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Jack stretched, arm slung across the bed, pressing his face into Robby’s pillow. It still smelled like him—faint soap, coffee, and lavender laundry sheets. Just a few more hours and Robby would be home. They both had the next two days off after the 4th of July weekend, a miracle granted by Gloria herself. He was already planning a guilt-free breakfast in bed and maybe a nap wrapped around his husband when he eventually leaves the clutches of the ER and makes it home.
He padded into the kitchen, pulling eggs from the fridge when his phone buzzed on the counter. Dana.
He smiled and picked up. “Hey Da—”
“Get here. Now.”
The call ended.
Jack froze.
There was no sarcasm in her voice. No Dana-style irritation. Just fear
He was out the door in ninety seconds, scrubs thrown on, backpack slung over his shoulder. Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
⸻
***Forty Minutes Earlier***
The PITT was packed. An MVC had rolled in earlier with three victims.
Robby’s hands were still shaking the kind of crash that pulled the whole place into chaos. A mother, a daughter, and a toddler. The mother coded first. The daughter five minutes later. The toddler? He went up to the OR, but barely. He’d have to check with Walsh later, see how the kids doing.
Robby couldn’t even bring himself to sit.
He was at the edge of Bay 6 with Whitaker, checking charts on a man who had no obvious injuries.
Thomas Reardon. Mid-50s. Low acuity. Said he was dizzy.
“Vitals are normal,” Whitaker murmured beside him. “Looks like they bumped him down the list.”
Robby frowned. “No visible trauma?
“None. Clean imaging. No loss of consciousness. He said he was apart of the MVC but wasn’t hurt, was brought in later to be checked out .”
Robby moved toward the patient, offering his best ER-weary smile. “Hello Mr. Reardon, I’m Dr Robby and this is Dr Whitaker. Thanks for being patient. I know it’s been a rough day.”
Reardon looked up. The man’s eyes were blank. Distant.
“You couldn’t save them.
Robby frowned. “Sir?”
“You all told me they were going to be okay. My wife. My daughter. My grandson.”
Robby’s blood ran cold.
“You’re the attending all those people talked about… that you could save them, that there was hope.”
“Sir—”
Reardon’s jaw tightened. “That was my family.”
Silence.
Robby took one slow step back.
Then Reardon reached beneath the blanket—and pulled a gun.
“ Down! ” Robby shouted, slamming Whitaker sideways as the gun rose.
“Don’t move.”
The entire ER didn’t hear. Not yet. Bay 6’s curtain swayed, but no one noticed the ripple.
“Mr. Reardon,” Robby said, hands up slowly, voice low. “Let’s talk about this. I understand you’re grieving—”
“Don’t patronize me. You let them die.”
Whitaker made a choking noise behind him.
Reardon’s hand trembled—but the gun didn’t lower.
“You were the one who promised. And now my whole family’s gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Robby whispered. “I’m so—”
“I want you to feel it too.”
Robby raised his hands.
“Don’t do this,” he said. “You don’t want to do this.”
Reardon’s voice broke. “My daughter. My wife. You let them die. Now you’re going to feel what I feel.”
Whitaker tried to crawl toward the nurses button on the wall, silent and careful.
Reardon noticed.
He turned, pulling Whitaker up by his scrubs before smashing the butt of the gun into his temple.
“ No! ” Robby lunged—but too late. Whitaker collapsed instantly.
Robby dropped to his knees beside him. He was breathing. Pulse was there, just unconscious.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Robby said, voice low and furious.
“You didn’t have to let them die!” Reardon shouted.
“They were barely holding on when they got here!” Robby cried. “I couldn’t even get a line into the wife! You think I wanted this?”
The gun pressed to Robby’s chest, following him as he rose slowly.
“I want you to hurt.”
“I already do,” Robby whispered.
They’d been in the bay for thirty minutes at this point, someone had to have noticed the lack of an attending.
Reardon paced in front of him, the gun switching hands every few minutes. Whitaker lay unconscious on the floor, the bloodied gash on his temple clotting as they wait.
“I couldn’t even hold their hands,” Reardon said, eyes far away. “They were taken away before I could say goodbye. I went upstairs to check on my grandson when they told me he passed on the table. Do you know how unfair that is?”
“I know,” Robby said, swallowing the burn in his throat. “I know. I see it every day. I carry it home. You think I forget them? I don’t sleep because of them.”
Reardon’s eyes flicked to him.
“Then you know what this feels like.”
“I do,” Robby whispered. “But hurting me won’t bring them back. And Whitaker? He’s just a kid. He had nothing to do with this.”
Reardon took a shaky breath, and for a second, Robby thought he was getting through to him.
Then, a rustle from outside the curtain.
Reardon snapped the gun toward it.
Robby stood sharply. “Wait! Stop—don’t—”
⸻
The hospital parking lot was jammed with patrol cars.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He barreled through the ambulance bay, nearly slamming into Dana.
“Where is he?” he demanded, already pushing past her.
“Jack—stop.”
“No.” His eyes were wide, unfocused. “Tell me where Robby is.”
Dana grabbed his shoulder. “Bay 6. He’s being held at gunpoint. Santos was walking by and saw through an opening of the curtain, ran to let me know and I called security who called the police and I called you.”
Jack stopped breathing.
“He’s alive, but we don’t have control. Police are here. The man’s armed. Whitaker’s in the room too, we just heard a shot—”
Jack didn’t wait, he couldn’t…That was his husband and Robby’s ‘I don’t have a favorite resident’ adopted farm boy who’s over every Sunday and any other night when the demons of the PITT don’t stay away. And goddamnit if anyone tries to stop him from protected his family.
“Jack—!”
He burst through the PITTs hallway. It was quiet—but not empty. Patients had been pushed to far bays. Nurses crouched behind carts. McKay was giving silent hand signals. Shen had a crash cart ready behind the triage wall.
Then—
A curtain yanked open.
Robby stumbled out, blood down the side of his face and a slowly growing spot on his right side of his chest. Reardon right behind him, gun to his back. He was using Robby as a shield.
Their eyes locked.
Robby froze.
Jack’s world narrowed.
“Let him go,” Jack said, voice loud and clear.
Reardon turned to him, gun jerking.
Robby looked like he was about to break apart.
Jack took a step closer.
Robby flinched. “Jack, don’t—please—”
Jack took another step forward.
Reardon screamed, “ Back off! I swear I’ll shoot him!”
Jack didn’t stop.
“ Don’t do this, ” Jack said, stepping forward slowly, hands raised. His voice was steady—but his eyes were locked on Robby, on the blood darkening his scrubs even more, on the way his chest rose too fast, too shallow.
“You’re angry. You’re broken. I get it. But don’t take it out on him. He did everything he could. He always does.”
Reardon’s hand trembled. The gun pressed harder into Robby’s back.
“He fought for your family,” Jack went on, voice tightening. “I know, because I’ve watched him bleed himself dry for patients who had no chance. He would’ve traded places with them if it meant they lived. That’s who he is.”
Reardon shook his head, eyes glassy. “They were all I had.”
“And now you’re about to make someone else lose everything they have left. ”
Jack’s voice cracked. His breath hitched—but he held his ground.
“You think this will give you peace?” he asked. “Killing a man who tried to save your family? You think that’s going to fill the hole they left behind?”
“I want him to feel it,” Reardon hissed. “I want him to know what it’s like to watch everything be ripped away.”
“He already knows, ” Jack said fiercely. “Because I’m standing here, watching him bleed, and I can’t save him. And if you pull that trigger, you won’t be giving him pain—you’ll be giving it to me.
Reardon faltered, gun trembling harder now. His breathing was uneven, catching on the edge of something fragile inside him.
Jack took another slow step forward, voice lowering just enough to cut deeper.
“You’re not the only one who’s drowning,” he said. “I’ve sat by his side after every code he couldn’t turn around. Every patient he lost. Every kid. Every mother. Every time he came home and couldn’t look me in the eye because he was afraid he failed someone. ”
Robby shifted slightly, barely able to stay upright. Jack’s eyes darted to him—his pale skin, the sluggish slump of his shoulders. He didn’t have much longer.
“He carries it all,” Jack whispered. “And he still gets up every morning and comes back. Even knowing this— this —is the risk.”
Reardon’s jaw clenched. “I held my grandson’s hand after he died. I told him he was going to be okay.”
Jack’s voice cracked, rough now. “And Robby was the one trying to make that true. He wasn’t lying to you. He was hoping. Praying. Because that’s all we ever have in those moments.”
Robby let out a soft, painful cough behind the barrel of the gun. It made Reardon flinch.
Jack stepped in even closer now, hands still raised, his voice barely above a whisper.
“If you kill him, it won’t bring your grandson back. It won’t bring your family back. It won’t fix the past. It won’t make the pain go away. It’ll just make it someone else’s.”
Reardon’s hands shook. His arm wavered. For a second, Jack saw the man behind the gun—a father, a grandfather, destroyed by loss.
“You said they were all you had,” Jack said, gently now. “ He’s all I have. ”
Reardon blinked at him, chest rising and falling in jagged heaves.
“You don’t need to do this,” Jack said. “But if you still think you do—then let him go.”
He took one more step forward, into the line of fire.
“Take me instead.”
Robby stirred, lifting his head in protest. “Jack—don’t.”
“Shut up,” Jack muttered, eyes never leaving Reardon’s.
“Take me,” he repeated. “You want to hurt someone? You want someone to pay? I will. Just let him go. Please.”
Silence…
Reardon’s face crumpled—just slightly.
And then the gun started to lower.
That was the moment everything shifted.
But it only lasted a breath.
From somewhere in the distance—a shout.
Reardon flinched.
The gun jolted back up.
Jack lunged—
Bang.
The sound shattered the room.
For a split second, no one moved.
Then Robby collapsed with a choked gasp. Blood was already soaking through his scrub top, vivid and terrifying.
“ Robby! ” Jack’s voice tore from his throat, something primal and cracked open as he dropped to the ground, landing on his knees so hard he felt his prosthetic crunch.
He didn’t even register shoving Reardon aside—security had already closed in—but he was on the ground beside Robby in an instant, pressing both hands against the bleeding wound with shaking fingers.
“No, no, no— look at me, ” Jack begged. “ Stay with me, Michael, please— ”
Robby’s eyes fluttered. His lips moved, soundless, and a fresh wave of blood spilled between Jack’s hands.
Jack was already stripping off his scrub top, bunching it and pressing it hard to the wound. “You’re okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you—just breathe, baby, please just— breathe. ”
His voice cracked.
He bent close, trembling. “You hold on. You hear me? I’m not doing this without you.”
More staff poured into the PITT now but Jack couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t see them. The world narrowed to the man on the floor in front of him, growing paler with every second.
“Jack—move,” Shen said urgently, already gloved up, kneeling across from him.
“No,” Jack snapped. “I can help—he needs—he’s losing pressure, I can—”
“Jack— you need to let go. ”
Jack ignored him. He pressed harder, trying to slow the bleeding, already working through triage in his head—probable trajectory, vascular involvement, OR time.
“Dr Abbot!” Dana shouted, voice firm.
Still, he didn’t move.
He felt hands on his shoulders—then arms wrapping around his chest from behind.
“Jack,” Donnie said, low and firm. “You have to step back. You have to let them work.”
“I can’t! ” Jack screamed. “He’s—he’s my husband, I can’t— he’s dying— ”
“Jack,” Donnie said again, this time with more force. “They’ve got him. Let go.”
Jack thrashed once, a full-body fight response. But Donnie and Mateo held on, tightening his grip as Shen and Walsh moved in like lightning.
“Pulse weak, thready—”
“Blood pressure crashing—he’s hemorrhaging—”
“Prep for OR, now—move!”
Jack finally let go—physically—but his hands hovered in the air, soaked in Robby’s blood. His knees buckled, and Langdon guided him backward onto the floor.
The last thing Jack saw before they wheeled Robby through the trauma bay doors was Shen placing a firm hand over Jack’s blood-soaked compress, and Robby’s hand twitching limply by his side.
—
And the silence that followed was worse than the gunshot.
Jack stood there, motionless, breathing too fast but still not getting enough air. His hands were red—soaked, tacky, drying around the fingernails. He stared down at them, shaking, unable to unclench.
He’d spent years telling residents what to do with bleeding patients. How to stay calm. How to move with purpose under pressure.
But now his entire body was locked in place.
He should be in there.
He should be doing something.
Instead, he was just… here. Robby’s blood on his scrubs. Robby’s blood under his nails. Robby’s last breath rasping out beside him on the PITTs floor, over and over in his head.
Donnie took him to one of the family rooms, and left without a word after getting him seated. Dana had vanished back into crisis control mode.
But no one had said anything to Jack.
Maybe they didn’t know what to say.
His hands clenched again. He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the memory of Robby dropping—of how fast he fell, how his knees buckled like a string had been cut. The way his hand reached out, not to stop himself, but toward Jack.
Like Jack was the last thing he wanted to see.
The door creaked. Footsteps approached.
Jack didn’t look up.
Not until they were right in-front of him.
Dana.
She crouched down beside him and handed him a water bottle, but he didn’t take it.
“I should’ve stopped it,” he said, voice raw.
“You did,” she said quietly. “You got him out of that room. You kept him calm long enough for the police to surround him without him noticing.”
“I promised him,” Jack whispered. “I told him he’d be okay.”
Dana sat beside him in silence.
“He’s not just someone I love,” Jack said, eyes still fixed ahead. “He’s… him. You know? He’s the reason I come home. He’s the reason I’ve made it through the last ten years without burning out or quitting or jumping off the roof. And I just watched him drop like—like—”
His voice cracked and dropped out completely. His shoulders trembled.
Dana said nothing. She reached over and placed a hand over his still-bloody one.
For a while, they just sat there—outside the OR, the overhead lights humming softly above them, the hospital’s pulse moving forward even as Jack waited, not for answers, but for hope.
⸻
Observation Bay 3 was too quiet for a trauma unit.
Jack stood just outside the curtain, hands still raw from scrubbing Robby’s blood off his skin. He hadn’t changed yet. He couldn’t. Not until he’d seen both of them with his own eyes.
Robby. And Dennis.
The curtain was half drawn, and inside, Dennis sat propped up on the exam table, IV in his arm, gauze on his temple, jaw clenched hard. He was staring at the floor like he’d punched it and it punched back.
Jack pushed the curtain aside.
Dennis looked up fast, eyes wide—then softened.
Jack crossed his arms and leaned on the doorframe. “You planning to fight someone in here or just looking that way?”
Whitaker didn’t answer.
“You cleared?” Jack asked gently.
Whitaker nodded. “McKay says I’ve got a mild concussion. No fracture. No bleeding. I can go home soon.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And are you going home?”
Whitaker blinked. Like that idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Jack stepped in and sat down on the stool across from him. He looked at the kid, because that’s what he still was, in so many ways. Still ate like someone might take his plate away. Still showed up to Jack and Robby’s house every Sunday night without knocking.
Their own damn stray farm boy.
And God help anyone who tried to mess with him.
Dennis rubbed the gauze at his hairline, wincing. “I couldn’t stop it. I should’ve done more.”
Jack didn’t respond right away.
He just looked at him.
“You know what Robby said the first time he met you?” Jack asked finally.
Dennis looked confused. “No?”
“He came home and told me, ‘I think I found a stray. Bit of a smartass. Big heart. Probably hasn’t slept in three days. Can we keep him?’”
Dennis let out a short, uneven breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.
“You didn’t freeze in there,” Jack said. “You got knocked out because you tried to move. And Robby did what we both would’ve done—he put himself between you and the danger.”
“He got shot.”
“And he’s still fighting. Just like you.”
Jack leaned forward, eyes hard now.
“You are ours , Dennis. You understand? You come over for Sunday dinner. You bring your laundry like it’s your birthright. You’ve fallen asleep on our couch more times than I can count. And when the demons don’t leave you alone, you come over any given night like you don’t even need a reason.”
Whitaker’s chin dropped toward his chest.
“You are family,” Jack said, softer now. “So don’t you dare sit here blaming yourself for surviving.”
Dennis didn’t look up. “Yeah but I should’ve done more.”
“You tried. And now he’s in there, because he protected you. Because that’s what we do.”
The silence between them stretched again—thick, tired.
Then Jack reached out, placed a hand on Dennis’s knee.
“You’re not going anywhere. You hear me? You stay right here. You’re gonna see him when he wakes up.”
Dennis nodded, quiet but firm.
Jack stood slowly. “I’ll bring you some real food. Hospital sandwiches are a hate crime.”
As he pulled the curtain back, Dennis finally spoke—voice hoarse.
“Tell him I’m not leaving.”
Jack didn’t look back, but his throat tightened.
“I think he already knows.”
⸻
The first thing Robby felt was heavy.
Heavy chest. Heavy limbs. Heavy silence.
His brain tried to surface but was caught in the pull of anesthesia and pain. He groaned—barely audible—and turned his head toward the one constant thing he could feel
Warmth.
A hand holding his.
Tight. Anchoring.
Familiar.
He forced his eyes open.
The room swam into focus in pieces—white ceiling tiles, the soft beep of vitals, the dull throb in his gut.
And Jack.
Slumped in the chair next to his bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed like he was praying—or like he hadn’t moved in hours. His scrubs were different now—clean—but his hands were still red-rimmed, raw at the knuckles.
Robby licked his lips.
“Hey,” he rasped.
Jack’s head snapped up.
He looked like he’d been punched and kissed at the same time.
“You’re awake.” Jack exhaled like it physically hurt to do it.
“Feels like I got hit by a truck,” Robby mumbled, trying to shift. Immediately regretted it. “Or… a poorly guided bullet.”
Jack chucked dryly, “The first bullet had gone clean through on your side. The second went through too but was worse, missed major organs by millimeters. Walsh said it was “a miracle with bad aim.””
He leaned in, brushing sweat-damp hair off Robby’s forehead. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Robby cracked a weak smile. “You look like hell. Did you sleep in that chair?”
Jack didn’t answer.
“Is Dennis okay?” Robby asked suddenly, blinking blearily. “Please tell me he’s okay.”
Jack chuckled once, shaky. “The kid’s fine. Mild concussion. Stubborn as ever. He’s been pacing the waiting room like a hound dog waiting for a tornado to pass.”
“Sounds about right,” Robby murmured.
“He told me to tell you he’s not leaving.”
Robby’s eyes softened. “He’s family.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. He is.”
Silence settled for a moment.
Then Robby gave a hoarse laugh that turned into a wince. “Well. I guess I finally get more than two days off.”
Jack leaned down, pressed his lips to Robby’s knuckles. “Yeah. And Gloria said she’s not arguing about it this time.”
Robby smirked. “That’ll be the real miracle of this story.”
Jack didn’t laugh. Not quite. He was still too close to breaking.
Instead, he pulled Robby’s hand up and kissed the inside of his wrist, gently, reverently.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.
“You didn’t.”
Jack rested his forehead against Robby’s arm, just for a moment.
“You’re mine,” he said softly. “You’re not allowed to leave me like that. Not now. Not ever.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Robby said, eyes fluttering closed again. “Just… give me five more minutes.”
Jack smiled.
“Take your time, sweetheart.”
He didn’t let go of his hand.
⸻
Later that night, the PITT had settled into its usual rhythm — organized chaos under fluorescent lights. Another shift. Another round of emergencies. But something in the air felt different.
A little slower. A little quieter. A little more human.
The lights were dimmed. Machines beeped steadily. Robby slept again, this time peacefully, his hand still tucked safely in Jack’s.
Jack hadn’t moved in hours.
Every so often, someone peeked in.
Dennis was forced to lay down on the couch the room by Jack because he refused to go home.
They didn’t say it aloud, but everyone knew the truth now
The secret was out.
And no one cared.
If anything, it made sense.
Of course Robby was Jack’s. Of course Jack would burn down the world to keep him safe. Of course their lives had been quietly wrapped around each other all this time — and of course it had taken a near-death and a hostage standoff for anyone to finally see it.
But now they had .
And the only thing left to do was let them be — bruised, exhausted, and completely in love.
Somewhere deep in sleep, Robby shifted slightly, and Jack stirred.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at him for a long moment, as if to make sure he was still real. Still breathing.
And then, softly — so soft it wasn’t meant for anyone else — Jack whispered
“I love you. I always will”