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Robby started vomiting just after dawn.
At first it was violent and sudden — the kind that bends you forward, ribs pressing painfully against organs that already feel too full. By mid-morning it became quieter, crueler: dry heaves that left him shaking and breathless on the bathroom floor.
Jack hovered uselessly in the doorway, coffee cooling in his hand.
“You’ve thrown up four times in the last hour,” Jack said carefully, like he was cataloging data instead of naming fear.
Robby wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and leaned his forehead against the porcelain. His skin was clammy, pale beneath the flush of exertion.
“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely. “Probably a bug.”
“You can’t keep water down.”
“I will,” Robby insisted, though the words were weak. “Just give me a minute.”
Jack knelt beside him, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, grounding himself in touch. Robby’s muscles felt rigid, knotted tight with pain.
“Does it hurt anywhere specific?” Jack asked.
Robby hesitated. “Not really, just sore from everything.”
Jack nodded, but the answer lodged uncomfortably in his chest.
By the time Jack had to leave for his shift, Robby was curled on the bathroom floor with a blanket around his shoulders, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
“I’ll be okay,” Robby murmured when Jack knelt to kiss his hair. “You don’t have to worry.”
Jack lingered anyway, pressing his lips to Robby’s temple longer than usual.
“Text me,” he said. “If anything changes.”
Robby nodded, already drifting.
Jack left with the uneasy feeling that he was doing something wrong.
The apartment was too still when Jack came home.
Not the peaceful quiet of sleep — the hollow quiet of something gone unanswered.
“Rob?” Jack called, keys already forgotten in his hand.
No reply.
The bathroom light was on, door slightly ajar.
Jack’s heart started pounding before he even saw him.
Robby was collapsed on the tile, twisted awkwardly onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest. His hoodie was soaked through with sweat. A glass lay shattered nearby, water seeping slowly into grout lines. A thin string of bile trailed from the corner of his mouth.
Jack dropped to his knees.
Fuck, had he aspirated?
“Hey,” he said urgently, shaking Robby’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up, Mikey.”
Robby stirred weakly, eyes fluttering open.
“Jack?” he slurred. “You’re… home early.”
Jack pressed his forehead to Robby’s.
Burning.
He fumbled for the thermometer, hands suddenly clumsy.
103.4°F.
“Jesus,” Jack breathed.
Robby whimpered faintly as Jack tried to help him sit.
“Don’t,” Robby murmured. “Hurts.”
“Where?” Jack asked, already knowing the answer he was afraid of.
Robby frowned, confused, but just shook his head miserably.
Jack’s physician brain snapped into ruthless clarity.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “We’re going in.”
Robby tried to shake his head, but gagged instead, retching weakly into nothing. Jack supported him through it, holding him upright as Robby’s body shuddered and gave up nothing.
“It’s okay,” Jack murmured. “I’ve got you.”
The Pitt ED had a sound Jack usually loved: organized chaos. Monitors beeping in counterpoint, the low murmur of nurses trading vitals like currency, the clatter of a stretcher passing too fast, the sharp call of “CT’s ready” cutting clean through noise.
Tonight, it sounded like a threat.
Robby was on the gurney, curled slightly toward his right side, knees drawn up like his body had decided the only way to protect his abdomen was to fold around it. His skin looked wrong—too flushed in patches, too pale around the mouth. His lips were dry and cracked, and his eyes couldn’t stay focused on any one point for long. Robby drifted in and out, delirious with fever and dehydration, mumbling half-sentences.
Jack kept his voice steady anyway.
“Hey,” he said, leaning in close. “You’re at the Pitt. We’re in the ED.”
Robby blinked slowly. “I know,” he whispered. Then, after a beat: “Why am I here?”
Jack’s chest tightened.
“Because you’ve been vomiting all day,” Jack said gently. “And you’ve got a fever. And you passed out at home and didn’t text me.”
Robby frowned as if this was an insult. “I didn’t pass out.”
“You were on the bathroom floor,” Jack corrected quietly. “You were out of it.”
Robby tried to lift his head. The movement triggered a wave of nausea—Jack saw it in the way Robby’s throat worked, the sudden sheen of sweat across his temples.
Robby swallowed hard. “I feel… really bad.”
“I know,” Jack said, thumb brushing Robby’s knuckles. “I’m right here.”
Langdon met them in the bay moments later.
“Hey boss, how we doing?” He asked, voice soft. He was already studying Robby intently, frowning.
Robby’s eyes fluttered open a fraction. “Frank,” he murmured, like he was searching for a memory file. “You’re on days.”
“It is the day shift, Robby. Sounds like you had a pretty rough night.”
Dana, who’d delegated her typically duties to Princess, carefully wrapped the blood pressure cuff, applied leads, slid a pulse ox onto Robby’s finger.
“BP 94/56,” she announced softly. “Heart rate 128. Temp?”
“103.4 at home,” Jack said. “He’s been vomiting since this morning. Can’t keep water down.”
“Up to 104.1.” Jesse added.
Dana nodded, already spiking a bag. Fluids went in immediately. Antiemetics. Acetaminophen. Blood drawn.
Robby licked his lips. “I’m fine,” he muttered automatically.
Jack’s eyes stung with something sharp and tender. “Stop saying that.”
Robby blinked at him, confused. “I always say that.”
“I know,” Jack said. “Not tonight.”
Langdon gently pulled Robby’s gown up, inspecting his abdomen. “Any pain anywhere?
Robby hesitated, as if his brain couldn’t map sensation to language. Then his hand drifted down and to the right, settling over his lower abdomen.
There.
Jack’s gut clenched. He recognized that movement like a signature. He exchanged a brief look with Langdon, both acutely aware of what that meant. When Langdon pressed into the right lower quadrant, Robby made a small sound—half gasp, half groan—and his whole body tightened like a wire pulled too hard. As soon as the pressure eased, Robby all but screamed as the pain intensified.
Jack’s hand tightened around Robby’s.
“Rebound tenderness and guarding in the right lower quadrant over McBurney’s point.” Langdon announced, he was already entering the orders into the system. “I want labs—CBC, CMP, lactate, lipase, blood cultures. UA. Let’s get him some pain relief here – 2 milligrams morphine IV push.”
Robby’s eyes snapped open. “No narcotics,” he said immediately. “I need to be able to—”
“Robby,” Jack cut in softly, “you don’t need to be able to do anything except survive.”
Robby stared at him, anger and fear flickering together. “Don’t talk to me like I’m—”
“Like you’re my husband?” Jack asked quietly. “Because you are.”
Robby exhaled shakily, forehead damp. “You love playing that card.”
Jack snorted softly and kissed Robby’s temple. “It’s effective, you gotta admit.”
“Morphine going in.” Dana announced.
Robby’s eyes flashed. “I said no—”
Jack leaned in. “You’re allowed to need help.”
Robby swallowed hard, eyes shiny. “I hate this.”
“I know,” Jack whispered. “But you got nowhere to be but here.”
The fluids seemed to help for a moment—his color improved a fraction, his breathing eased—but the pain remained, pulsing, deep and relentless. Robby was sweating through his hairline now, lips pressed tight, breathing shallow.
He looked like any other patient in pain and Jack hated that.
A new wave of agony hit Robby hard enough that he gagged again, retching into a basin Dana magically procured, body shaking.
Jack stood close, one hand braced at the back of Robby’s neck, the other gripping the bedrail because he needed somewhere to put the helplessness.
“It’s okay,” Jack murmured, voice low. “Let it out.”
Robby’s voice was hoarse afterward. “I can’t— I can’t stop.”
Dana wiped his mouth gently. “We’re getting you fixed up, hun. Hang in there.”
Robby blinked at her, confused again. “Fixed?”
Her gaze softened. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”
The lab results returned fast, as they always did when you didn’t want them to.
Langdon read them off the screen, voice tightening.
“White count 18.9. Neutrophilic shift. Lactate 2.6. Creatinine up. Mildly elevated—dehydration. Let’s get a CT abdomen/pelvis with contrast. In the meantime, I want a portable ultrasound brought in. I don’t wanna get caught waiting on radiology if he’s about to perf.”
Robby turned his head slightly. “CT… for what?”
Jack touched his cheek gently. “To see what’s hurting you.”
Robby frowned like the concept offended him. “I know what’s hurting me.”
“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “We just need to name it.”
They wheeled him to CT.
Robby’s pain spiked with every bump. He clenched his teeth, trying to keep quiet—trying not to be the patient who made noise.
Jack saw it and hated it.
“Breathe,” Jack murmured. “You don’t have to be stoic.”
Robby’s eyes slid toward him, unfocused, but aceepting.
When the images came back, Langdon’s frown deepened.
“Appendicitis,” he confirmed. “Severe inflammation. Possible early perforation.”
Jack exhaled slowly, relief and fear colliding. Relief because it was real, visible. Fear because it could kill him anyway.
“Shit…”
Frank nodded. “I’ll page gen-surg.”
Robby’s eyes widened slightly. “Surgery?”
Jack took his hand. “Yeah.”
Robby’s voice went small. “I don’t—”
“You have one very angry appendix, boss.” Langdon explained with a soft smile, squeezing his mentor’s shoulder gently. “We’ve gotta get it out now because it’s making you very sick. Dr. Pike is gonna do the surgery.” It felt so strange talking to Robby this way. The man who commanded the Pitt, steered the ship through chaos, now laid low by something as mundane as an appendix.
Robby swallowed hard, and for the first time that night, he didn’t fight.
He just nodded once—barely.
Robby came back in pieces.
First sensation was pain—dull and heavy, like a weight pressing from the inside out. Not sharp, not unbearable, just there, constant and impossible to ignore. It pulsed faintly with his heartbeat, deep in his abdomen.
Then came dryness. His mouth felt like paper. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he tried to swallow.
He frowned.
Light seeped in next, pale and unfocused. Shapes without edges. A ceiling that refused to stay still.
Robby tried to take a deeper breath and winced.
“Oh,” he rasped.
The sound startled him. It didn’t sound like his voice—too thin, too rough.
Something moved beside him.
“Hey,” Jack said softly.
Robby’s eyes drifted, unfocused, until they found Jack’s face. It took a moment for recognition to click, like his brain had to flip through files before landing on the right one.
Jack looked tired. More tired than Robby remembered him being that morning. His jaw was tight, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t blinked in hours.
“Jack?” Robby whispered.
Jack leaned in instantly, one hand already closing around Robby’s.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m here.”
Robby swallowed and immediately regretted it. His throat burned.
“I feel… weird,” he murmured.
Jack nodded. “That makes sense.”
Robby tried to move his legs and stopped when his abdomen protested sharply.
“Don’t,” Jack said gently. “You just had surgery.”
Robby blinked at him, the word taking a second to land.
“Surgery,” he repeated. The word tasted funny on his tongue.
“Appendectomy,” Jack said. “Laparoscopic. They got it out before it ruptured.”
Robby’s brow furrowed, working through the information. His grip on Jack’s hand tightened weakly.
“Did it… perf?” he asked.
“No,” Jack said immediately. “They caught it in time.”
Relief washed over Robby’s face so fast it almost looked like he might cry. Instead, his eyelids fluttered.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Okay.”
His gaze drifted again, exhaustion tugging at him like gravity.
Jack squeezed his hand gently. “Stay with me a second.”
Robby forced his eyes back open.
“Hurts,” he said quietly, like an observation rather than a complaint.
“I know,” Jack said. “You’re on pain meds. They’ll adjust if you need more.”
Robby considered this slowly. “Am I… being annoying?”
Jack huffed a soft, humorless laugh. “No.”
Robby’s mouth twitched faintly. “That’s usually when I’m annoying.”
Jack leaned closer, voice low and steady. “You’re allowed to be uncomfortable. You’re allowed to need things.”
Robby stared at him, eyes glassy.
“I don’t like not being in control,” he admitted.
Jack brushed his thumb over Robby’s knuckles, grounding.
“I know,” he said. “But you did the hard part. You let people take care of you.”
Robby’s breathing evened out a little.
“Did you stay?” he asked, suddenly anxious. “Or did they—”
“I stayed,” Jack said immediately. “I didn’t go anywhere. I promise you, I was a menace and bullied my way into the OR just hold your hand.”
Robby’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
“Good,” he murmured.
A nurse appeared quietly at the bedside, checking monitors, adjusting IV lines.
“Welcome back, Dr. Robby,” she said gently. “How’s your pain?”
Robby blinked at her, then looked at Jack, as if checking whether he was allowed to answer.
Jack nodded. “You can tell her.”
Robby swallowed. “It’s… there. But not screaming.”
The nurse smiled. “That’s a good place to start.”
She adjusted something on the IV pump. “I’ll give you a little more pain medication. Let us know if you get nauseated, okay?”
Robby nodded faintly.
As she stepped away, Robby’s eyelids drooped again.
“Jack?” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Promise I can sleep?” Robby asked, voice suddenly small. “And nothing bad will happen while I do?”
Jack’s throat tightened.
“I promise,” he said quietly. “I’m watching everything.”
Robby exhaled, the tension leaving him in a slow wave.
“Okay,” he murmured.
His eyes closed fully this time, sleep pulling him under—not the frightened unconsciousness from before, but something closer to rest.
Jack stayed right where he was, hand still wrapped around Robby’s, listening to the steady beep of the monitor and the slow, even rhythm of Robby’s breathing.
Robby came home with discharge papers folded into a neat rectangle, like controlling the paper could control the outcome.
His skin was a shade too pale, and the incision beneath the dressing was a secret neither of them wanted to look at too hard. He moved slowly, carefully, like his abdomen was made of glass.
Jack turned the apartment into a recovery unit without saying a word about it.
Pill organizer on the counter.
Thermometer on the nightstand.
A stack of clean towels within reach.
Broth, popsicles, electrolyte drinks lined up like a pharmacy display.
Robby noticed—of course he noticed.
“You’re nesting,” he said faintly, trying to make it a joke as Jack helped him lower himself onto the couch.
Jack didn’t smile. “I’m preparing.”
Robby swallowed, eyes flicking away. “For what?”
Jack softened his voice. “For you to heal.”
The first evening was quiet. Robby slept on and off, pain meds smoothing the edges of discomfort. Jack kept him sipping ice water in tiny amounts, watching for nausea like it might pounce.
Robby managed a few spoonfuls of broth.
Jack tried not to look too relieved.
Robby watched him anyway. “Stop staring at me like I’m I’m gonna keel over any second.”
Jack huffed a weak laugh. “May I remind you that did, in fact, ‘keel over’ on the bathroom floor?”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” Jack replied.
That night, Robby spiked a low-grade fever.
100.7.
Jack stared at the number for too long.
Post-op fevers happened. Atelectasis. Inflammation. Normal.
He told himself that. He told himself he was overreacting because he was close to the patient.
Robby was half-asleep, skin warm, eyes glassy.
“It’s okay,” Robby mumbled when Jack checked again an hour later. “It’s… normal.”
Jack didn’t like hearing Robby say that. Robby sounded like he was trying to reassure himself, not Jack.
“Yeah,” Jack said, voice careful. “Maybe.”
But the fever didn’t settle.
It climbed in slow, stubborn increments.
101.2.
101.8.
Robby started sweating through the sheets. His breathing turned shallow again, like his body didn’t want to expand his abdomen enough to hurt.
“You need to do your incentive spirometer,” Jack said gently.
Robby blinked at him. “My what?”
Jack froze.
Robby had heard discharge instructions. He’d repeated them back. He’d joked about them.
Now he looked honestly confused.
“Hey,” Jack said softly, leaning in. “You’re just tired. That’s all.”
Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you talking to me like I’m—”
“Like I’m worried,” Jack interjected quietly. “Because I am.”
In the early morning hours, Robby woke nauseated and gagged weakly into an old metal bowl. Not full vomiting—just retching, stomach trying to revolt again.
Jack held his shoulders, whispering reassurance.
“It’s okay,” Jack murmured. “Let it pass.”
Robby’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t feel right.”
Jack’s chest tightened. “Okay…alright, tell me what feels wrong.”
Robby stared at the ceiling, searching.
“Like… like I’m still sick,” he whispered.
Jack’s throat went dry.
“Okay,” Jack said, voice steady by force. “We’re going to watch closely.”
Robby’s eyes flicked toward him. “You’re already watching.”
Jack tried to smile.
Robby didn’t.
Morning came gray and heavy.
Robby tried to sit up and failed. His body trembled with the effort, sweat rolling down his temple. Jack slid an arm behind him, supporting him carefully.
Robby pressed his hand to his abdomen, face pinched tight.
“It hurts,” he whispered.
Jack’s stomach dropped. “More than yesterday?”
Robby nodded faintly. “Different. Deeper.”
Jack lifted the edge of the dressing carefully. The skin around it looked angry—redness spreading outward, warmth radiating off it like heat off asphalt.
Robby flinched.
Jack’s pulse hammered.
“Robby,” Jack said softly, “I think you need to go back in.”
Robby’s eyes flashed with exhausted irritation. “No. I just got home.”
“I know,” Jack said. “But this—”
Robby didn’t let him finish.
He lurched forward suddenly and vomited into the bowl again, violent and unstoppable. His whole body shook, and Jack felt how weak he was under his hands—how little reserve he had left.
When it finally stopped, Robby sagged back, lips grayish now, eyes unfocused.
“Why won’t it stop?” he whispered, voice small.
Jack’s hands moved automatically—checking pulse, checking skin, checking breathing.
Robby was clammy. Tachycardic. His hands were cold. His mouth was dry.
Jack grabbed the thermometer.
102.9.
Jack’s vision tunneled.
He checked blood pressure with a cuff he kept in the med kit at home.
88/54.
His stomach turned.
“Oh fuck,” Jack whispered, not meant to be heard.
Robby blinked slowly. “What?”
Jack forced calm into his voice.
“Hey,” Jack said gently. “We’re going back to the Pitt.”
Robby’s brow furrowed. “No.”
Jack crouched close, meeting his eyes.
“Yes,” Jack said, firmer. “You’re getting worse.”
Robby shook his head weakly.
“I’m not doing that again,” he slurred. “I’m not— I can’t—”
Jack’s throat tightened. “I know. I’m sorry. But we have to.”
Robby tried to stand and nearly collapsed. Jack caught him, heart pounding, and realized Robby wasn’t just nauseated—he was altered. His gaze drifted, his attention slipping like oil on water.
“Jack,” Robby whispered, suddenly frightened. “Why is it… cold?”
Jack pulled a blanket around him, though Robby was burning up.
“It’s your body,” Jack said gently. “It’s sick and a little stressed out.”
Robby’s lips trembled. “Am I dying?”
Jack felt something crack inside him.
“No,” Jack said immediately, voice fierce. “Not if I can help it.”
He called 911.
When the dispatcher answered, Jack’s voice was controlled, clipped—trauma voice.
“Post-op day two appendectomy,” Jack said. “Now febrile, hypotensive, tachycardic, vomiting, altered. Concern for sepsis.”
Robby’s eyes widened faintly at the word.
“No,” he whispered. “Jack…I don’t…”
Jack cupped his cheek.
“Stay with me,” Jack murmured. “Just stay with me.”
The ambulance arrived fast, but time felt viscous.
Robby’s head lolled against Jack’s shoulder as they loaded him, a thin whimper escaping him when movement jostled his abdomen.
Jack climbed in without hesitation.
The ED doors opened like a mouth.
Jack walked beside the stretcher, watching Robby’s skin, watching his breathing, watching the way he shivered despite fever. Robby’s eyes were half-lidded now, his voice barely there.
Dana met them in the bay, expression sharp and grim.
“What happened?” she demanded, already gloving up.
Jack’s mouth tasted like metal.
“Home last night,” Jack said. “Low-grade fever. This morning he started decompensating—hypotensive, vomiting, erythema at the incision, altered.”
Dana looked at Robby and her expression changed—professional distance collapsing into something fiercely protective.
“Hey, Chief,” she said, voice gentle. “Stay with us.”
Robby blinked at her, slow.
“Dana?” he slurred. Then, confused: “Why are you—”
His eyes drifted.
Dana’s jaw tightened. Langdon, who had been watching the whole exchange, stepped in.
“Get two eighteen-gauge IVs,” he snapped. “Full sepsis workup. Start Zosyn and Vanco. Two liters LR wide open.”
Robby’s eyes fluttered open as if he sensed him.
“Frank?” Robby whispered.
Langdon stepped closer, voice tight with worry. “Hey, Robby. I know I’m your favorite resident and all, but you didn’t have to do all this to come see me.” The joke was pale imitation of his usual humor.
Robby tried to smile. It came out crooked. “You… look like hell. Gotta…Gotta take care of yourself Frank. Iss ‘portant.”
"Well right now, you are the most important thing. Just let us take care of you okay?"
Jack stood at the head of the bed, hands clenched, forcing himself not to take over. But every instinct screamed at him to run the code, to push meds, to make decisions.
Franks’s gaze flicked to him briefly: I’ve got this.
Jack nodded once.
The nurse called vitals.
“BP 82/48. Heart rate 142. Temp 103.2. Satting at 92% on room air.”
“Okay, let’s start oxygen two liters nasal. Keep those fluids going and monitor that BP. We’ll start norepi if he doesn’t respond. Let’s get him ready for CT.” Frank ordered, doing his best to emulate Robby’s usual commanding presence.
Robby made a weak sound. “Why ‘m I—”
He gagged mid-sentence and vomited bile, body shuddering with it. Jack and Dana rolled him, suctioning quickly.
Jack’s hand gripped Robby’s shoulder—steady pressure, grounding touch.
“I’m here,” Jack said softly. “You’re okay.”
Robby’s eyes locked onto his, terrified.
“Don’t…I don’t…Jack,” Robby whispered.
Jack’s throat closed.
“I won’t,” Jack said, voice shaking only a little. “I’ve got your six, Mikey.”
Labs returned like bullets.
Elevated lactate.
WBC soaring.
Creatinine worsening.
Blood cultures pending.
Procalcitonin high.
Imaging came next.
CT showed what Jack had been dreading: a fluid collection, an abscess, air where it shouldn’t be. The kind of thing that meant contamination—missed, leaked, brewing.
A complication. A mistake. A tiny failure in a sterile field that became a catastrophe in a human body.
Langdon studied the scan, jaw set.
“Call surgery,” she said. “Now. He’s going back.”
Robby’s eyes fluttered, confusion deepening.
“Back where?” he murmured.
Jack leaned in close, voice gentle. “To the OR. They need to clean out the infection.”
Robby frowned, like he couldn’t hold the concept.
“I already did that,” he whispered. “I already—”
“I know,” Jack said. “I’m so sorry. But we’re doing it again.”
Robby’s eyes filled, tears spilling without him seeming to notice.
Langdon moved closer, placing a steadying hand on Robby’s chest. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got this one. You just let us do all the work and we’ll get you through this.”
“You’re… scared?” Robby whispered.
Langdon’s throat worked. “Yeah. But I also have this amazing teacher who taught me a lot about being brave.”
Jack felt his eyes burn.
Dana came around to Jack, voice lower now, urgent.
“He’s septic,” she said. “He’s going to need pressors. OR, then ICU. You ready?”
Jack swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes narrowed, not unkind. “You sure? Because you’re shaking.”
Jack forced his hands into stillness.
“I can do this,” Jack said.
Dana nodded once. “Okay. Then do it. Be his anchor.”
They pushed norepi when fluids weren’t enough. Robby’s skin stayed clammy, his mental status worsening.
He started talking to people who weren’t there.
“Adamson?” he whispered suddenly, eyes unfocused. “I— I didn’t—”
Jack’s chest seized.
“Hey,” Jack said firmly. “Look at me. Not him.”
Robby’s eyes flicked, struggled, then found Jack’s.
“There,” Jack murmured. “Stay.”
They wheeled him toward the OR again.
Jack walked beside the stretcher, hand locked around Robby’s, whispering the only thing that mattered:
“Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me.”
Robby didn’t wake up all at once.
He surfaced in pieces.
First came sound—an irregular, mechanical hiss that didn’t match his breathing. Then pressure in his chest, an invasive fullness that made every instinct scream wrong. Light burned behind his eyelids even before he opened them.
When he did, panic detonated immediately.
Something was in his throat.
He tried to inhale and choked instead, gagging around the tube, hands jerking weakly toward his face, but were stopped short by something pinning them to the bed.
He tried to call out for someone – anyone - but it came out as a strangled sound swallowed by plastic.
Hands caught his wrists gently but firmly.
“Robby,” Jack said urgently, voice close and solid. “Hey. Easy. You’re intubated.”
Robby thrashed again, terror wild and animal. His heart rate spiked on the monitor, alarms shrilling.
“I know,” Jack said, louder now, steadying. “I know it’s scary. You’re sick. You’re in the ICU. The tube is helping you breathe.”
Robby’s eyes locked onto Jack’s face, unfocused but desperate, searching like a drowning man finding a rope.
Jack leaned closer, his forehead almost touching Robby’s.
“Look at me,” Jack said. “You’re not dying. You’re being treated. We’re taking good care of you.”
Robby’s chest heaved uselessly against the ventilator. Tears slid sideways into his hair.
He shook his head weakly, eyes wide with terror.
“I can’t—” he mouthed silently.
“I know,” Jack said, softer now. “You don’t have to do anything. Let the machine work.”
The ICU nurse—older, calm in the way that only came from years of seeing people come back from the brink—adjusted sedation.
“He’s still pretty septic,” she said quietly to Jack. “We’ll keep him comfortable.”
Robby’s eyelids fluttered, consciousness slipping like wet sand through fingers.
Before he went under again, he locked eyes with Jack once more.
Don’t leave, his expression said.
Jack stayed exactly where he was.
Time in the ICU didn’t move forward.
It circled.
Jack sat at the bedside, back rigid in the chair, prosthetic leg aching but ignored. He watched numbers rise and fall like a foreign language he was fluent in but hated.
Blood pressure supported by norepinephrine.
Lactate slowly trending down, then plateauing.
Urine output borderline, then improving.
He cataloged every change because doing so gave him something to do.
Robby drifted in and out of sedated delirium.
Sometimes his eyes opened and didn’t see Jack at all.
Once, he stared at the ceiling and mouthed around the tube, “I’m sorry.”
Jack’s chest tightened and he squeezed Robby’s hand gently with grounding pressure.
“You have nothing to apologize for, baby,” Jack said. “You’re sick.”
Robby’s brow furrowed, like the logic didn’t stick.
Later, Robby thrashed again, fighting the ventilator, heart rate spiking dangerously. The nurse increased sedation, murmuring reassurance like a practiced lullaby.
Jack stood and leaned over him, palm flat against Robby’s chest.
“You’re safe,” Jack whispered. “I’m here.”
Robby calmed, slowly, breath syncing again with the machine.
Jack didn’t sit back down for a long time.
The infection didn’t turn all at once.
It wavered.
One lab improved while another worsened. One hour of stability followed by another scare. Jack learned not to celebrate too early.
The morning they started to wean him off the pressors, Jack didn’t smile.
He just exhaled.
The ICU team rounded mid-morning. Jack stood at the head of the bed, arms folded tightly to keep himself still.
“He’s responding to antibiotics,” the intensivist said. “Renal function improving. Lactate down. We may be able to lighten sedation later today.”
Jack nodded. “And the abscess?”
“Was adequately drained,” the surgeon replied. “No further contamination visible.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Later that afternoon, they began the slow process of waking Robby.
Sedation tapered.
Robby surfaced gradually, confusion thick and sticky.
He grimaced, brow knitting, body restless beneath the sheets.
“Robby,” Jack said softly. “Can you hear me?”
Robby’s eyes cracked open, unfocused. He blinked several times, like the world refused to sharpen. They finally managed to land on Jack and he nearly collapsed in relief.
“I’m right here, Rob. Right here.”
Robby’s eyes filled with fear again, but it was dulled now by exhaustion.
“Shhhh, I know,” Jack said. “They’re helping.”
They extubated him just before evening.
The tube slid free and Robby gagged harshly, coughing weakly, hands trembling. His throat burned, chest aching like he’d run a marathon while drowning.
Jack was there instantly, rubbing his back, murmuring reassurance.
“Easy,” Jack said. “You did great.”
Robby’s voice was barely a rasp. “Water?”
“Soon,” Jack said. “Just breathe first.”
Robby obeyed, shallow breaths at first, then deeper ones as panic receded.
He looked around the room, confused.
“Why—” He coughed again. “Why does everything feel… wrong?”
Jack swallowed hard.
“You were very sick and you’re just coming out of sedation,” Jack said. “Your body’s been through a lot.”
Robby frowned, eyes glassy. “Did I… almost die?”
Jack didn’t lie.
“Yes,” he said gently.
Robby stared at him for a long moment, absorbing that.
“Oh,” he whispered.
The days after extubation were a different kind of hell.
Robby couldn’t sit up without shaking. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. Even holding a cup exhausted him.
When the physical therapist asked him to dangle his legs off the bed, Robby broke down unexpectedly.
“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I should be able to do this.”
Jack knelt in front of him, hands firm on his knees.
“You almost died,” Jack said quietly. “Your muscles are allowed to be mad about it.”
Robby laughed weakly through tears. “That’s a generous interpretation.”
He had no appetite.
Food made him nauseous, even the smell of it. Jack offered small things without pressure—ice chips, clear broth, protein shakes sipped slowly.
Robby apologized constantly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered when he couldn’t finish. “I know you went through all the trouble.”
Jack shook his head, leaning in to press a kiss to Robby’s hair.
“There is no obligation to eat for my feelings,” Jack said. “Your body will tell us when it’s ready.”
At night, Robby woke disoriented, reaching for Jack with shaking hands.
“I thought I was gone,” he whispered once, voice small and frightened. “I thought you were—”
Jack wrapped him up carefully, mindful of IV lines and incisions.
“I’m here,” Jack murmured. “You didn’t leave.”
Robby clung to him like a lifeline.
When they finally went home, Robby moved like an old man.
Slow. Careful. Afraid of sudden movements.
Jack didn’t rush him.
The apartment felt different—too quiet, too still, like it was holding its breath.
Jack helped Robby settle on the couch, pillows arranged just right to protect his abdomen and support his back.
Robby looked impossibly thin, collarbones sharp beneath his shirt.
Jack tried not to stare.
“You don’t have to watch me every second,” Robby said weakly, attempting humor.
Jack met his eyes calmly. “Yes, I do.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Thought so.”
The days blurred together.
Jack monitored Robby’s temperature obsessively, checking it every few hours like it might suddenly betray them again. He checked Robby’s incision daily, tracking color, warmth, tenderness.
He helped Robby shower, steadying him when dizziness hit, pretending not to notice how much weight Robby had lost.
Robby slept most of the day, exhaustion clinging to him like gravity.
Eating was the hardest part.
Food still tasted wrong. Appetite came in flashes and disappeared just as quickly.
“Just a few bites,” Jack would say gently.
Robby would nod, try, then shake his head apologetically.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
“I know,” Jack said. “That’s enough.”
The weight continued to fall off at an alarming rate. Jack had tried to be gentle, but the situation was getting dire.
“Robby, please, you gotta eat something. This isn’t sustainable. Your body needs those nutrients to heal.”
Robby blinked at him in exhaustion. “I’m tryin’ Jack. I just…I can’t…”
“Tell me what’s going on, then. Are you still nauseous?” Jack pleaded.
“Yeah…yeah, I feel sick all the time. And I feel like I can’t hold as much anymore, if that makes sense.” Robby admitted.
“Your body went through a lot. It’s not uncommon for the stomach to be a little slower to bounce back.” Jack acknowledged. “But you’ve gotta work with me here. I really do not want to have this get to the point where we’re talking tube feeds, okay?”
Robby grimaced at the thought. “Fuck no.”
“Good, okay then. We’re on the same page. Let’s make a plan then, okay? We’ll keep you on a schedule of Zofran to control the nausea. Then every half hour, I need you to take five sips of water and at least two sips of Ensure. I even got that nasty strawberry flavor you love so much.”
“Deal…but if I puke, you’re cleaning it up.” Robby countered. Jack snorted.
“As if you could even hold a mop right now.”
The new plan was progress, if agonizingly slow.
One evening, Robby managed half a bowl of soup and looked up at Jack, eyes bright with something like pride.
“I did it,” he said.
Jack laughed softly, relief crashing over him so hard he had to sit down.
“You sure did,” Jack said.
Weeks passed.
Strength crept back inch by inch.
Robby stood without swaying. Walked the length of the apartment without stopping. One morning, he woke and said, almost surprised, “I’m hungry.”
Jack froze mid-step.
“What?”
Robby smiled, real and soft. “I want eggs.”
Jack laughed out loud, the sound startling even himself.
“I’ll make you eggs,” he said immediately, voice breaking. “I’ll make you anything.”
They ate together at the table for the first time since Robby had gotten sick.
Robby ate slowly, carefully, but he finished.
Jack watched like it was a miracle.
Later that night, Robby leaned against Jack on the couch, exhausted but present.
“Thank you,” Robby said quietly. “For not giving up. For not letting me pretend I was fine.”
Jack kissed his temple, eyes burning.
“Never,” Jack said. “Not once.”
Robby closed his eyes, breathing steady, alive.
And this time—this time—Jack believed it would last.