"...fire of my loins." @nishim - Tumblr Blog

The Longest Night at The Pitt

PART FIVE OF THE LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST ❤︎ PREVIOUS PART

summary : An ordinary night slips into something else entirely. With Jack stuck at the hospital, you face the unthinkable alone—until help arrives. Fear builds, choices are made, and love is stretched thin across time, distance, and emergency room doors.

word count : ~6,500

warnings/content : emergency childbirth, premature labor, placental abruption, emergency C-section under general anesthesia, medical trauma, fear of maternal mortality, references to PTSD (Jack, war-related), emotional hurt/comfort, post-surgical recovery, supportive friendships (Robby & Heather), angst but fluff AND happy ending.

a/n: Okay. Deep breaths. This is a lot. I promise lots of fluff in the next part. Think: post-crisis healing, twin milestones, Bean thriving in her older sister era, Jack being the most emotionally feral dad alive, and Reader trying to hold it all together (with love. and coffee. lots of coffee). ☁️💕👶👶👶🐥

February 27th — 8:41 PM

The house has transitioned into that soft bedtime quiet. The kind where every sound is gentle and domestic: the hum of the dishwasher cycling through rinse and rain tapping against the windows. The lamp in the living room is still casting long shadows over the floor where Bean’s blocks are still scattered. You should put them away, but your lower back is already aching, and the last time you bent down to pick something up, Jack practically lunged across the room to stop you.

Jack. Only an hour into his night shift. You haven’t checked your phone yet, but he texted when he got in. Said it was steady. Not quiet. Not slow. Just steady. Which, at the Pitt, is about as close to reassuring as it gets.

You rub your hand across your belly absently. It’s tight again. Low and pulling. Not painful, just...wrong. Or maybe different. But you’ve never been pregnant with twins before. You don’t know what’s normal. So you breathe through it and stay quiet. You move to the couch, lowering yourself carefully. The couch creaks the way it always does when you sink into it. You nestle your back into the throw pillows, legs curled off to the side, and try to breathe through the pressure building in your hips.

A small voice calls out from the hallway.

“Mommy?”

You blink. Your head turns toward the shadowed hall.

Little feet shuffle against hardwood. A soft thump. Then the shape of her, Bean, emerging from the shadows with Duck dangling in one hand and the other fist rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s in her long sleeved pajamas, the ones with the yellow suns and lavender clouds. One of the buttons is undone at the top, and her curls are frizzy from sleep, clinging to her forehead.

You smile without thinking.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Bean walks to you like the shadows appear bigger when Jack isn’t home. There’s a caution in her steps, a quiet suspicion… like even the walls miss him. She looks impossibly small in the low light. When she reaches you, she doesn’t say a word. She just climbs into your lap with the certainty of someone returning to a place that’s always been theirs. Like she belongs there. Like she never left. Duck ends up squished between you, and she lets out a dramatic little sigh, equal parts tired and theatrical.

“Jack-Jack’s not home.”

“Nope,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not yet. He’s at work.”

“The doctor place?”

“Yeah.”

She frowns into your hoodie. “I like it when he’s home.”

You chuckle softly. “Me too, sweetheart.”

She shifts in your lap, her small hand resting on your stomach without realizing it. One of the twins kicks, and Bean pulls back a little, eyes widening.

“They have a party?” she says, deadly serious.

You laugh again, fuller this time. “Yeah. They’re practicing their dance moves.”

Bean narrows her eyes. “Tell them to stop.”

“They’re not very good listeners.”

She hums and burrows back into you, her cheek pressing against you. Duck flops over the curve of your belly.

“Jack-Jack gonna be home after the moon?”

“After the moon,” you promise. “He’ll sneak in and kiss you on the forehead. Like he always does.”

She nods. She believes in the consistency of her dad’s love like she believes in gravity.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

You glance down at her. Her lashes are already fluttering, heavy with sleep. She smells like toothpaste and toddler shampoo and the last traces of graham cracker.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Go get comfy. I’ll come tuck you in.”

She yawns and slides off your lap, bare feet pattering toward the bedroom. You start to stand, but the pressure returns. A strange, low wave of discomfort that takes your breath for a second. Not painful. Just…off. You pause at the edge of the couch, one hand braced on the cushion, the other resting low over your belly.

“Just tired,” you whisper to no one in particular. “Just tired. Not time yet.”

Still, your heart’s stuttering in your throat.

You make your way to the bedroom slower than usual, following the faint sounds of Bean. She’s already in bed when you get there. On your side, facing the door. Duck is tucked under her arm. You sit beside her on the edge of the mattress, brushing the hair away from her forehead. She blinks sleepily at you.

“Tell the babies to be nice,” she murmurs. “You’re my mommy first.”

Tears spring to your eyes with no warning. “I always will be, bug,” you say. “Always your mommy first.”

She closes her eyes but opens them again a few seconds later. “Do they know I’m big sister?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “They already love you.”

She hums, thoughtful, like she’s not quite convinced. “You love me too?”

You lean down, kiss her nose. “More than anything.”

She considers that for a long time. Her voice is just a whisper now: “Even more than Jack-Jack?”

You pause. Smile. “Different kind of love. But just as big.”

Bean nods again, and this time her lashes stay still. She’s falling asleep fast. You run your fingers through her hair in soft, absentminded strokes. The way Jack does when she’s sick, the way you did that night she wouldn’t stop crying and you two sat in the rocking chair till dawn. You lie beside her for a few minutes, just watching her drift off. You don’t want to move. You want to stay in this small, steady moment a little longer. You press a kiss to her temple, whisper goodnight.

Then you pull yourself up slowly. One hand to your back, the other to the bedroom wall to steady yourself.

And just before you reach the bathroom, it happens.

A sharp drop. The sensation of warmth. You freeze.

Then look down.

Your water has broken.

Your hands are shaking too hard to type Jack’s number right the first time. Bean is curled into the sheets, one hand still wrapped around Duck, breathing deep. Oblivious. Safe. You glance down at the slow trickle soaking into the carpet under you.

You are not safe.

The first call rings. No answer.

The second. Still nothing.

Third. Voicemail.

Fourth. Still no answer.

By the fifth, you’re gasping.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, Jack, please—”

You hang up on the sixth unanswered call.

Jack’s contact still glows across the screen: Jack 🩺💕, the little stethoscope emoji something you’d added almost four years ago without thinking, in a moment of softness. You stare at the screen until it fades to black. He’s on a trauma case, you keep reminding yourself. That’s what he said when he texted you last, 30 minutes ago—“big wreck on 376, probably gonna be messy.”

Your throat is dry. You’re cold, even though you’re sweating. The pressure has shifted lower. Something feels wrong. You try to breathe around the ache of that. Of him not here. You press the next name in your Favorites list. Robby picks up immediately.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he says immediately, already alert, like he felt the urgency before you even said a word.

“My water broke,” you get out. “And Jack’s not… he’s not answering, I’ve been calling him and—Robby, something’s wrong.”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end, then a shift. Keys jingling, movement. He’s already getting up. “I’m on the way,” he says. “Heather’s grabbing her coat. We’re coming to you now. Is Bean with you?”

“She’s asleep,” you whisper. “In our bed. I didn’t want to wake her.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s perfect. Stay with her. We’ll be there in ten.”

But now that you’ve said it, now that someone else knows, it breaks something loose inside of you. You choke out another breath. “Robby… this doesn’t feel like last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s not just the water breaking. It’s like… I feel flushed. Cold, but not. My stomach’s tightening but not like contractions, more like everything inside is being pulled down. And my back hurts in this really sharp way… like my body’s folding inward.”

You pause, another wave of tightness rolling low and deep through your abdomen. You have to sit down. Or fall down. You don’t know which.

“I feel… off. Like, not-right off.”

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. But it’s the kind of silence that isn’t casual. The kind where you know he’s processing, not because he doesn’t believe you, but because he does.

“I’ve got you,” he says finally. “Heather’s calling 911 now. We’ll beat the ambulance there. But I need you to keep breathing for me, okay?”

You nod, voice cracking. “Okay.”

You can hear Heather’s voice in the background. Steady, calm, giving your address. You hear the words “possible complications,” and it makes your throat close.

“I don’t want Bean to wake up and be scared,” you whisper.

“She won’t,” Robby says. “I’ll get to her. We’ll bring her to our place. I’ll tell her everything you want me to. She’ll have Duck with her. We’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

“I didn’t even pack a hospital bag yet,” you admit, the tears starting again. “I thought I had more time.”

“You were supposed to,” he murmurs, gently. “You were supposed to have time. But we’ve got you. Me and Heather, we’ll get you there. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

You press your hand to your belly again, feeling another strange ripple across your skin. “I haven’t even thought of their names yet,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Heather must hear you from the passenger seat. “Then you get to meet them and tell us,” she says, kind and soft. “You tell us when it’s time.”

Your throat aches. Not from pain, but from the force of holding yourself together. “Jack would know what to do,” you murmur. “I keep thinking that he’s probably elbow-deep in a chest tube right now. He doesn’t even know.”

“He’ll know soon,” Robby says. “And he’ll be there. But right now, you don’t have to be okay. You just have to stay steady. We’re almost to your street.”

You press your forehead to your knees, curling into yourself while your daughter sleeps. The air feels thick. Not dramatic. Just real. You’re scared. More scared than you’ve been since that night in the hospital with Bean when her fever wouldn’t come down and her breathing turned shallow, ragged, wrong. You hadn’t let yourself cry then, not until Jack held her to his chest and said she was going to be okay. But now, he’s not here. And all you can think about is whether someone else will be the one holding her, telling her Mommy will be okay soon.

“I don’t care what happens to me,” you say, barely above a whisper. “But don’t let her be scared.”

“We won’t,” Heather says, her voice a balm. “You’re not going anywhere. And Bean’s going to wake up in our bed with Duck tucked under her arm and Robby reading her that ridiculous dinosaur book Jack keeps doing the voices for.”

You laugh, broken and small, but real. “He does the worst voices.”

“He does,” Robby agrees. “God-awful. It’s like British Elmo meets an aging sea captain.”

The call ends right as you hear it: the crunch of tires on gravel, then doors slamming shut, fast footsteps on the walkway. The keypad beeps once. You’d almost forgotten you ever gave them the code. It must’ve been months ago… one of those just-in-case things you never thought would matter. Until now.

“Hey! We’re here.”

Your voice comes thin from upstairs. “Up here, hallway.”

They take the stairs in practiced silence, steps in sync. They both know this house well enough to know where everything is. They know the way the stairs creak near the third step from the top. They know which light switch hums. And when they see you, they know something’s wrong.

Not just early labor wrong. Something-else-wrong. Robby’s face flickers, just once. A brief crack before he softens his voice.

“Okay. Hey. You’re good. Just breathe. Look at me.” His hand comes to your wrist, fingers light. “Pulse is up. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “It’s different than last time. There’s this pressure, and I feel… dizzy. Like my limbs aren’t mine. And I haven’t had real contractions.”

“You trust your gut?” he asks, already nodding before you can answer.

You nod once. “I trust it.”

“Then I trust it.”

Heather slips into your room. You hear the gentle shushing and the rustle of a blanket. Bean’s sleepy little voice: “Jack-Jack?”

“Not yet, baby,” Heather murmurs. “You’re coming with me tonight. Like a sleepover.”

Robby guides you into the bathroom, lowers you onto the seat of the toilet slowly, like he doesn’t care that he’s still in joggers and a hoodie and probably didn’t expect to triage his best friend's wife tonight. Heather reemerges with Bean, who’s half asleep on her shoulder, her face pressed into Heather’s scarf, Duck flopping against her side.

“She okay?” you ask hoarsely, eyes locked on your daughter.

“She’s fine,” Heather says gently.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say much. Robby pulls out his phone, glances at the time, and swears under his breath. “We need EMS now. This isn’t something we can drive through.”

You look down at your belly, your hands trembling. “I didn’t want this to go like this,” you whisper.

Robby kneels in front of you again, steadying your hands. “I know.”

“I don’t want her to be scared—Bean.”

“She’s not,” he promises. “She’s sleepy. She thinks it’s an adventure. Heather’s got her.”

You nod again, tears catching at your jawline. EMS is there within the next four minutes. It’s fast. Robby helps relay vitals. Heather tucks Bean into the back seat of his car, checking the car seat twice. She kisses the top of Bean’s head, adjusts Duck, and brushes a curl from her forehead.

The paramedics have you loaded onto the stretcher now, easing you down with steady, practiced hands. Quick but careful, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Your breath catches with every jolt, your grip tight on the side rail. By the time they guide you into the back of the ambulance, Robby’s already climbing in behind you. As the doors swing shut, he pulls out his phone and hits Call.

It barely rings once.

“Robby,” Jack says, too casually. “Make it quick. I have six missed calls from my beautiful most amazing wife, and if this is about your post-op from this afternoon then yes, he’s fine. I just got out of Trauma Three.”

He’s smiling when he says it. Robby can hear it.

And it guts him.

“Jack,” Robby says, quiet. “It’s about her.”

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s enough.

“...What?” Jack’s voice drops immediately. “What happened?”

“She called us,” Robby says, settling into the back of the rig beside you as the ambulance hums to life. “She couldn’t get through to you. She didn’t want to call EMS until she knew Bean would be okay.”

Jack breathes in hard. “Is she in labor?”

“It started, yeah. But it’s not smooth. She said something feels wrong. Pressure, nausea, pain she can’t map. Dizzy… She’s scared, Jack.”

Jack is already moving. Robby can hear the sound of a door swinging open, his shoes on the hospital floor. They’re bringing her here?”

“Yeah. I’m with her now. In the rig. Heather’s taking Bean back to our place. She wouldn’t let herself get loaded in until she was sure Bean was safe. You know how she is.”

Jack lets out a breath. It’s not relief. Not even close.

“She shouldn’t be delivering yet,” he mutters. “It’s too early.”

“I know. But she needs you calm when she gets there.”

Jack doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then he inhales once, slow and tight. “You think it’s placental?”

“I don’t want to guess until I get her there.”

“Keep her talking. Tell her I’m waiting. And Robby?”

“Yeah?”

Jack’s voice goes thin. Not shaky, never shaky. Just raw. “Don’t let her be scared.”

Robby glances at you, your hand gripping the rail, your face gone pale, your jaw locked like you’re trying not to cry.

He softens his voice. “I won’t.”

Jack ends the call.

And Robby leans in, adjusting the blanket over your legs as the siren kicks up overhead.

“Okay, you’re doing good,” he says, voice gentler now. “Jack’s waiting. You’re going to see him in just a few minutes, alright?”

You nod, barely. Your fingers twitch where they search the space beside you, like they expect Bean’s duck to be there. Like you’re still not used to letting go.

February 27th — 10:00 PM

The gurney rocks slightly beneath you as EMS pushes through the sliding bay doors of The Pitt. It’s too bright inside. Every overhead light feels like it’s burning directly into your eyes, like the hospital has never been louder, never been more alive with urgency.

Jack is there.

He’s waiting at the entrance to trauma, still in his black scrubs, a streak of dried something near his jaw, probably from the last trauma he walked out of. But the second he sees you his face changes. Like he’s been sucker punched.

“Oh my God,” you whisper when you spot him. “Jack—”

He’s at your side before you can say more. “I’m here,” he says, gripping your hand. “I’m here. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The gurney doesn't stop moving. The paramedics are urgent but steady, wheeling you through the ER. Jack walks beside you, holding your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His voice is low, close to your ear. “Bean’s okay. Robby told me. You did the right thing.”

You nod shakily, breath catching. “She was so sleepy, Jack. She didn’t understand.”

Jack swallows hard, jaw clenching. “I know. I know. But she’s okay. She’s safe. You took care of her.”

You’re crying now, full body sobs that shake your shoulders even as they move you toward Bay 4. “I don’t feel right. Jack, I don’t feel right.”

He hears it in your voice. The terror. The truth. And even though he’s trained to keep calm, even though he’s seen worse his pulse spikes. Because this is you.

John Shen is waiting with a trauma nurse just outside Bay 4. “Vitals are unstable,” Shen mutters to Jack after scanning the EMT’s notes. “BP’s dropping. Possible abruption. We’re prepping for OR now. Walsh is scrubbing in.”

Inside the room, nurses move fast around you. IV bags. Monitors. The blood pressure cuff squeezes your arm too tight, and someone’s asking you to breathe slower, but it’s impossible.

“I thought I was just tired,” you whisper to Jack as he pulls the hair back from your damp forehead. “I thought I just… maybe I didn’t drink enough water.”

“You’ve been carrying two people inside you for thirty five weeks,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “It’s okay to be tired. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shen steps forward, holding your chart. His tone is calm but serious. “We need to get the babies out. Now. For their safety, but especially for yours.”

Your face twists. “No. No, that’s not—this wasn’t the plan.”

“I know,” Jack says, his voice soft but firm, eyes locked on yours. “But this is what we need to do. I promise you, we wouldn’t be making this call if there was any other option.”

Your voice breaks as you stare at him, wide-eyed and terrified. “I don’t want to be put under.”

Walsh walks in, already gloved and masked. “You have some early signs of preeclampsia. Spinal’s too risky. We don’t want to lose time. General anesthesia is safer for your body and for them.”

Your hand tightens on Jack’s. “Don’t let them do this. You’re a doctor. Jack, you know what this is. Don’t let them.”

Jack leans in, his forehead resting against yours. His voice is low, breaking open. “If we wait… we risk losing you.”

He lets that truth hang there, even though it shatters something in him to say it out loud. “I need you to be here,” he whispers. “I need you to wake up. I need you to yell at me for folding the burp cloths wrong. I need you in that room, holding them. Not just in pictures.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. Your voice is barely there. “I wanted to hold them first.”

“You will,” he promises, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “You will. But I can’t hold any of them without you.”

You nod slowly, the smallest motion. He kisses your forehead. “If anything happens—”

“Stop.” Jack’s voice sharpens. “Don’t talk like that.”

You pause. Then murmur, “Just… just promise me they’ll have your heart. And your patience.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll get your stubbornness.”

A nurse steps closer. “We’re ready.”

You let go of his hand slowly. And it feels like the air leaves the room. He kisses your hand once. Then lets it fall gently back to your side. Shen and Walsh exchange glances, nod. They wheel you away. And Jack doesn’t breathe until the doors close between you.

Robby appears a beat later. “Hey.”

Jack turns, blinking rapidly.

“She okay?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the swinging doors. “She will be. She has to be.”

Robby glances down the hall. “Heather’s at the apartment. Bean barely woke up in the car.”

Jack nods. “Thank you.”

“You should sit down.”

“I can’t,” Jack says, jaw tight.

Robby places a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll stand here with you.”

February 27th — 11:07 PM

Jack doesn’t sit. He stands outside the OR, arms crossed tightly over his chest, spine pressed against the wall, as if anchoring himself to something solid is the only way to keep from unraveling completely.

The double doors stay shut. The hall is too bright, too quiet. A trauma attending shouldn’t look like this.

But Jack’s not a trauma attending right now. He’s a husband. A husband who knows exactly what a rapid onset placental abruption looks like. A husband who’s seen what happens when mothers don’t wake up. A husband who’s trained medics to move faster than this… so why the hell is everyone moving so damn slowly?

His hands are still stained from his last case. He hasn’t washed them. He doesn’t remember if he did. It doesn’t matter. He can’t stop picturing your face: terrified, trying to be brave for him, for Bean, for the two babies that aren't supposed to be here yet.

His knee won’t stop bouncing. His jaw aches from how hard he’s been clenching it. You weren’t supposed to be in that gurney. You were supposed to be standing in the nursery tomorrow morning, paint roller in hand, bickering with him over whether the trim needed a second coat. You were supposed to be texting him updates from the baby store about how ridiculous the prices were but still grabbing the lamb-print swaddles because they made you smile. You were supposed to be upstairs right now, curled up on your side of the bed, safe. Warm under the covers. And he was supposed to come home from the night shift and find you there, kiss your temple in the dark, whisper something soft against your skin.

Not this. Not like this. Instead, you’re behind those doors. Under anesthesia. Cut open.

And he’s useless.

“Abbot.”

Robby’s voice cuts through the static. Jack doesn’t look away from the door.

“She’s in good hands,” Robby says quietly.

“I know,” Jack says, his voice so low it’s nearly a growl. “I trust Shen. I trust Walsh. I just…”

His throat closes. Robby nods. He gets it.

Jack exhales hard. “I’ve seen them done before. The emergency C-section. I’ve helped with them a hundred times. But it’s not the same when it’s her. It’s not the same when I—”

He stops. Can’t say it.

Robby doesn’t push. He just steps closer.

“I keep hearing her voice,” Jack whispers. “Telling me not to let them put her under. Begging me to stop it. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t protect her from this.”

“You did,” Robby says gently. “You gave her the reassurance she needed.”

Jack shakes his head. “It wasn’t reassuring. It was a gamble.”

Silence.

Then Jack turns, like he can’t hold it anymore. “You know what the mortality rates are in crash-section with general anesthesia and preeclampsia? You know what I’ve seen? Women coding on the table before they ever even push. I’ve held hands that went cold mid surgery. And now she’s in there, and I’m just supposed to wait out here like—like it’s not the love of my f—”

He breaks off.

Robby doesn’t flinch. He just lets him speak.

Jack’s chest rises and falls too fast now.

“She told me she wanted them to have my heart,” he says finally, softer. “But what if they don’t get hers? What if they never know her voice? What if—” He swallows. “What if she doesn’t get to see them grow up… see Bean grow up?”

A beat.

“I’ve survived a war. I’ve lost patients. I lost a leg. And none of it, not one goddamn second of it, felt as terrifying as watching them take her into that OR without me.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Robby places a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jack says, voice thin. “I’m f— I’m paralyzed, Robby.”

“You love her,” Robby says. “Of course you are.”

The hallway is quiet again.

Then: the intercom clicks.

“OR 2, baby boy delivered. 11:09 PM.”

Jack freezes.

“OR 2, baby girl delivered. 11:10 PM.”

He closes his eyes.

They’re here.

But the announcement ends there.

No mention of you. No mention of your vitals. No update on your status. Jack’s breath stutters. The silence is worse than anything else.

“Why haven’t they said anything?” he mutters.

“Because they’re working,” Robby says.

Jack presses his fist to his mouth. He turns his back to the door, just for a second, like if he looks away, it’ll change something. But it doesn’t.

He waits.

Two more minutes.

Five.

Until finally—

The doors swing open with a groan.

Jack is already moving. Shen steps out, surgical cap still on, the edge of his mask hanging from one ear. His scrubs are soaked to the elbows. His eyes land on Jack with the kind of weight that makes Jack brace his entire body.

Jack doesn't speak. He just waits. It's the only thing he can do without breaking. Shen exhales. “We’ve got both babies out. Vitals are strong. Girls got a good pair of lungs too, already let us know how she feels about the fluorescent lights.”

Jack lets out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Shen keeps going. “But your wife—” Shen shifts, tone sobering. “She lost a lot of blood. We’re still working. Walsh is in there now. Garcia is closing with her. I’ll let you know as soon as we’re stable.”

He should move. Should go to NICU. Should thank Shen. Should do anything other than stand here with his heart in his throat and his hands twitching at his sides like they’ve forgotten how to hold anything steady.

“I need to…I should go,” he says, not really to Shen, not really to anyone.

But Shen puts a hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Jack. You know that better than anyone.”

Jack gives a faint, broken laugh. “Yeah. She is.”

A beat passes.

Then Jack takes a breath that hurts to hold and turns toward the NICU.

Every hallway in this hospital looks different tonight. Brighter, harsher. Too clean. Like it’s mocking him for how close he came to losing everything in the building he’s walked a thousand times.

At the NICU window, he hesitates. He’s not scrubbed in, not a doctor right now. He’s just a man trying to hold himself together with nothing but the sight of two tiny humans swaddled in sterile white and soft blue.

The girl is on the left. She’s smaller than he thought she’d be. Her nose, maybe, is yours. No, definitely. That slope he kisses every morning.

The boy’s chest rises and falls like he’s been doing this for years. Confident little thing. Fists balled at his sides like he’s already ready to fight.

“You don’t know me yet,” Jack murmurs, barely audible. “But I’ve been yours for months.”

He leans his head against the glass for a second. Just to breathe. Just to stay standing. “You’ve got her strength,” he whispers. “You have to. ‘Cause she’s... she’s the reason I get through anything. So you both just hold on because you also got an older sister back at home who’s excited to meet you”

Behind him, the hallway stays quiet. Jack presses two fingers to the glass, one for each of them. And then, quietly, because there’s no one here to hear him fall apart, he breaks.

But only a little. Just enough to keep going.

Behind him, a familiar footstep. A voice.

“Thank god they look like her and not you.”

Jack smiles softly but still doesn’t look up. Then, after a beat: “You should go.”

“I’m not—”

“Go be with her,” Jack says, a little rougher now. “You’ve got Heather. Bean’s gonna wake up in the morning, and she needs someone who’s not cracked open.”

Robby’s quiet. “I’ll come back,” he says eventually.

“I know.”

Then he steps back. And Jack is alone.

He leans slowly into the glass, “ I hope you never know what this part feels like.” His voice is hoarse. “But if you do… I’ll be here.”

February 28th — 2:32 AM

Room 12.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t need to.

The nurse had said it soft, “She’s out of surgery. You can go in.” Jack had just nodded. No “thank you.” No “how did it go?” Just moved.

The room is dimmed low, the only sound the slow rhythm of the heart monitor and the hum of machinery filtering in from the hallway. You're still under, IVs taped to your arm, lips dry and parted. Jack steps in quietly, like the floor might give out beneath him.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks.

You’re here. Alive. Intubation tube gone. Still unconscious, but breathing on your own. That alone nearly undoes him.

He pulls the chair close to your bedside, prosthetic clicking against the tile like a dull metronome. Settling down, he exhales slow, scrubbing a hand down his face. He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might answer. “So, you missed some stuff.”

His voice is hoarse. Wrecked. But he's trying, trying to hold onto something like normal. “Shen said our daughter came out screaming. Real diva about it, apparently. She’s got lungs. The kind that get you kicked out of restaurants.”

A small smile flickers across his mouth, but it doesn’t quite stay. “And our son? Yeah, he’s already in trouble. Kicked a nurse while she was swaddling him. Not even five minutes old and already assaulting staff. We’re probably gonna have to post bail before he can walk.”

He leans back just slightly, tilting his head like he's talking to a conscious you. “You and them really couldn’t wait a few more weeks, huh? I mean, I know we said late March. But apparently February was like... an aggressive suggestion.”

The joke lands flat in the quiet, but he keeps going, voice a little less steady now.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He swallows hard. Looks down. When he glances back up, he’s pulling his wallet from his pocket. He flips it open, pulls out a worn ultrasound photo.

“I was gonna update these,” he mutters. “You know, once they were born. This was the plan. You and me doing it together. New photos. New names. You sitting next to me while I tried to spell things correctly.”

He sets the ultrasound down beside you, then pulls out a tiny photo of Bean—Bean on her second birthday, icing on her nose, holding Duck like he’s state property. He lets out a breath that’s more ache than air.

“Bean’s doing good. She woke up and asked if the babies were here yet. Told Heather she wants to teach them the duck song.”

His voice cracks slightly at that. Jack leans forward again, resting his hand gently on your arm. His fingers brush over your skin like he’s checking again that you’re real. He pulls out the last photo. The one of the two of you. You’re laughing, and he’s half-smiling, like someone caught him off guard. It was a summer day. You were still working at the firm. Before Bean. Before all this.

“I don’t know what possessed me to put all these photos in my wallet. Like I’m eighty years old and don’t have an iPhone. But I like having you on me. Even when you're already on my lock screen. I like carrying you. The whole damn life.”

He blinks hard. Runs a hand through his hair. “I kept thinking… if you didn’t make it…” His voice drops, thin. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

His thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist. “Come back, babe. Please. Just… just wake up. Call me dramatic. Tell me I’m being ridiculous. Ask me if I paid the water bill and highlighted it for completeness. Anything.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment.

Then: “They’re beautiful, by the way. You made beautiful babies. I mean, I helped. But let’s be honest… that’s all you.”

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice just a breath.

“Don’t you go anywhere. You’re the reason I come home.”

February 28th — 6:45 AM

It’s early. Not sunrise, not quite, but the world’s already moving around you.

You awake slowly, blinking past the haze of medication and the soft pulse of IV drips, and the first thing you feel isn’t pain.

It’s weight.

Not crushing, not uncomfortable but warm.

Jack.

He’s asleep, hunched in the chair beside your hospital bed, slouched forward with one forearm braced on the mattress and the other crooked protectively near your side. His head is turned toward you, cheek resting on his bicep. His body curls in like instinct, like a man trying to make himself as close to the person he almost lost as the world will allow.

And for a moment, you just look at him.

His lashes, pale against his skin. The fine lines carved beneath his eyes, softened by sleep. His wedding band catching a sliver of morning light. You shift, just slightly, your hand brushing through his hair. He flinches awake with a soft grunt, blinking rapidly. “Shit—sorry—Jesus, I didn’t mean to—”

Then he sees you.

His whole face changes.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice like gravel in sunlight. “You’re awake.”

You nod, lips parting. “Barely.”

Jack exhales, the sound rigid, like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding in for hours. He straightens up but doesn’t move far, one hand reaching for yours, thumb tracing across the bones of your knuckles.

“I thought about duct-taping my eyelids open,” he mutters. “But Shen said you’d probably prefer if I wasn’t banned from the ICU.”

“Shen always knows me best.”

He gives you a look. “Funny. I thought I held that title.”

You smile and Jack melts like it hurts. He shifts his chair closer, dragging it just enough so he can lean in and press a kiss to your temple. You’re quiet for a moment. Listening to the machines. Feeling his breath against your skin.

And then: “The twins?”

Jack nods, easing back just far enough to see you. “Yeah. You made two actual humans. And get this, they already have opinions.”

Your heart thuds hard.

He starts with your daughter. “Nothing is delicate about our daughter. If she’s cold, she lets you know. If she’s bored, she lets the entire neonatal unit know. Pretty sure she glared at me when I leaned too close.”

You blink, tears pricking. “Oh.”

He nods solemnly. “She’s got your attitude. And possibly your hairline.”

You let out a soft laugh. “And the boy?”

Jack leans in, lowers his voice. “I swear to God, I watched him grip the side of the bassinet. Like a man with a plan. He made eye contact with one of the nurses while getting his heel stick and I could see it in his face… full betrayal.”

You giggle through your tears. “Jack.”

“Bean’s gonna eat them alive,” he says softly. “They don’t even know what’s coming.”

You go quiet. Your hand finds his again. He leans in, brushing his lips to your knuckles. “They’re beautiful. They’re safe. And you—”

His throat tightens. “You’re here. And I’m still trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to thank the universe for that.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jack’s phone buzzes. He checks it, reading silently. His brow softens.

“Robby,” he murmurs. “He’s downstairs with Bean.”

Your eyes widen. “Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Jack assures gently. “He said she was full meltdown until Heather told her they were going to Daddy’s work. Then she stopped crying. Said, ‘If I can’t see Mommy and Daddy, at least I can breathe the same air.’”

You smile through a sob.

“She’s terrifying,” Jack says. “Like, emotionally gifted beyond reason. I don’t know how we made her.”

“You love her so much.”

Jack nods, blinking hard. “I do.”

You exhale. “Can I see them?”

“I’ll bring her and the twins in when you’re ready.”

You take a breath, trying not to cry. “I don’t feel ready for anything.”

He cups your cheek, voice low. “You don’t have to be. You just have to let us be near you.”

You nod and shut your eyes, the tears slipping down.

Jack leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than I know how to carry sometimes.”

You squeeze his hand weakly. “I know. I love you too.”

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