “Lower thigh” he said after a second. “Mostly. Feels like—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Feels like it’s knotted up. Tight, like the muscle’s locked wrong. And then it shifts—burning, aching… it keeps changing.”
Robby nodded, even though Jack wasn’t looking. “Same as last time?”
“Worse,” Jack admitted.
That landed heavier than Robby expected.
He pushed off the counter and stepped closer, crouching slightly so he wasn’t looming over him. “You taken anything?”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Earlier. Didn’t do much.”
“Of course it didn’t,” Robby muttered under his breath.
Jack cracked one eye open at that. “Helpful.”
“I try.”
That earned the faintest hint of a smile—but it faded quickly, replaced by a sharp inhale as something spiked again.
Robby saw it immediately. The way Jack’s fingers curled tighter around the bottle, the way his shoulders locked.
“Hey,” Robby said, softer now. “Stay with me a second.”
Jack let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying to ride it out. “I’m here.”
“Yeah, I know. Just—don’t disappear into it.”
Jack didn’t respond to that, but his breathing started to even out again, just slightly.
Robby glanced down at the prosthetic, then back up. He hesitated—not because he didn’t know what to do, but because he knew Jack hated feeling like a problem to be solved.
“Can I try something?” he asked.
Jack opened his eyes fully this time, searching his face for a second before giving a small nod. “Yeah.”
Robby shifted closer, lowering himself a bit more so he was level with him. Carefully, deliberately, he rested his hand along the side of Jack’s leg—right where the prosthetic met the socket.
He didn’t press at first. Just let his hand settle there, warm and steady.
Jack’s reaction was immediate.
A sharp inhale—almost a flinch—but then his shoulders dropped a fraction.
“…Wait,” Jack said quietly.
Robby stilled. “Too much?”
“No,” Jack said quickly. “No, just—” He swallowed. “Press a bit.”
Robby adjusted, adding gentle pressure, firm but not forceful.
Jack’s head tipped back again, eyes closing as he exhaled. “Yeah. That’s—yeah, that helps.”
Robby kept it consistent, not moving around too much, not overthinking it. Just steady contact.
“Tell me if it changes,” he said.
Jack nodded faintly.
Another stretch of quiet followed, but this one felt different. Less tense. More grounded.
Robby watched the small details—the way Jack’s breathing gradually slowed, the way the tight line between his brows softened just slightly. His grip on the water bottle loosened, fingers no longer clenched quite so hard.
“Still feel twisted?” Robby asked after a minute.
“…Less,” Jack murmured. “It’s weird. It’s like it’s still there, but not as loud.”
“Good,” Robby said. “We’ll take ‘less loud.’”
Jack huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You always this optimistic?”
“Only on special occasions.”
Jack shifted slightly, testing it. There was still a flicker of discomfort—Robby saw it—but it didn’t spike the same way.
“God,” Jack muttered. “I hate this.”
Robby didn’t argue with that. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I know.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Jack went on, voice low, frustration threading through it now. “There’s nothing there. There shouldn’t be anything to hurt.”
“But there is,” Robby said.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “It feels like my body’s just—betraying me.”
Robby’s hand didn’t move. “Your body’s confused,” he said. “Not betraying you.”
“Feels the same.”
“Not quite,” Robby replied gently. “Confused can be worked with.”
Jack didn’t answer, but he didn’t push back either.
After a moment, his hand shifted—hesitant at first—until his fingers brushed lightly against Robby’s wrist, like he was anchoring himself there.
Robby pretended not to notice the hesitation. Just let it happen.
“You should’ve told me earlier,” he said, quieter now.
Jack let out a breath. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“You being in pain is a thing.”
“Yeah, well,” Jack muttered, “I didn’t want it to be everyone else’s thing.”
Robby tilted his head slightly. “It doesn’t have to be everyone else’s. But it can be mine.”
That made Jack go still for a second.
Then, softer: “…Yeah.”
Robby gave a small nod, like that settled it.
They stayed like that for a few more minutes. No rush to get back. No pressure to pretend it was fixed.
Eventually, Robby asked, “Number now?”
Jack took a second to check in with himself. “…Five,” he said. “Maybe a bit under.”
“Better than seven.”
“Yeah.”
Robby eased the pressure slightly, not pulling away completely. “Think you can manage a bit more, or do we need to swap you out completely?”
Jack opened his eyes, meeting his gaze. There was still stubbornness there—but softer now, less defensive.
“I can manage,” he said. “With adjustments.”
“Good,” Robby said. “Because you’re getting adjustments whether you like it or not.”
Jack rolled his eyes faintly. “Of course I am.”
Robby finally pulled his hand back, giving his shoulder a light squeeze as he stood. “Give it another minute before you get up.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
“No,” Robby said, “you’re just terrible at pacing yourself.”
Jack huffed—but he stayed seated.
After a moment, he looked up at Robby again, something quieter in his expression now. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“…Thanks.”
Robby shrugged, easy. “Yeah. I know.”
Jack shook his head slightly, like he wanted to argue that—but didn’t have the energy.
Instead, he just leaned back in the chair, breathing a little easier than before.
And for now, that was enough.
By the time they went back out, Jack’s pain had eased from sharp to manageable. Not gone—but enough that he wasn’t bracing every second.
They adjusted the workload without making it obvious. Robby took the heavier cases, the longer walks, the physical strain. Jack handled what he could, stubborn as ever, but with just a little less pressure on him.
And Robby kept watching.
Not hovering. Just… there.
By the end of the shift, Jack was exhausted.
Not the usual kind—the familiar, bone-deep tired that came with long hours and too many patients—but something heavier. Like the pain had drained him from the inside out.
Robby found him in the locker room, sitting on the bench, staring down at the floor.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely.
“You survived,” he said finally.
Jack huffed quietly. “Barely.”
Robby pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “Where’s it at now?”
“Four,” Jack said. “Maybe.”
“Still too high.”
Jack shrugged. “Better than earlier.”
Robby watched him for a second, then reached out, brushing his hand through Jack’s hair. Small, subtle.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
That got a faint smile. “Bossy.”
“Married you. Comes with the job.”
Jack snorted softly, the sound was tired but real.
They changed in comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Years of shared space had carved that ease between them—knowing when to talk, when not to, when just being there was enough.
The drive home was quiet too. Not tense—just calm. The kind of quiet that settles after a long day.
Jack leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. Robby kept one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, close enough that their fingers brushed occasionally.
Each time, Jack didn’t pull away.
Home was a relief.
The moment the door closed behind them, something in Jack visibly loosened. The rigid edge he held at work softened, like he could finally let go of the constant need to keep it together.
Robby didn’t make a big deal out of it.
“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the sofa. “I’ll grab dinner.”
“I can—”
“Sit.”
Jack rolled his eyes faintly but didn’t argue. He lowered himself onto the couch with a quiet exhale, leaning back, and slowly removing his prosthetic carefully. The relief that came was small but very much favourable.
Robby moved through the kitchen, keeping things simple—leftovers, reheated, nothing fancy. He kept half an ear tuned to the living room, listening for any shift, any sign Jack needed something.
When he came back, Jack hadn’t moved much. One arm was draped over his middle, the other resting against his thigh, fingers tapping faintly in an unconscious rhythm.
Pain was still there.
Robby set the plates down and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.
“Eat,” he said.
Jack gave him a look. “You’re very commanding today.”
“Yeah,” Robby said. “And you’re very bad at taking care of yourself today.”
That earned a quiet huff—but Jack picked up the fork.
They ate slowly. No rush. No pressure.
Afterward, Jack leaned back again, eyes closing briefly.
Robby watched him for a moment, then shifted closer.
“Come here,” he murmured.
Jack didn’t argue this time.
He leaned into Robby, letting himself be pulled in, resting his head against his shoulder. Robby wrapped an arm around him, hand settling naturally at his side.
“Still hurting?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “Not as bad. Just… constant.”
Robby nodded. “Okay.”
He adjusted slightly, sliding his other hand lower, applying that same steady pressure Jack had responded to earlier.
Jack’s breath hitched faintly—then eased.
“Better?” Robby asked.
“…Yeah,” Jack said softly.
They stayed like that for a while.
The room was quiet, dim, the outside world muted beyond the walls. Robby kept his hand steady, consistent, a grounding point.
Gradually, he felt the tension leave Jack’s body in small increments—the way his shoulders dropped, the way his breathing slowed, the way he leaned more fully into the contact.
“You don’t have to push through it alone,” Robby said after a while.
Jack was quiet for a long moment.
“I know,” he said eventually. “I just… hate it.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Jack muttered. “There’s nothing there, but it still—”
“Hurts,” Robby finished gently.
Jack nodded against him.
Robby pressed a light kiss to his hair. “Doesn’t make it any less real.”
Silence again—but softer this time.
“Thanks,” Jack said after a while, voice quiet.
Robby huffed faintly. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
Robby tilted his head slightly, resting it against Jack’s. “You’d do the same.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I would.”
“Exactly.”
Jack’s hand shifted, finding Robby’s, fingers lacing together. The grip was loose, but grounding.
They stayed like that as the evening settled around them—no urgency, no expectations. Just shared space, shared quiet, shared understanding.
After a while, Robby felt Jack start to drift—not asleep yet, but heavy with exhaustion. The kind that settled deep in the bones after too many days spent hurting.
“You should get some actual sleep,” Robby murmured.
Jack made a soft noise of protest without opening his eyes. “M’comfortable.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. Your back’s gonna hate you tomorrow.”
“That sounds like tomorrow’s problem.”
“It becomes my problem when you complain about it all day.”
Jack’s mouth twitched faintly at that, but he still didn’t move.
Carefully, Robby shifted upright. “Come on.”
Jack sighed quietly and finally opened his eyes. They still looked tired around the edges, pain lingering there beneath the surface, but softer now. Less sharp. Less alone.
Robby stood first, then moved close beside the couch.
“Need help?” he asked gently.
Jack hesitated for a second before nodding once.
Without his prosthetic on, getting up took more effort. Jack braced a hand against the couch cushion while Robby steadied him with both hands at his waist, patient and careful as Jack pushed himself upright on one leg.
“Easy,” Robby murmured the moment Jack wobbled slightly.
“I got it,” Jack muttered automatically, though he leaned into Robby anyway.
“I know you do.”
Once Jack was steady, Robby kept an arm securely around his waist, letting Jack use him for balance as they moved slowly down the hallway together. Jack’s movements were practiced but tired, every hop and shift clearly taking more out of him than he wanted to admit.
By the time they reached the bedroom, he looked exhausted.
Robby switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in soft golden light while Jack sat carefully on the edge of the bed with a quiet exhale.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Robby crouched in front of him, resting a hand lightly against his knee.
“Need anything?” he asked softly.
Jack looked down at him, something vulnerable flickering briefly across his face.
“Just stay?”
Robby’s expression softened immediately. “Yeah. Always.”
Jack swallowed once, tension easing from his shoulders.
Robby helped him shift fully onto the bed, adjusting the blankets over him once he settled back against the pillows. Jack looked completely drained now, eyes already slipping half-shut.
Robby started to move around the bed to turn off the lamp, but Jack’s hand emerged from beneath the blankets, reaching toward him instinctively.
Robby caught it without hesitation.
His chest tightened warmly as he laced their fingers together and climbed into bed beside him.
The mattress dipped gently beneath his weight. He settled close, one arm wrapping carefully around Jack’s waist. Jack immediately curled toward him, pressing his forehead against Robby’s shoulder with a tired breath.
“There you are,” Robby murmured softly.
Jack hummed in response, already drifting.
The pain was still there—Robby could feel it lingering in the tightness Jack hadn’t fully let go of—but it no longer seemed sharp enough to cut through the quiet comfort surrounding them.
Robby brushed slow fingers through his hair until Jack’s breathing finally evened out completely.
A few minutes later, Robby’s eyes closed too.
Wrapped around each other in the dim quiet of the room, they fell asleep together.