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The staff room smelled like burnt coffee, dry erase markers, and the particular brand of exhaustion that soaked into hospital walls and never quite came out again.
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch stood at the end of the table with a clipboard tucked against his chest while the night team filtered in around him. Chairs scraped. Someone cursed softly at the coffee machine. And Jack Abbott, his husband, was late.
Not late-late. Not enough for concern from anyone else. Abbott operated on a timezone known only to himself and whatever god looked after emergency physicians and raccoons. But Robby noticed it anyway.
He noticed because Jack was usually already there, leaning back in his chair with coffee in hand and boots kicked halfway under the table. Usually had some smartass comment waiting. Usually stole half of Robby’s handover before he even started. If they hadn’t already started handover on the roof or some quiet corridor as they sometimes do following particularly difficult or traumatic shifts.
The door opened. Jack came in quietly. That was the first thing. No grin. No “Morning, children”. No shoulder bump into Shen on the way past.
Just quiet. He dropped into the chair beside Robby and scrubbed a hand down his face. Robby glanced sideways automatically and felt something cold settle low in his stomach. Jack looked awful. Grey around the mouth. Eyes bloodshot. Hair damp at the temples like he’d walked through rain, except it hadn’t rained all day. He was wearing the wrong hoodie too, an old washed-black one Robby recognised from the bottom drawer at home. Emergency hoodie. Bad days only. Jack stifled a cough into the arm of said hoodie.
“You look like shit,” Robby murmured under the shuffle of papers.
Jack snorted softly without looking at him. “Love you too, brother.” Voice rough.
Robby narrowed his eyes. “You too sick to be here?”
“Nah.” Instant answer.
Jack reached for the coffee sitting beside Ellis and took a sip before she could stop him.
“Abbott,” she said. “That’s mine.”
“You’ll survive.”
The room relaxed around the familiar cadence. Ellis rolled her eyes, getting up to get a new cup of something hot and caffeinated. Shen laughed. Lena glanced at Jack with a sharp eye, silently telling him to behave.
Jack swayed slightly when he leaned back. Barely perceptible. Robby saw it anyway. He kept watching through handover. He was half distracted as he gave a report on the MVA in Trauma One, the status epilepticus in Central Four and the ortho case in South Three.
Jack wasn’t himself. Not inattentive. That would have been easier. Jack was listening too hard, almost painfully focused, like he was really having to pay extra attention. Twice he rubbed a fist against his sternum absently. Multiple times he coughed into his elbow and immediately disguised it as clearing his throat.
By the end of handover, Robby had mentally reached three possible conclusions:
Jack had picked up a virus.
Jack had not slept in approximately seventeen years.
Jack was hiding something.
Potentially all three. The shift itself started in the usual way.
Two overdoses. One stabbing. A psych hold that turned into a screaming match in triage. Mateo got blood on his shoe and complained about it for forty straight minutes. And through all of it Jack kept moving. That was the problem.
If Jack had slowed down, someone would have stopped him. Instead he became sharper. Faster. Running entirely on spite and caffeine fumes. Sliding between trauma bays with that loose-limbed battlefield medic efficiency that made younger doctors stare at him like he’d been assembled incorrectly.
But Robby noticed things as he was finishing up his charting. And the more he noticed the slower he charted.
Jack bracing himself against counters when nobody was looking. Jack forgetting to drink the coffee he kept making or being given by some poor scared looking medical student. Jack standing too still for a moment outside Trauma Two, eyes closed briefly before walking back in.
When Jack headed to the locker room, muttering about adjusting his leg, Robby followed him.
Robby shut the door behind him. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Enough.”
Jack looked up from where he was sitting on the bench in front of his locker. “What’s up, brother?”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m fine.” Playing off a cough again.
“You’re sweating through your shirt.”
Jack glanced down like this was interesting new information.
“ED’s hot.”
That earned a tiny smile at least. But it vanished fast. Robby stepped closer and pressed the back of his hand against Jack’s neck. Hot. Jesus Christ. “Jack.”
“I took Tylenol.”
“That is not the reassuring statement you think it is.”
Jack leaned tiredly back against the bench. “We’re even more short staffed than normal. I’m not leaving.”
“You have a fever.”
“So?”
“So normal people don’t come to work febrile.”
“We work in emergency medicine, Michael. None of us are normal people.” The use of his first name was strategic. Softening. Distracting. Usually effective.
Not tonight. Robby crossed his arms. “How high?”
Jack looked away.
Robby’s stomach sank further. “Jack.”
“…Hundred and one earlier.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s probably lower now.” Jack answers with a shrug.
“You don’t know that.”
Before he could press further, Lena’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Abbot! Trauma inbound! ETA 2 mins!”
Jack straightened instantly. “I’m good,” he said, already moving toward the door.
Robby caught his wrist. Jack paused.
“You pass out on shift,” Robby said low and serious, “and I swear to God I will be so mad.”
That finally pulled a real grin from him. Crooked. Tired. “Promises, promises.”
“Text me, call me, anything if you feel worse.” Robby insisted, squeezing Jack’s wrist.
“Of course, brother.” Then he slipped free and disappeared back into the bright roaring machinery of the ED. Robby had to admit defeat, leaving his partner here at work, having to trust Jack will ask for help if he gets worse.
—
The apartment was quiet when Robby got home. Not empty exactly. Jack existed everywhere in it.
His boots by the door. Hoodie over the sofa arm. One of his medical journals abandoned face-down on the kitchen counter beside a mug that read WORLD’S OKAYEST TRAUMA DOC.
Robby smiled tiredly despite himself. The fridge held dinner in stacked containers with sticky notes attached in Jack’s awful handwriting.
EAT THIS ONE FIRST
or don’t
i’m not your dad
Another container simply read: vegetable. singular.
Robby laughed quietly under his breath.
He heated the food while leaning against the counter in sock feet, exhaustion sinking heavy into his bones now the hospital noise was gone. The apartment hummed softly around him. Fridge motor. Pipes. Distant city traffic outside. Too quiet without Jack in it.
He checked his phone while the microwave turned slowly. No messages. Robby frowned faintly. Usually by now Jack would’ve sent something stupid. Robby tried to
Robby leaned against the kitchen counter eating mechanically while staring at his phone screen.
Then finally he sent: You alive?
Delivered. No reply.
The unease in his chest tightened another notch. He tried to reason with himself. Jack was working. Jack was probably busy. Jack was terrible at answering messages at the best of times.
But another part of Robby’s brain, the older animal part sharpened by years in emergency medicine, kept replaying the image of Jack swaying slightly during handover.
Robby scrubbed a hand over his face and headed for the shower.
Maybe he should’ve pushed harder.
Maybe he should’ve dragged Jack home himself. Maybe maybe maybe. The thoughts followed him all the way to bed. He lay on his side staring at the empty half of the mattress. Jack’s pillow still smelled faintly like antiseptic soap and cedar aftershave. Robby picked up his phone one last time. He sent: Seriously. Text me when you get a minute.
Still nothing.
Eventually exhaustion dragged him under anyway.
—
The ringtone shattered the dark like broken glass.
Robby woke instantly.
Years of emergency medicine meant his body went from asleep to alert in less than a heartbeat.
The room was pitch black except for the glow of the phone on the bedside table.
Unknown hospital extension.
Every nerve in his body went cold.
He snatched the phone up immediately.
“Robby.”
“Dr Robinavitch?” Lena. Not panicked. Which somehow made it worse.
Robby was already sitting upright. “What happened?”
A pause. Background noise flooded the line. Overhead pages. Movement. Somebody calling for labs. ED sounds. Then Lena again, carefully controlled. “It’s Jack.”
His stomach dropped so hard it physically hurt. “What happened?”
“He collapsed.”
The world narrowed instantly. Robby was already out of bed, yanking on sweatpants one-handed. “What? Where?”
“In the east corridor outside Trauma Three. Mateo found him down.”
For one horrible second Robby couldn’t breathe. Found him down.
“When?” he demanded sharply.
“About thirty minutes ago.”
“Is he conscious?” Another pause. Too long. “Lena.”
“He was barely responsive initially,” she admitted quietly. “High fever. Confused. We think he tried to keep working after…”
Robby was already grabbing his keys. After collapsing, probably.
“How bad?”
“They’re moving him into Resus Two now.”
Not an exam room. Not a bed. Resus. Cold adrenaline flooded straight through him.
“I’m coming in.”
“We know, see you soon, drive safely.” The line clicked dead.
Robby stood frozen for one half-second in the middle of the dark apartment. Then motion slammed back into him all at once. Shoes. Hoodie. Keys. His hands were shaking. Jack had collapsed alone in a hospital corridor while trying to work through a fever. And Robby hadn’t been there.
—
The drive back to the hospital blurred into streaks of red lights and wet pavement. Robby barely remembered it afterward. He remembered running one red light. Remembered white-knuckling the steering wheel hard enough his palms hurt. Remembered the sick repetitive rhythm in his head the entire way there:
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
The ED ambulance bay was chaotic when he arrived. Not catastrophic chaos. Not Pittfest-level disaster. Ordinary emergency department chaos.
The world hadn’t stopped.
People were still coming in bleeding and screaming and overdosing and dying while Jack lay somewhere inside the department as a patient instead of a doctor. Robby felt sick.
He shoved through the ambulance entrance doors still half-zipping his hoodie. Immediately somebody spotted him.
“Robby.” Mateo called. Standing near the desk looking pale.
Robby didn’t stop moving. “Where is he?”
“Resus Two.”
Already knew that. Still hurt hearing it out loud.
The department seemed to part around him as he moved through it fast enough people flattened instinctively against walls. A trauma nurse nearly collided with him before realising who it was.
“Sorry, Dr Robby.”
He barely heard her. Everything tunneled. Monitors beeping. The sharp chemical smell of antiseptic. Then Lena appeared beside him suddenly, matching his pace.
“He’s conscious now,” she said quickly before he could ask. “Confused, febrile, oxygen sats dipped briefly when they brought him in but recovered. We’ve got fluids running.”
“What happened?”
Lena rubbed tiredly at her forehead.
“Mateo found him collapsed outside Trauma Three. Looks like he tried to get himself to the staff bathroom and didn’t make it.”
Robby felt physically ill. Because yes. Of course Jack would try to hide it first. “Did he hit his head?”
“Maybe. There’s bruising near his temple.”
They reached Resus Two. Robby stopped dead just outside the curtain. For one split second he couldn’t make himself go in. Because the last time he’d seen Jack he’d been upright. Stubborn. Smirking through a fever and stealing coffee and pretending he was invincible.
And now—
“Michael?”
Robby shoved the curtain aside immediately. The sight hit him like a punch. Jack was propped partially upright on the bed in a hospital gown, oxygen cannula looped around his ears, IV fluids running wide open into his arm. He looked wrecked.
Skin flushed bright with fever. Hair damp with sweat and sticking wildly in every direction. His cough was worse now, a deep bark that seemed to make his whole body jerk. His eyes unfocused for a second before landing properly on Robby. Relief flickered across his face so nakedly it hurt.
“There you are,” Jack mumbled.
Robby crossed the room immediately. “You collapsed.”
Jack blinked at him slowly like he was processing each word individually. “Maybe a little.”
“A little?”
“Ish.”
Lena made a strangled noise behind them that sounded suspiciously like suppressing hysterical laughter. Robby ignored her completely. He pressed a hand against Jack’s forehead automatically and nearly swore aloud. Still burning hot.
“Jesus, Jack.”
Jack leaned instinctively into the touch before realising himself and pulling back slightly. “Sorry,” he muttered automatically.
The apology hit Robby harder than anything else had so far. Like he’d done something wrong. Like collapsing alone in a corridor after working through a high fever was somehow an inconvenience.
Robby sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “What did they say?”
“Think I’m dying.” Jack smirked.
“You are so dramatic.” Robby signed, reassured at least that Jack was being sassy.
Jack gave a tiny exhausted smile. “You married me.”
“I was briefly insane.”
“Still are.” His words slurred slightly at the edges.
Robby’s chest tightened. “How high was the fever?”
Lena answered quietly from behind him. “104.2 when we found him.”
Robby stared at her. That was dangerously high. No wonder he’d collapsed.
“How long?”
Lena crossed her arms. “Considering he argued with me about sending him home yesterday? Probably longer than he’ll admit.”
Jack shifted weakly on the bed. “Snitch.”
“You passed out in my corridor, Abbott.”
“Technically Mateo’s corridor.”
Mateo, standing just outside the curtain, looked deeply offended. “You scared the absolute shit outta me, man.”
Jack blinked toward him vaguely. “Sorry, kid.”
Robby looked at the IV fluids, the oxygen, the cardiac monitor quietly ticking beside the bed. Then at his husband trying desperately to make everyone else comfortable while barely conscious himself. Something angry and frightened twisted together painfully in his chest.
“You should’ve called me.”
Jack’s eyes flicked back to his. For the first time the humour slipped completely. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”
The room went very quiet. Lena looked away instantly, suddenly fascinated by literally anything else in the department.
That was the worst thing Jack could’ve said. Not because it was unreasonable. Because he meant it. Feverish and collapsing and probably septic and still thinking first about not inconveniencing Robby’s sleep schedule. Robby reached out and took his hand carefully. Jack’s fingers curled around his immediately..
“You absolute idiot,” Robby said softly.
Jack’s eyes drifted shut halfway. “Yeah,” he whispered tiredly. “Probably.”
—
The tests started stacking up fast after that. Blood cultures. Repeat vitals. Lactate. Viral panel. Chest x-ray ordered portable. Jack complained through all of it.
Weakly, admittedly, but consistently.
“This feels excessive,” he muttered as Lena helped adjust the blood pressure cuff again.
“You collapsed,” Lena replied flatly.
“Allegedly.”
Mateo looked torn between concern and visible annoyance. “You were unconscious for like thirty seconds!”
Jack considered that. “Power nap.”
Robby sat beside the bed listening to the monitor tick steadily beside them and felt the adrenaline slowly curdle into something uglier. Fear settled badly in him. Because now that the immediate panic had passed, he could actually look at Jack.
And Jack looked sick. Not just feverish. Ill. His breathing was slightly too shallow. Every few breaths ended in the faintest wince he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. His cheeks were flushed bright beneath the harsh resus lighting but the rest of him looked pale and drawn tight with exhaustion.
Robby watched him cough again, rough and deep this time. Something clicked unpleasantly into place in his head. “How long have you had the cough?”
Jack blinked at him slowly. “What cough?”
“Jack.”
“Seasonal cough.”
“It’s May.”
“Pollen.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“Tragically.”
Lena snorted under her breath while typing at the computer. Robby leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
“When did it start?” Jack looked away. Which was answer enough.
“Jesus Christ,” Robby muttered. “You’ve been sick for days.”
“Couple days.”
“You had a hundred-and-four fever!”
“Temporary problem.” Jack shifted slightly on the bed and immediately grimaced before smoothing it away too slowly.
Robby caught it instantly. “Where does it hurt?”
“Nowhere.”
“Jack.”
A beat.
“Chest a little.”
Lena looked up immediately. “Pleuritic?”
Jack sighed dramatically at the ceiling. “You people are exhausting.”
“Answer the question.”
“Little bit.”
Robby exchanged a glance with Lena. A portable x-ray machine rattled into the room moments later, driven by a sleepy-looking radiographer carrying the expression of somebody profoundly betrayed by the concept of night shifts.
Jack squinted at him.
“Hey Steve.”
The radiographer blinked. “How are you conscious right now, dude? You look like crap”
Robby stepped back while they positioned the plate behind Jack’s shoulders. That was when he noticed it properly: the shaking. Jack’s hands trembled when he lifted his arms. Rigors.
“Deep breath for me,” the radiographer instructed. Jack inhaled sharply. Then coughed hard enough the entire attempt dissolved into a rough wheezing fit. The sound tore straight through Robby’s chest. Jack curled slightly forward with it instinctively, one hand pressed tight against his ribs.
“Okay,” Lena said immediately, moving closer. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” Jack rasped and looked up blearily after the coughing eased, catching Robby staring.
“What?”
“You are very literally attached to oxygen.” Robby wrung his hands. Feels the anxious need to do something. Give him a stethoscope, a cannula, an intubation set, anything at this point to keep his hands busy.
The radiographer escaped quickly after finishing the film, muttering something about “stubborn ER attendings” under his breath. The room quieted again. Lena left to go keep the rest of the ER running, leaving Robby brushing Jack’s sweat damp curls out of his eyes. The waiting for the X-ray results felt too long, although Robby has a feeling he knows what the report will say.
—
Jack had nodded off, sleepy from the fever. Ellis pushed aside the curtain gently, speaking softly when she saw Jack’s eyes closed. “X-ray’s already read.”
Robby stood automatically. “What is it?”
Ellis listened for a moment, face tightening.
Then she sighed softly through her nose. “Right lower lobe consolidation.”
Jack groaned immediately from the bed, not even opening his eyes. “Boring.”
“You have pneumonia,” Robby said flatly.
“Classic. Vintage illness.”
Ellis continued listening. Then her eyes flicked toward Robby. Not good.
“What?”
“Lactate’s elevated, 3.2,” she said quietly. “Pressure’s still soft despite fluids.” Robby felt cold spread through him all over again.
Sepsis. Not suspected anymore. Real. His husband had tried to work an entire shift septic.
Lena hung up the phone. “We’re starting broad-spectrum antibiotics now.”
Jack opened one eye. “Can I at least get cool sepsis?”
“No.”
Jack scoffed in response.
Ellis pointed at him. “If you die after annoying me this much, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Threatening patients feels unethical.”
“You stopped being staff when you hit the floor, Abbott.”
Jack looked mildly offended by that. Robby didn’t speak for a long moment, the reality was finally landing properly now.
Pneumonia.
And underneath all of that, threaded through every thought like wire:
What if Mateo hadn’t found him?
The thought hollowed him out instantly. Jack must’ve seen something on his face because his expression softened faintly.
“Michael.”
Robby looked at him. Fever-bright blue eyes met his steadily despite the exhaustion dragging at them. “I’m okay.”
It was such a stupid thing to say from a resus bed with sepsis and oxygen tubing hanging off his face that Robby almost snapped at him.
Instead he reached out and gripped Jack’s wrist carefully. “You don’t get to scare me like this.”
Jack’s mouth twitched faintly. “Counterpoint,” he whispered hoarsely, “apparently I do.”
Ellis barked out a startled laugh while Robby stared at his husband in exhausted disbelief.
Even septic, Jack Abbott still had zero survival instincts.