AO3: StressedOutPest |they/them/she/her | fic writer | | (very) late twenties | I am here to write and talk shit. Mainly Rabbot or Rabbot-adjacent, but most importantly â¨i will whump that old manâ¨
I would love to write sick Robby. Injured Robby. Emotionally unstable Robby. Physically unstable and unwell Robby. Just... I want to put him in Situationsâ˘.
I am a whump writer at heart, that is where my roots are, but I have been known to dip my toes into some other stuff as well (Smut. Mpreg. Hairsalon AU's).  There is actually very little I will absolutely not write, content wise.
So, if you have a prompt you'd like to share, pay attention to the following:
Can do:
⨠whump and sickfics
⨠a lot of other stuff
No-can-do:
đŤReader-inserts or Y/N
đŤAnything +18 related involving children
đŤAge play, puppy play, adjacent
Also let it be known that unfortunately this is not the space for Hucklerobby, Hucklerabbot or Mohabbot. I ship Dennis with happiness, a roof over his head and two to three warm meals a day. And I ship Samira with something better than A Man.
I also ship those two old men with each other and only each other, they don't share in this house. So, if you want shippy, it'll be RabbotđŤśđť I don't want to yuck anyone's yum, all God's children and whatnot but this is just how I roll. (I am also more than happy to write non-shippy stuff. Friendship rules!)
I am also working on multiple full fics to throw towards AO3, but right now would love some little prompts to get it going.
hmmm⌠I am thinking⌠Jack whump where a very stubborn, workaholic Jack pushes himself too hard/ignores pains he knows he shouldnât and ends up needing surgery or lands himself in the ED (take your pick) and Robby is both worried as heâll and kind of furious (not at Jack necessarily bc he loves him but just at the fact that heâs gotten himself hurt. he should know better. but also he understands that the limitations are different and Jack never rests⌠mr. I heard it on the police scanner) Love your fics btw xxđ
//been in a mood for some Jack whump latelyđ¤˛đťâ¨ i'm glad you enjoy my fics, i hope you continue to do so
Jack knew the exact moment he was in trouble. Not when the sweat started pouring harder than usual; that had happened miles ago. Not when his shirt clung to his back like wet paper, or when the air felt too thick to breathe properly.
He knew when the world tilted sideways. Just a little, like someone had nudged the horizon with two fingers.
He stumbled but kept running.
Nine nights straight on shift. One day off. One single day where he was supposed to rest, hydrate, stay inside, elevate his leg, maybe even nap like a reasonable human being.
Instead he had put on his running blade and left the house before the sun had properly cleared the skyline.
Heâd told himself heâd go slow.
He did not go slow.
Now the heat pressed in from every direction, sun burning down from above, pavement radiating upward, air wrapping around him like wet cloth. His prosthetic felt heavier than usual, the socket warm and damp, skin inside slick with sweat.
His heartbeat was wrong.Too fast. Too loud. Too close.
Jack slowed to a jog. Then a walk.
The path swam. The trees blurred into green smears. The sound of cicadas drilled straight through his skull.
Hydrade, you idiot, his brain suggested vaguely. Only enough to make him realize, with distant annoyance, that he had finished his water bottle twenty minutes ago.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Completely dry.
Not great.
He knew the signs, he preached the signs multiple times a week every summer. Heâd treated dozens of heatstroke patients who insisted they were fine right up until they collapsed.
Jack stopped moving entirely, but the world didnât.
His vision pulsed at the edges, black creeping inward like ink dropped in water. His stomach flipped unpleasantly. His skin felt strange. Hot, yes, but also⌠prickling. Wrong. His thoughts didnât line up properly.
Sit down, he told himself, and yet he didnât.
He took another step and the ground surged upward. His prosthetic didnât quite land where he expected. His balance vanished in an instant, like someone had cut a wire holding him upright.
âOhâ he breathed faintly, just as the park floor rushed up to meet him.
---
Voices came and went in fragments.
ââŚsir, can you hear me -â
ââŚskinâs burning -â
ââŚwhen did he collapse -â
Hands on his shoulders. Something cool pressed against his neck. The distant wail of a siren that seemed to stretch and warp like sound underwater.
Jack tried to open his eyes, but they refused to cooperate.
He drifted.
There was motion, wheels rattling, straps tightening across his chest, someone lifting his arm. His head lolled sideways and sunlight stabbed through his eyelids like knives.
ââŚBP droppingâŚâ
ââŚIV inâŚâ
ââŚstay with us, buddy -â
He wanted to say he was fine. He couldnât remember how speaking worked.
Then nothing again.
---
When Jack woke properly, the first thing he noticed was the light.
Too bright. Too white. Too familiar.
Hospital ceiling.
He groaned. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth, and his whole body felt simultaneously chilled and overheated. Something tugged at his arm. IV line. Cardiac monitor beeped steadily somewhere to his left.
His entire body ached with even the smallest shift. Deep, heavy exhaustion, like every muscle had been wrung out and left to dry. His prosthetic was gone. His right leg elevated and wrapped loosely in a cool damp cloth.
Which meant -
Oh no.
Despite feeling like there was sand in every joint in his body, Jack turned his head.
And there was Robby, standing at the foot of the bed. Very still, arms crossed, expression carved from controlled fury.
For a brief moment, Jack considered pretending to still be unconscious, but it was too late. Robbyâs eyes locked onto his.
âYouâ Robby said calmly, which was far more frightening than yelling, âwent running. In ninety-eight degree heat. After working nine consecutive shifts. When you were supposed to be restingâ
Jack swallowed. It hurt, like glass scratching against sandpaper.
ââŚhiâ he croaked.
Robby closed his eyes briefly. Not in relief, but in restraint.
âHow long was I out?â Jack rasped, nodding weakly toward the monitor like maybe he could wriggle his way out of this, quick and painless. But Robby didnât answer him. Instead he stepped closer. Close enough for Jack to see the tightness in his jaw, the worry sitting heavy under his eyes.
âYou collapsed in a public parkâ Robby said. âA passerby called EMS. Your core temperature was one hundred and four point two when they picked you up. You were confused, hypotensive, and actively cooking your own organsâ
Jack winced.
ââŚthat sounds dramatic when you say it like thatâ
Robbyâs stare sharpened.
âIt is dramatic you fucking dimwitâ
Jack cringed at the insult, trying to sit up to better argue his case. With what, he wasnât sure. Robbyâs hand appeared instantly on his shoulder, firm and unyielding.
âDonâtâ he said, the authority in his voice enough to make Jack sink back down.
âOkay, so youâre madâ he observed weakly. Robby let out a slow breath through his nose.
âGood to see your observational skills werenât boiled straight out of your headâ he said quietly. âOf course Iâm fucking mad. Iâm mad at the fact that you know better. At the fact that you tell everyone else to listen to their bodies and then ignore your own until it nearly kills youâ
Jack stared at the ceiling. Fair.
A nurse slipped in briefly, checked vitals, adjusted the IV flow, gave Robby a look that said heâs stable, so you can keep scolding if needed, and left.
The room settled again.
Robby reached out and gently adjusted the cooling cloth around Jackâs residual limb, checking the skin with practiced care. His touch was careful. Grounding. Slightly trembling.
âHeyâ Jack murmured, reaching a hand to brush over Robbyâs knuckles. Robby didnât look up.
âYou scared the hell out of meâ he admitted quietly instead.
âI didnât mean to - Iâm sorryâ
âI knowâ
Robby finally met his eyes. The fury was still there, but now it was wrapped around something rawer.
âYouâre not invincibleâ he whispered. âYour body already works harder than most peopleâs just to maintain balance, temperature regulation, energy expenditure, and you push it like it owes you somethingâ
Jack tried to shrug, and failed miserably.
âI needed to clear my headâ
Robbyâs expression softened a fraction.
âYou could have taken a walkâ he argued.
âWalks are slowâ
âYou passed outâ Robby replied flatly. âLaying face first in the dirt is really fucking slow"
Jack huffed a weak laugh, and it turned into a cough. Robby immediately handed him a cup with a straw.
âSmall sipsâ
They sat in silence for a while. Monitors beeping. Cool air humming through vents. Jackâs body slowly remembering how to exist.
Robby eventually pulled a chair closer and sat, elbows on his knees, studying Jack like he was recalculating something vital.
âYouâre staying for observationâ he muttered. âLabs are already running. If your kidney function is even slightly off, youâre not leaving tonight.â
Jack groaned, but subsided when Robby raised an eyebrow at him.
âIâm assuming this comes with a bedside vigil from the head of the department?â
Robby hummed, his face twitching in a way that told Jack he was fighting a smile.
âHeâs got jokesâ
âYou love me and my jokesâ
Robby exhaled, tension finally leaking out of his shoulders.
âUnfortunatelyâ he muttered, reaching up to brush damp hair off Jackâs forehead. His hand lingered there, cool and steady.
assuming youâve seen 2x10, ehat are thinking of Robby huh? I wonât deny, yes, he is being a DICK. But it makes me worried too. Heâs clearly displaying signs of suicidal ideation, at this point he needs an intervention, not trying to get Caleb to talk him into actually accepting therapy.
i am answering this ask instead of the four other ones i've received because this one is at least not disrespectful towards me. but this will be the only ask i answer about this kind of thing.
i agree, he is presenting some very obvious signs of suicidal ideation, and it makes me anxious and sad and i worry about what the outcome of this season will be. he is unwell and i hope there is a solution that will not absolutely shatter my stupid little heart.
a more general statement on my views under the cut.
this is not in any way negatively directed towards you, anon. i am just using this ask as a platform to disclose what i feel because i have now received several messages talking unkindly about me and about robby and i am tired of it because this blog is supposed to be my safe space.
i am here to write my sille little fics and the occasional shitpost that pops into my head. i don't really feel comfortable going any deeper into the fandom because frankly, i have seen the shitty side of it here and in other fandoms and i just have no interest.
but let it be clear, here, now. i will never hate or hate on Robby. i agree, he was being somewhat dick-ish in this episode. i agree, he could have expressed things more nicely. i acknowledge all that.
but i relate to Robby on a very, very sad and unfortunate level. i recognize the way he acts in the middle of a severe mental health crisis as something i have done myself, and as something i still do when the water gets deep. so no, i will not say that he is an awful human being, that he needs to "hurry up an kill himself already". i will not agree that he is the worst person on the planet, and i will never hate him. because looking at him is like looking in the mirror and i don't need to be thinking all that about someone i relate to so strongly. i have enough of that just by my lonesome, thankyou.
i love Robby as a character, i love the fact that we have realistic and ugly representation of a severe mental health crisis, because that's what it is. that is the nasty reality. it is very often not just pretty single man-tears in locked bathroom stalls.
broken mental health breaks the one struggling, but it also sends shrapnel to the people standing too close. it is something that is so hard to get a handle on when it gets to go too far unchecked. and i love this show to heaven, to hell and aaaaall the way back for showing it. even if a big part of the audience doesn't seem to know how to appreciate it.
so if you are hoping for me to hop on the "hate robby" train or want to have an "explanation is not an excuse" argument with me, you might as well go talk to a brick wall. call me a boy mom over this 50-year old man, call me racist or sexist or whatever gets your rocks off. just do it behind my back and out of my inbox.
i can be a self acclaimed Robby apologist, and if you think i'm wrong for it, then maybe this is not the place for you.
read your last prompt, lovely as always! But now I feel like weâve made Robby suffer too much (huh, who am I kidding, we can never make that man suffer enough).
What about him meeting the baby and thinking that everything he experienced during his pregnancy was worth it in the end? Jackâs a crying mess too ofc. Man I just need them to have a kid. Theyâd be such great parents. đĽš.
//never too much suffering for himđââď¸ but yes, he also deserves the prize for going through All That⢠đ¤˛đťâ¨
Robby thought he might actually die on the last push. The thought drifted through his mind with a strange, distant calm, like something his brain produced simply because it had run out of other options.
He had been in labor for so long the concept of time had stopped meaning anything. Hours had blurred together into a relentless cycle of pain, pressure, exhaustion, and the steady, frustrating chorus of voices around him urging him through it.
His entire body trembled. Sweat soaked the thin hospital sheets beneath him. His hair clung damply to his temples, the oxygen cannula under his nose hissing softly each time he dragged in another ragged breath.
Everything hurt. His hips felt like they were being slowly pulled apart. His back burned with a deep, grinding ache that had settled there hours ago and refused to leave. His abdomen tightened again and again with contractions so powerful they stole the air straight from his lungs.
The monitors around him beeped in nervous rhythms. Someone wiped his forehead, and the way the unfamiliar touch made his skin prickle was weirdly pronounced. Another contraction hit, making him forget all about it. It tore through him so violently that Robbyâs fingers curled into the bedsheets as a strangled sound ripped out of his throat.
âOkay, okayâ someone said quickly. âThatâs it, Robby, weâre right thereâ
Right there. He had heard that before. He didnât know if he believed it anymore.
His body shook with the effort of simply existing through the pain.
Across the bed, Jackâs hand tightened around his. He looked wrecked, Robby had noticed that somewhere in the haze of labor. At some point the hours had started leaving their mark on Jack too.
His husbandâs hair stuck up in tired disarray, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy with exhaustion and worry. He still gripped Robbyâs hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the room.
âYouâre doing so good,â Jack murmured softly, his voice gentle but strained. âYouâre amazingâ
Robby managed a weak sound that might have been a laugh if it hadnât dissolved immediately into another breathless groan.
He wasnât sure where Jack was getting that from. He had been there for every miserable second of the pregnancy; through the fevers, through the nights where nausea kept Robby curled uncomfortably on the bathroom floor at three in the morning. Through the blood pressure scares and the endless appointments and the constant kicking that had robbed him of sleep for months.
Jack had rubbed his back when the baby decided midnight was the perfect time for gymnastics. Jack had stayed awake with him through countless sleepless nights. And now he was here through this too, and for some reason he thought Robby was amazing when in fact he felt like he was anything but.
Another contraction built suddenly, rising like a tidal wave. Robby gasped as it slammed into him.
âOh -God, fucking hell-â
âThatâs itâ the doctor said calmly. âThis is the one. I need you to pushâ
Robby shook his head weakly.
âI canâtâ he whispered hoarsely. He didnât think he had anything left. His muscles trembled violently with exhaustion, but Jackâs grip tightened around his hand.
âYou can. Just one more, youâve got thisâ
Robby squeezed his eyes shut as the pain crested. The effort tore a cry from his throat as every muscle in his body strained at once. The pressure was overwhelming, almost unbearable.
âGood, good, keep going,â someone urged.
Robbyâs vision blurred with tears. His lungs burned. For one endless moment the world narrowed to nothing but pain and effort and the crushing sensation of his body being forced beyond its limits.
Then, suddenly. Relief.
The pressure vanished all at once, replaced by a strange, hollow lightness.
And a sound. Sharp. Loud and furious.
A babyâs cry filled the room.
The noise cut straight through the fog in Robbyâs head, making his eyes fly open. For a moment he couldnât process what he was seeing.
The doctor lifted a small, wriggling, impossibly red-faced infant into the air and the babyâs outraged screaming echoed off the walls.
Someone laughed softly. Jack made a broken sound beside him.
âOh my Godâ
Robby stared. His brain struggled to catch up with reality.
That -
That was his baby. His baby.
The months of misery, the endless nausea, the aching bones and sleepless nights and constant worry, all of it suddenly crystallized into the tiny squirming life now being quickly wrapped in blankets by the nurse.
Robby felt tears slip down the sides of his face.
âCongratulationsâ the doctor said warmly.
Robby barely heard her.
The nurse stepped closer.
âReady?â she asked gently.
Robby nodded immediately, or tried to, at least. His entire body felt like it had been run over by a truck.
He was dimly aware of hands moving around him, adjusting the oxygen, checking the monitors, someone pressing firmly against his abdomen as they worked to control the bleeding that had worried everyone moments earlier.
But then the nurse placed the bundle in his arms and everything else disappeared. She was so small. Robby stared down in wonder. A few strands of red hair stuck damply to her tiny head. Her face was scrunched in fierce indignation as she continued protesting her arrival into the world. Her fists flailing weakly against the blankets.
Robbyâs arms trembled as he held her. Not from weakness this time, but from awe.
âOhâ he whispered.
The word barely existed as sound. Jack leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Robbyâs. Robby glanced up, smiling faintly at the tears streaming openly down Jackâs face. Jack didnât even seem aware of them. His gaze remained fixed on the tiny person in Robbyâs arms.
âSheâs perfectâ Jack said hoarsely.
Robby looked back down, unable to disagree. The baby had quieted slightly, blinking her eyes in confused little movements as if trying to figure out where she had ended up.
One tiny hand slipped free of the blanket, her fingers curling weakly in the air. Robby instinctively offered his finger and she grasped it immediately, her grip shockingly strong.
The sensation hit Robby like a physical blow. His chest tightened with sudden, overwhelming emotion. All the misery of the pregnancy rushed through his mind in a chaotic blur. Every miserable second of it.
And suddenly, none of it mattered. Robby laughed weakly, tears still sliding down his temples. The little girl blinked sleepily, entirely unconcerned with the chaos she had caused.
Robby shifted slightly, wincing at the lingering pain in his body. He didnât care, not when babyâs tiny chest rose and fell steadily against his arm.
Alive. Healthy. Completely perfect.
Jack pressed a gentle kiss against Robbyâs damp hair.
âYou did itâ he whispered.
Robby closed his eyes briefly, exhaustion finally beginning to pull at him now that the adrenaline had faded. His entire body felt shattered, but the small warm weight in his arms grounded him. For the first time in months, the misery was gone. All that remained was the quiet miracle of the tiny life curled against his chest.
Robby opened his eyes again and smiled down at her.
"Hiâ he whispered softly.
The baby yawned, and Robby decided he would go through every miserable moment of the pregnancy all over again if it meant ending up right here.
Robby left for his sabbatical honestly thinking it will fix him. He makes it to the site, and is riding away when an asshole drives carelessly and hit him, throwing him into a raveen before speeding away.
Robby is found unconscious on the side of the road and is taken to a hospital. Jack freaks out when Robby does not call him that night
// hi again đđť nice to have youđ¤˛đťâ¨
The first few hours of the ride felt almost unreal. Robby had expected guilt, or dread. Maybe even the creeping sense that he had made a mistake leaving everything behind for three months with nothing but a packed bag and miles of highway ahead of him.
There had been none of that.
The steady roar of wind inside his helmet, the vibration of the engine beneath him, the long grey ribbon of road stretching endlessly forward. Pittsburgh had disappeared in his mirrors hours ago, swallowed by distance and rolling hills.
For the first time in months, maybe longer, his chest had loosened.
He had ridden north through quiet towns and long forested stretches where the world smelled like wet asphalt and pine. Three months. The number had felt enormous when he first said it out loud. Too long. Selfish, even.
Now it felt like something necessary, vital.
He needed distance from the hospital corridors that never stopped echoing with the ghosts of days past. From the constant alarms and fluorescent lights and the feeling that every day he was slowly grinding himself into something brittle and hollow.
He needed distance from the quiet understanding in everyoneâs eyes, and that part had been the hardest.
Jack hadnât tried to stop him, not really. He had simply stood there in Robbyâs kitchen the night before his last shift, arms folded, leaning slightly into his crutch like he always did when he was thinking too hard about something.
âCall me when you stop for the nightâ he had said, and Robby had promised. Of course he had. The thought of Jack sitting in his apartment waiting for a call that never came made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Robby wasnât running away forever. He just needed quiet long enough to remember how to breathe again.
The road curved gently through a stretch of farmland as the afternoon slipped toward evening. Low sun spilled gold across the asphalt, turning the fields on either side into endless waves of amber.
Robby rolled the throttle slightly, the motorcycle responding with a smooth growl beneath him. The simplicity of it made his heart thrum with the kind of ease he had forgotten could even exist. Out here the world reduced itself to speed and balance and the rhythm of the engine. No charts. No trauma calls. No decisions that carried the weight of someoneâs life.
He caught himself smiling inside the helmet.
The sound reached him first, a car approaching too fast from behind, making Robby check his mirror. Headlights, too close.
He eased slightly toward the shoulder to give the driver more room to pass, but the engine behind him roared louder. Still closing in.
Something prickled at the back of his neck for a split second, the only warning signal his brain had time to send out. Robby barely had time to process the wrongness of it before the impact came, causing his world to explode sideways.
Metal screamed against metal, a violent jolt slamming through his left side as the car clipped the bike. The handlebars wrenched violently from his grip, and the bike lurched out from under him. Gravity disappeared.
Robby felt himself lift, weightless and horribly unprotected, as momentum threw him off the bike and into empty air.
The sky flashed above him, immediately followed by the ground rushing up to meet him.
The first impact knocked the air from his lungs in a brutal rush. Pain burst across his ribs as he hit the asphalt shoulder and skidded hard, the rough surface ripping heat and friction through his jacket.
His helmet cracked against something solid, making his world spin.
Momentum carried him further, tumbling once, twice, before his body slammed violently into the shallow ditch beside the road.
And just like that, as soon as it had started, everything stopped. For a moment there was only silence.
Robby lay twisted in the grass, breath refusing to return to his lungs. His body screamed in confused fragments. Sharp stabs in his ribs, a dull grinding ache in his leg, a hot blooming pain across his shoulder.
He sucked in a ragged breath that tore through his chest like broken glass.
âOh- fuckâŚ"
The word barely formed before another wave of pain rolled through him and it dawned in his rattled brain that something in his leg was very wrong. The deep, nauseating instability when he tried to shift even slightly. Fire shot up his thigh and into his hip, bright enough to make his vision blur.
His fingers twitched uselessly against the grass.
The motorcycle lay several yards away in a twisted heap of metal and plastic.
The car⌠Gone. The distant whine of its engine faded quickly down the empty road.
Robby tried to laugh and ended up choking on the sound.
âFuckâ he wheezed weakly.
His helmet pressed awkwardly into the dirt beneath him. The smell of gasoline and hot metal drifted faintly through the air.
He tried to move again, making pain detonate through his ribs this time, sharp and wet, forcing a broken groan from his throat. His vision dimmed at the edges.
Okay. Okay, maybe moving was a terrible idea. He focused on breathing instead.
In.
Out.
Each inhale scraped painfully through his chest.
Distantly, he wondered how long it would take for someone to drive past. Long enough for the sky above him to blur into streaks of color. Long enough for the ache in his body to swell into something vast and overwhelming.
His thoughts drifted strangely. Jack would be annoyed if he missed that call tonight. The idea floated through his mind with odd clarity, driving him to try and reach for his phone. His arm barely moved.
Darkness crept steadily inward from the edges of his vision.
âShitâ he murmured faintly.
The word dissolved into silence as his consciousness slipped away.
â
10:17 PM.
Robby had said he would call once he stopped for the night. Jack hadnât expected it exactly on time, Robby had always been terrible with schedules outside the hospital, but by half past ten he found himself glancing at his phone more often than he wanted to admit.
By eleven he was pacing the living room.
The apartment felt too quiet without the low hum of the television or the clatter of someone moving through the kitchen. Jack leaned heavily on his crutch as he crossed the room again, checking the screen.
No messages. No missed calls.
He told himself it meant nothing. Robby was probably still riding. Maybe heâd pushed further than he had planned, chasing the open road while the weather held.
Still, a small knot of unease had started forming in Jackâs chest.
By midnight he had called.
The line rang once. Twice. Then the automated voice informed him the number was unavailable.
Jack frowned, and tried again. Same result.
He lowered the phone slowly. Coverage dead zones werenât uncommon on long rural stretches of highway. Robby had probably stopped somewhere without signal.
Jack told himself that, even believed it for a little while.
The night came and went, the unease in his chest turned into something sharper.
Jack called again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
By three in the morning his thoughts had started running ahead of him in ways he couldnât quite control. His mind was circling the drain, conjuring up all sorts of horrible images, only interrupted by the shrill sound of his phone finally ringing.
Jackâs relief was shortlived, the unfamiliar number on the screen making his stomach drop instantly. For a moment he just stared at it.
âHello?â
âIs this Jack -â the voice on the other end paused briefly, checking something âJack Abbot?â
Jack straightened instinctively.
âYesâ
âThis is St. Maryâs Regional Medical Centerâ
The knot in his chest turned into ice.
âWe have a patient here listed under the name Michael Robinavitch. Your number was listed as his emergency contact?â
Jack gripped the phone harder. The room seemed to narrow around him.
ââŚWhat happened?â
âThere was a motorcycle accident earlier tonightâ the nurse said gently. âHe was brought in unconscious but heâs currently stableâ
Jack closed his eyes as air rushed back into his lungs all at once.
Alive. Robby was alive. Hundreds of miles away, but alive.
yesss give me more robby with a complicated pregnancy!!
// it has been very mpreg heavy over here for a bit, hasn't it? i hope everyone else finds it as entertaining as i do (i will write something else next, promise)
Robby knew he shouldnât have come in. He had known it when he woke up nauseated and damp with sweat at four in the morning. He had known it when his blood pressure cuff at home had flashed a number that had made him frown. He had known it when he had stood in the shower and needed to brace one hand against the tile because the steam had made his head swim.
But they were already short staffed. And he was, unfortunately, still him.
So he had left the house.
Now he was standing at the foot of Trauma Two, gloves streaked faintly pink, dictating the last of the orders while the team finished wrapping up.
âRepeat hemoglobin in four hoursâ he said, voice steady out of sheer muscle memory. âLetâs keep her systolic above ninety. Good work, everyoneâ
The patient was stable. The room smelled like saline and iron and antiseptic.
Robby swallowed hard. That was a mistake, one that made the nausea rose like a tide. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
The baby kicked, low and mean, mirroring his frustration. He didnât react. He had gotten very good at not reacting.
He peeled off his gloves carefully. The latex snapped too loudly. The overhead lights seemed brighter than they had been ten minutes ago. Black specks drifted lazily at the edges of his vision. He blinked them away stubbornly.
âDr. Robby?â
He turned slightly. Santos stood near the computer, her eyes sharp and concerned. Less than a year working together and she had become scarily good at reading him.
âYes?â he managed. She tilted her head.
âYou good?â
The correct answer was yes. Robby opened his mouth to give it, but the floor shifted under his feet. Just slightly. Like earlier in the morning in the shower.
His head felt airy. Wrong. As if someone had packed cotton inside his skull. He reached for the edge of the gurney, casual, controlled, and missed by half an inch.
Trinity stepped closer immediately.
âHeyâ she said quietly. âYouâre looking kinda pale there, bossâ
âIâm always paleâ he replied automatically.
There was another kick delivered against his ribs, sharp enough to make his breath hitch and the black spots in his vision multiply. The room felt far away, then. Muffled at the edges.
He tried to straighten, to reset his posture. His heart did something unpleasant in his chest. A flutter. Then a hard, irregular thud.
Oh.
Thatâs not -
âDr. Robby?â Trinityâs voice was closer now. Urgent in a way that didnât quite reach Robbyâs brain.
He exhaled carefully.
âI may notâ he said slowly, because honesty suddenly felt less optional, âbe fineâ
And then the world dropped out from under him.
He was distantly aware of falling, of hands grabbing his arms. Of Trinity swearing softly right by his ear.
He didnât hit the ground, which felt like a small mercy.
Sound floated around him in small, detached bits and pieces.
ââŚBP cuff -â
ââŚget a stretcher -â
ââŚDr. Robby, can you hear me?â
He wanted to answer, he really did, but his body refused.
â
When Robby woke properly, he was lying on his back, hating it immediately. There were straps around his belly, and it took him a moment to realise what they were. Belts. Monitors.
The steady galloping rhythm of a fetal heart filled the room, strong and terrifyingly fast in his ears.
He blinked up at the ceiling.
Fluorescent lights. One of the observation rooms.
A blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm rhythmically. An IV line tugged at the inside of his elbow when he shifted, cool fluids sliding into his vein.
He felt wrung out. Hollow. His head was still light, as though gravity hadn't quite returned.
âOh goodâ a voice said gently. âWelcome backâ
He turned his head sluggishly. Dana stood beside the bed, arms crossed but expression soft. Humor and worry layered together.
âYou checked out on usâ she informed him.
âSo Iâm gatheringâ he muttered.
The nausea hadnât left. It had become a constant in the past month, just simmering at a tolerable level most days. Today it felt sharp again, ready to spike.
There was movement near his other arm.
A young nurse with wide eyes smiled at him nervously, holding a vacutainer.
Emma⌠something. Her full name refused to surface in his sluggish mind, but he remembered her first day, just a few weeks ago. Fresh out of school. Soft-spoken. Tremendously earnest.
âIâm just going to take some blood for labsâ she said, voice quiet and apologetic.
He nodded faintly, his mind still trying to conjure up her full name for no good reason.
âOf courseâ
The needle slid in, stinging more than it should have. His nerves felt raw lately, every sensation amplified. It was enough to make him jerk slightly on instinct. Emma pulled her hands back like she had been burned.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, Iâm so sorry -â
âItâs fineâ the response was automatic, though his voice came out weaker than intended. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, unsure if it came out more like a grimace.
Emmaâs hands trembled slightly as she switched tubes.
âYouâre okayâ Robby stared with half lidded eyes as the second tube filled with blood, the thought of it distantly nauseating but it was like his body was too tired to really react to it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Dana smiling at him, but paid her no mind. So he had a secret soft spot for students and fresh graduates still learning the ropes, especially nurses. Sue him.
When Emma removed the needle, her hands were steadier, and the pinch was basically nonexistent. She taped the gauze in place with excessive care.
âThank youâ Robby told her quietly, making her blink, startled, then offer a small, shy smile before escaping the room like sheâd just survived something monumental.
The door clicked shut after her, allowing silence to settle into the room. The fetal monitor continued its steady, rapid rhythm.
Dana exhaled.
âYouâ she said mildly, âare an absolute menaceâ
Robby closed his eyes briefly, âIâve heard that one beforeâ
She moved closer, checking the IV rate, glancing at the monitor.
âYour blood pressure tankedâ she said. âOrthostatic changes have been a mess for weeks. And you still refuse to slow downâ
âIt was under controlâ
âYou were seeing starsâ
He didnât have the energy to argue that. His head still felt like it was full of cotton. His lower back throbbed from lying flat. The baby shifted restlessly, the monitors catching every movement in exaggerated sound.
He felt exposed like this. Wired up. Observed.
âI donât like being on this sideâ he muttered.
âI knowâ
The look on Danaâs face softened, and she pulled a chair and sat beside him.
âYou scared Trinity half to deathâ she said with a slight tilt of her head. Guilt pricked at him.
âI didnât mean to -â
âYou never do â
The words werenât sharp, just factual.
Robby stared at the ceiling, letting out a slow exhale. âIâm really fucking tiredâ
âYou look itâ
There was no teasing in that. Just understanding. He pressed a hand carefully against his belly, mindful of the monitors.
âSheâs fine?â he asked quietly.
Danaâs expression gentled even further.
âRock solid heartbeat. Strong movement. OBâs on their way to evaluate, but right now? Sheâs doing better than you.â
He huffed a faint breath of laughter, and Dana studied him for a long moment.
âYou shouldâve gone home hours ago,â she says softly.
âTwenty twenty hindsight there, Evansâ
He turned his head slightly to look at her, a pesky part of his brain expecting to be met with disappointment, or anger, but only finding worry. And something else. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Dana glanced toward it.
âI called Jackâ she admitted casually. Robby was sure his eyes could get stuck backwards with how hard he rolled them.
âSeriously?â
âYou fainted, Robbyâ She made sense, he knew that, and yet the fact made it no less frustrating. He exhaled sharply.
âHeâs going to overreactâ
âYes, he isâ She patted his arm, her hand nice and warm. âAnd youâre going to let himâ
The baby kicked again, hard enough to make him flinch. Dana raised an eyebrow.
will we see preggy robby whump on ao3 too? đĽšđŤŁ
//yes we will đââď¸ i have one piece in the works (occasionally derailed by my need to write smut oops) but yes, there will be preggy robby whump arriving to ao3 at some point.
in the mean time, here. have thisâ¨
Robby used to think he had a high tolerance for discomfort. Heâd worked thirty-hour shifts. Heâd stood in bloodsoaked trauma bays. Heâd operated with a migraine blooming behind his eyes and a cracked rib wrapped tight under his scrubs. He had functioned through grief that felt like it hollowed him out from the inside.
He had thought he understood misery and he had been utterly, immeasurably wrong.
He woke up already nauseated. That was the first insult.
There was no easing into it, no gentle build. His eyes opened and the world tilted unpleasantly, saliva flooding his mouth in warning. The room was dim, blackout curtains still drawn, but it might as well have been spinning.
Beside him, Jack slept on his side, one arm slung protectively across Robbyâs waist.
Robby tried to breathe through it. Inhale, slow and measured. Exhale.
The baby kicked, hard. Low and sharp, right against his bladder. Robby clamped a hand over his mouth.
âOh noâ he whispered to no one in particular, swallowing compulsively while starting a desperate scramble to get out of bed.
He didnât even make it to the bathroom.
â
When he was done dry heaving - because there was nothing left to actually throw up, hadnât been for days, just bile and stubborn reflex - he was shaking. Sweat slick on his hairline, his lower back throbbing like someone had wedged a crowbar into his spine.
Jack was there, kneeling on the tile beside him. Robby didnât remember Jack getting up.
âEasyâ Jack murmured, one hand steady between Robbyâs shoulder blades. The other held a damp washcloth, cool against the back of his neck. âSlow breathsâ
âI hate thisâ Robby croaked, the words coming out more broken than he intended.
Jack didnât laugh.
âI knowâ he said quietly.
Robby rested his forehead against the toilet seat and tried not to cry, because it felt like too much energy.
Morning sickness, theyâd said.
Morning.
It had been six months of this.
Six months of nausea that never fully left. Of food aversions so severe he had once gagged at the smell of toast. Of vomiting until he saw stars and then going to work anyway because he was still the Chief of the ED and apparently incapable of being reasonable.
Everyone had told him that the second trimester would be better. It was worse. The baby kicked like she was training for competitive martial arts.
Jack pressed a glass into his hand.
âSmall sipsâ
Robby obeyed. He simply didnât have it in him to argue. The water tasted metallic. Everything tasted metallic lately.
He leaned back against the bathtub eventually, exhausted beyond proportion, and pressed both hands to his stomach.
âSheâs doing it on purposeâ he muttered, petulant despite the exhaustion weighing him down. Jackâs mouth twitched faintly.
âSheâs a fetusâ
âSheâs vindictiveâ
As if summoned, she kicked again. High this time. Sharp. A jolt that stole Robbyâs breath. Robby hissed and folded forward slightly.
âOkay, that one hurtâ Jack said, all humor gone. His hand replaced Robbyâs, broad and warm against the tight curve of his abdomen. âHey, sweetheartâ he murmured softly to the bump. âYouâre stressing out your landlordâ
Another kick.
Robby squeezed his eyes shut.
âShe does not sleep. I donât understand how she doesnât sleep.â
âShe sleepsâ Jack replied, âJust not when you doâ
âWhich feels intentionalâ
Jack helped him up slowly, one arm around his waist. Robbyâs center of gravity still felt foreign. Wrong, like he was permanently off balance. His lower back protested every step and by the time they made it back to bed, Robby was trembling with fatigue.
He hadnât slept more than two consecutive hours in weeks. Because when he finally managed to drift off, the kicking started. Or the heartburn. Or the lightning-strike pelvic pain that made him gasp and clutch at the sheets.
Or his blood sugar crashed.
Or his blood pressure spiked.
Or he slept, but then woke up a second later drenched in sweat with a low-grade fever and no explanation.
It felt like his body had become a hostile environment.
He lowered himself onto the mattress with a soft groan. Jack arranged pillows with the efficiency of someone who had memorized the exact configuration that causes the least agony. One behind Robbyâs back. One between his knees. One tucked carefully under his stomach for support.
Jack pressed his palm to Robbyâs forehead, his fingers pleasantly cool. Robby rolled his eyes but didnât argue, instead leaning into the touch.
âYouâre warmâ
âI run warmâ
Jack studied him, worry etched into every line of his face.
âMaybe we should call OBâ
âItâs fineâ
âItâs notâ
Robby looked away, closing his eyes briefly against the wave of exhaustion thrumming in his veins.
âSheâs not going to say anything I havenât heard beforeâ
The helplessness was the part Robby hadnât anticipated. He had spent his entire adult life being the competent one. The stable one. The person other people could lean on, and now he couldnât even keep water down without supervision.
His eyes burned, the feeling utterly humiliating and unfortunately, lately, very familiar.
âIâm bad at thisâ he muttered.
Jackâs head snapped up at the words.
âYou are notâ
âI amâ Robby insisted, voice thin with exhaustion. âIâm miserable all the time. I canât function. I canât sleep. I canât eat. I canât -â His voice wobbled, âIâm bad at thisâ
Jack moved closer, careful of Robbyâs stomach, and cupped his face.
âThis is not a performance metric,â he said gently. âYouâre growing an entire human being. Itâs bound to be overwhelming and hardâ
Robby swallowed.
âI think she hates meâ he whispered, the fear that had been lurking in his head finally forming into words. It made Jack blink owlishly, a frown between his brows.
âWhat?â
âShe kicks all the time. She makes me sick. She -â Robbyâs voice cracked over the words. âWhat if she already knows Iâm not cut out for this?â
Jackâs expression shifted from concern to something softer, his thumbs stroking the damp skin under Robbyâs eyes.
âHey. No. Donât do thatâ
Robby looked down at his hands, at the faint tremor he couldn't quite control.
âI canât even handle pregnancyâ he said quietly. âWhat am I going to do when sheâs actually here?â
Jack leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Robbyâs.
âYouâre going to love herâ he answered, like it was the simplest thing. âYouâre going to worry about her. Youâre going to overthink everything and probably read too many parenting books. And youâre going to be exhausted and still show up anyway and you're going to love herâ
Another kick interrupted them, strong enough to make Robby flinch. Jack shifted his hand lower, rubbing slow circles against the taut skin of Robbyâs stomach.
âOkayâ Jack murmured to the bump. âWeâre not negotiating here. Dada needs to sleep.â
Robby snorted weakly.
âDada?â
Jack offered him a crooked little smile.
âOr whatever title you decide onâ he corrected, before returning to whisper nonsense towards the bump. Robby closed his eyes.
The nausea ebbed slightly, replaced by bone-deep fatigue. His back ached relentlessly, a dull, grinding pain that never fully disappeared. His hips felt loose, unstable. His entire body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Jack moved around until he was settled carefully behind Robby, one arm wrapping around his middle, hand resting protectively over the curve of their daughter.
âYou are going to be the most amazing dadâ Jack whispered against the back of Robbyâs neck. âAnd sheâs going to love you more than anything else in the worldâ
Another kick, less sharp this time.
Robby exhaled shakily. Jackâs words settled into a comfortable little nook in his chest, something to hold on to with the desperation of a drowning man.
âIâm just tiredâ he admitted, moving to rest his hand over Jackâs on his belly.
âYouâre allowed to beâ Jack pressed a kiss to the back of his head. âIâve got youâ
Robby let himself settle more comfortably, pressing himself against Jackâs chest. Let himself be held. The baby shifted again, but softer now. A roll instead of a jab.
Their hands stayed steady on his stomach, warm and reassuring. Robby focused on that warmth, on the solid presence behind him. On the slow rhythm of Jackâs breathing. He moved his hand just enough to press his fingers against the curve of his stomach, starting a gentle back and forth with his fingertips while his mind drifted.
Iâm sorry Iâm so bad at this. Please forgive me, baby girl. Thank you for being here. I love you.
Robby having his breakdown in s1 but itâs Jack that finds him in peads and tries desperately to put him back together
// i so wish it had been Jack instead. i daydream of it. don't get me wrong, i looove the scene on the roof, it is something that's so personal to me, but still. it shoulda been Jackđ¤˛đť
Jack didnât expect to find Robby there.
Heâd walked over to peds because someone had stashed extra suction tubing in one of the storage closets during the chaos, and now someone wanted it back right this second. The room was dimmer than the rest of the department, lights lowered out of some misguided respect for the fact that this space had become something else entirely.
Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder, already thinking about how fast he could get in and out.
He froze at the sight of blood on the floor.
Not pooled, but smeared. Footprints. Drag marks. The sharp, metallic smell clung to the air, layered over antiseptic and the heavy stillness of death. He wondered idly how it hadnât been cleaned up yet, technically it was a safety hazard. Blood could be slippery, and it wasnât like the space was too busy to be cleaned -
Jackâs eyes caught something else, then, completely making him forget about stained floors and missing equipment. Curled between two gurneys, back against the cold linoleum, knees drawn up tight to his chest like he was trying to make himself smaller. Robbyâs scrubs were streaked dark with blood; not his, Jack registered distantly, because he would have known already if Robby were hurt, but the sight of it still made something in Jackâs chest seize.
Robbyâs hands were fisted in his shirt, clutching the golden chain at his neck so hard his knuckles had gone white. His head was bowed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, shoulders shaking violently.
He was praying. Not quietly, not neatly. The words tumbled out of him, broken and frantic, Hebrew thick with breathless sobs.
Robby didnât pray. That was not something he did anymore, hadnât been for years. He made jokes about God not returning his calls, and apart from that he avoided the subject matter completely and compulsively. Knowing that, and then hearing the broken declaration of faith muttered in wheezy breaths made Jackâs heart ache. He dropped to his knees in front of Robby without thinking about it any further, ignoring the protest from his already burning legs.
âHeyâ he said softly, like approaching a spooked animal. âHey, Mike. Itâs meâ
Robby didnât look up. His breathing was fast and shallow, each inhale hitching like it hurt. His eyes were unfocused, darting, trapped somewhere far away. Not here, not now.
Jack recognized it immediately. Too much grief stacked on too much grief until the rest of existence had given up entirely.
Jack reached out, then stopped himself. Touching could be bad, it could trigger something he couldnât see. His hand hovered uselessly near Robbyâs trembling shoulder.
âMichaelâ he tried again, grounding his voice deliberately. It got him a reaction, at least. Robby shook his head weakly, words spilling out between gasps.
âI didnât - I tried, Jack, I did everything, I -â His voice cracked completely, a raw, animal sound tearing out of him. âShe was right there. I had her heart in my hands and it just - it wouldnât -â
Jackâs throat burned. He knew the feeling on an unfortunately personal level. The way it felt when someoneâs life just slipped right through your fingers, no matter how hard you tried to hold on to it. He shifted closer, close enough that Robby could feel him, but still not touching.
âLook at meâ Jack said gently. âYou donât have to say anything. Just look at meâ
It took a long, terrifying moment, but finally, Robbyâs eyes lifted. They were glassy, redrimmed, wild with a kind of pain that made Jack want to hurl, when reflected in the eyes of someone he loved so dearly.
âThere you areâ he murmured, fumbling to get a hold of his own emotions. âIâve got youâ
Robby let out a broken sob and folded forward, forehead dropping to Jackâs shoulder like his body had finally run out of fight.
Jack wrapped his arms around him then, firm and grounding, one hand braced between Robbyâs shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head, letting Robby shake violently apart against him.
âHe asked me whyâ Robby choked. âWhy I couldnât save her. Like - like I chose not toâ
Jack closed his eyes.
Of course he did. A seventeen-year-old kid whose world had just ended, lashing out at the only person close enough to bleed on.
Jack pressed his cheek to Robbyâs hair.
âYou didnât fail herâ he said, low and certain. âYou didnât fail any of themâ
Robby made a small, broken sound of protest.
âI see themâ he whispered. âAll of them. Every time. Monty, and the kids today, and⌠God, Jack, I canât do thisâ
âI knowâ Jack said quietly. âI knowâ Robbyâs words held weight in a way Jack had never heard before. He knew their line of work sucked, he knew that it was rough but rewarding on a good day and absolutely, gutwrenchingly horrible on a bad one. But he had never heard Robby so honestly declare that it was getting to be too much. There had always been that will to keep going, to keep trying, for the sake of everyone around him.
That seemed to be gone, now, and it scared Jack in a way very few things could. He shifted just enough to bring Robbyâs hands down from his chest, stilling the deathgrip on the necklace.
âStay with meâ Jack said. âFeel thisâ He pressed Robbyâs palm flat against his own chest. âCan you feel my heartbeat?â
Robby nodded faintly.
âGood. Match your breathing to itâ Jack instructed. âIn with me. Out with meâ
They breathed together. Slow. Steady. Again and again. Robbyâs gasps gradually softened, the sharp edge of panic blunting into something survivable. His grip loosened, his forehead resting heavy against Jackâs collarbone.
âI pushed him outâ Robby said hoarsely. âI couldnât- I couldnât let him see me like thisâ
Jack didnât comment on that. He knew Robbyâs instinct to protect, to absorb pain so others didnât have to. He slid his hand up, fingers brushing Robbyâs hair back from his damp forehead.
âYou did everything you couldâ Jack said again. âAnd today was not a day that rewarded thatâ
Robby sagged further into him, exhaustion crashing down now that the adrenaline was gone.
âI canât -â His voice wavered. âI canât do thisâ Jack tightened his arms just a little, the repeated admission of defeat making him ache.
âThen you donâtâ he said simply. They stayed there for a long moment, the quiet broken only by distant alarms and muffled footsteps. The hospital grinding on, indifferent as ever.
Eventually, Robbyâs breathing evened out fully. His grip on Jack loosened, though he didnât pull away. Jack kissed the top of his head, reverent.
âIâm hereâ he murmured. âAs long as you needâ
Robby nodded once, eyes closed, still clinging to him. The reality of chaos went on beyond the door. Jack couldnât help but worry if the damage would become something even further beyond repair, if Robby walked back out.
this might be the best prompt Iâve ever thought of but:
Noelle telling Jack about the TV thing instead of Dana. (Letâs assume rabbot arenât a couple⌠yet). Heâs wanted Robby for so long, heâs not risking it, and his crushâs situationship is now dropping very personal shit about Robby on random people. How many people has she told this before? What is her problem? And why does she find it FUNNY? He doesnât find it funny at all, itâs freaking sad.
// i'm still pissed about her dropping Robby's private business out in the open like that. i may never forgive her. i'm petty like that. thankyou for the prompt đ¤˛đť i hope you like it
Jack pushed the staff lounge door open with his shoulder, already half focused on the coffee he intended to make and half on the chart he still needed to finish before rounds.
He stopped short. Robby was standing just inside the doorway, close enough that he nearly collided with Jack on his way out.
âOh -â Robby huffed a quiet laugh, stepping sideways to avoid him. âCareful thereâ
He looked normal. Relaxed, even. That easy half-smile in place, eyes bright in the way they got when heâd been joking around. There was a faint flush high on his cheeks, the lingering warmth of amusement.
Behind him, Noelle Hastings leaned against the counter, arms folded, looking pleased with herself. Whatever conversation had just ended, it had been light. Familiar and comfortable.
Robby brushed past Jackâs shoulder, the contact brief but grounding in the way it always was.
âSee you laterâ he said casually, already moving toward the hall. Jack watched him go for half a second longer than necessary before the door swung shut.
Noelle turned to Jack like they were old friends sharing a private joke. Her smile widened. âHeâs really serious about that sabbatticalâ
Something in Jackâs chest tightened immediately. He didnât answer, just moved toward the coffee machine. And yet, she kept going anyway.
âThree months. Alone. Can you imagine?â
Jack reached for a mug, not sparing her as much as a glance. âYesâ
She laughed lightly, like heâd missed the point. âNo, I mean alone alone. Just him, the road, and his thoughtsâ
The quiet alarm in Jackâs chest began to ring. He set the mug down carefully. âAnd?â
Noelle leaned one hip against the counter, lowering her voice slightly, as if they were sharing something mutually entertaining.
âHe wonât lastâ she said. âMan canât stand even a moment of silenceâ
Jack stilled. She smiled, amused by some memory. âHe even sleeps with the TV on in his bedroomâ she laughed softly, like it was charming. Like it was absurd. Like it was funny.
Jack turned slowly to face her. For a moment he said nothing at all. Just studied her expression; the ease, the expectation that he would respond the same way. That he would smirk, or roll his eyes, or join in.
âThatâs privateâ he said finally. She blinked, surprised by the flatness of his tone.
âOh come on. The man canât stand to be alone with his thoughts for a minute and heâs going to do the whole rugged self-discovery thing? Please. Heâll be calling someone to come keep him company by day threeâ
âWhat the fuck gave you the idea that I need to hear any of this?â His voice stayed quiet and level. Controlled in the way people only were when they were very deliberately containing something volatile. Anger churned in Jackâs chest, disdain visible on his face as he regarded her. Robby had trusted her with something vulnerable and she had immediately converted it into social currency. She found it funny.
Her smile faltered slightly, confusion sharpening into mild irritation.
âYou think itâs funny?â Jack clenched his jaw, resentment heavy in his gut.
âI donât think itâs funny, itâs just -â
âWell you laughed, didn't you?â
Silence stretched between them, Noelle shifting uncomfortably under Jackâs scrutiny. Jack was happy to let her squirm, not feeling an ounce of regret.
âThe man sleeps with the TV on. Big dealâ She had the gall to roll her eyes, perfectly lined lips pursing with discontent. Jack stared at her.
Big deal.
Big deal.
Robby had always had a bad habit of handing pieces of himself to people who never bothered to notice their weight.
Noelle left the room with another roll of her eyes and a put off look on her face, and Jack was left alone to think about Robbyâs apartment. The glow of light under the bedroom door even at three in the morning. The low murmur of voices through the wall when Jack had stayed over on the couch after shifts that made being alone feel impossible. The way Robby never, ever turned it off fully, even when he claimed he was exhausted.
Jack had never asked why. He hadnât needed to. He had been there for years, quietly, hopelessly, helplessly watching Robby burn himself out piece by piece while pretending everything was fine. Watching him date people who never stayed. Watching him go home to a bedroom that could never be dark or silent.
Three months alone on the road.
Jack felt cold. He set down the cup of coffee he didnât remember pouring, suddenly aware of the way his heart was racing.
TV on all night. Canât stand being alone with his thoughts. Three months alone.
A sabbatical Robby had described with that careful casualness, the kind that meant âdonât look too closelyâ.
Jack suddenly, vividly, hated the idea of empty highways. Cheap motel rooms. Long nights with no noise except whatever lived inside Robbyâs head. He imagined the silence. Imagined it pressing in. Imagined no one there to interrupt it. It made something like fear, cold and heavy, settle in his stomach.
How bad does it have to be, he thought, for silence to feel dangerous? Jack knew the answer with intimate familiarity.
He dragged a hand down his face. Protectiveness pulsed under his skin, sharp and restless. Painfully unresolved, because Robby was not his to claim. This was not his to act on. Not yet, anyways.
The clock on the wall ticked on, and Jack knew he had to get back to work. He also needed to see Robby, today, before he left. He needed to look at him. Really look.
He needed to make sure the glow of a television wasnât the only thing keeping the dark away.
would you be interested in doing a robot food poisoning/stomach flu and being embarrassed and feeling like shit while abbot takes care of him?
//always interested in a good sickficđ¤˛đť
Robby knew he was in trouble the moment he woke up to the painful throbbing of nausea. It wasnât exactly unusual for him to sleep fitfully and wake up multiple times a night, but usually it had nothing to do with the aches and pains in his body.
He blinked blearily at the darkness of their bedroom, slowly registering the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. It was heavy, sitting somehow right below his diaphragm. Like gravity had quietly tripled sometime during the night and no one had bothered to inform his internal organs. The more he thought about it, the more urgent it made the need to get out of bed.
He made it halfway towards the bathroom before his stomach clenched hard enough to fold him in half, making him basically crawl the rest of the way.
Cold tile under his palms. The sour, metallic taste already rising in his throat. By the time Robby reached the toilet he was shaking so badly he barely managed to turn his head before retching.
It went on longer than it should have. Longer than anything reasonable and way past the point where his body had anything left to give.
When it finally stopped, Robby stayed there bent over the bowl, forehead resting against the cool porcelain, breath scraping in and out of his lungs. His skin burned. His hands wouldnât stop trembling. Every muscle felt hollowed out and replaced with wet sand.
Food poisoning, maybe. Stomach flu. Something violent and merciless and deeply uninterested in dignity.
He spat into the bowl, the bitter taste still lingering on his tongue, doing very little to ease the nausea. Without really thinking it through, he tried to stand up to rinse his mouth, and the floor lurched under his knees.
Robby made a vague sound of protest before sinking back down to sit on the tile, slowly folding until his temple touched the floor. The cold should have helped. It didnât. Heat crawled under his skin, fever thick and oppressive, his shirt already damp at the collar.
He could handle this.
He had handled worse. He had worked through worse. He just needed a minute. He just needed -
âMike?â
Jackâs voice was quiet, careful. Already alert despite the ungodly hour.
Robby squeezed his eyes shut, an involuntary shiver making his body shift against the tiles. Of course Jack had noticed heâd been gone too long. Of course heâd followed. Of course.
âIâm fineâ Robby croaked automatically.
Jackâs voice was gentle and disbelieving, âYouâre laying on the bathroom floorâ
âYour point?â
The air shifted as Jack crouched beside him, his crutches making a sound as he set them on the floor. The familiar warmth of his presence settled in close, steady and unhurried.
Robby kept his eyes closed. If he didnât look at him, maybe this could still pass as mildly inconvenient instead of catastrophically humiliating.
A hand touched the back of his neck, Jackâs fingers cool against Robbyâs feverish skin.
Jack inhaled sharply. âJesus, youâre burning upâ
âIâve had worseâ
âDonât I know it, brotherâ Jack murmured, voice threaded with quiet concern. âDoesnât change anything right now, thoughâ
Robby made a weak noise that might have been protest, but it dissolved into a shallow breath when another wave of nausea rolled through him, his stomach cramping violently. He scrambled to sit back up, muscles burning as he clutched the edge of the toilet weakly.
Jack was there, hands bracing Robbyâs shoulders.
The second round was shorter but harsher, leaving Robby shaking harder than before, throat raw, eyes watering helplessly. When he sagged back, Jack pressed a cool hand against his forehead. Robby swallowed hard despite the disgusting taste in his mouth. His voice came out small and shaky.
ââŚSorryâ
Jack sighed, the sound unexplainably sad.
âFor what?â
âFor -â Robby gestured vaguely at everything. The floor. The fever. The weakness. The way he couldnât even sit upright without help. âThisâ
Another long, quiet breath left Jackâs chest. Then he shifted closer, sliding one arm carefully around Robbyâs back to support him more comfortably against his side.
âHeyâ he said softly. âNot like you asked to be sick, now is it?
Robbyâs laugh was faint and miserable. âSame differenceâ
âNoâ Jack said, very gently. âNot reallyâ
They were quiet for a moment, Robbyâs whole being bristling against the worry and care Jack was offering. He knew Jack knew, he knew how frustrating it must be, and yet Jack was there. Warm and solid at his side, one hand resting lightly against his shoulder like an anchor.
For reasons Robby was yet to understand.
Time blurred after that. At some point Jack managed to get them both standing. Slow, patient, one careful movement at a time. He guided Robby back to bed, helped him swap sweatdamp clothes for soft, clean ones with minimal fuss. Layered blankets until the chills eased, then removed them again when the fever spiked higher.
Robby drifted in and out, caught somewhere between sleep and nausea and burning heat. Each time he surfaced, Jack was there. Adjusting the blankets. Offering water. Steadying him through another miserable rush to the bathroom.
Never rushed. Never irritated. Never anything but steady and kind. Worried.
At one point, shivering hard enough his teeth clicked together, Robby found his voice again.
âI can take care of myself, you knowâ
Jack, sitting on the edge of the bed with one hand loosely wrapped around Robbyâs wrist to monitor his pulse, looked at him like the words made no logical sense.
âI knowâ he said gently.
Silence stretched.
Then Robby whispered, raw and petulant, yet very small, âI donât need helpâ
Jackâs thumb brushed once across the inside of his wrist, grounding and warm.
âI knowâ he said again. Softer this time. âBut youâre allowed to have it anywayâ
Something in Robbyâs chest loosened at that. He shifted closer without thinking about it too hard, forehead pressing weakly against Jackâs shoulder. Feverish heat against steady warmth. Jackâs arm came around him immediately, careful of sore muscles, careful of everything, holding him with a gentleness that felt almost reverent.
They stayed like that while another wave of fever rolled through Robby. While his stomach twisted and his existence remained unpleasant and unsteady and deeply undignified.
But Jackâs hand kept moving slow circles against his back. And eventually, despite the misery and the weakness, the lingering embarrassment, Robby slept.
are you still writing prompts or have you stopped? :( miss seeing them on my feed
oh lordy NO i have not stopped! it has just been another rough ass week so the creativity and time has been... limited. but i am still very much writing. currently working on a longer fic too, which i'm hoping to get published over the weekend
no have not quit writing. have not abandoned the fandom. just busy and tired lmao
if you want jack whump,,, maybe he's treating a patient that turns violent and kicks him hard in his bad knee before they can get him contained?
the adrenaline of the moment and his focus on making sure everyone else is okay and the patient can't hurt anyone else mean that he takes a while to realize something is wrong. but when he goes to leave the room after calling the orders he almost screams from the pain that shoots up from his knee. someone instantly calls robby who gets woken up at like 2am and rushes to the hospital because he's worried and jack is famously an even worse patient that he is
:)
// as someone who has located both their knees multiple times... i say dislocated knees are wholly under-utilized in whump.
also pardon me for any inaccuracies regarding Jack's prosthetic. i do not have first hand experience, nor knowledge, so just like most of my stuff (apart from the stuff i do have first hand experience with), i go by google searches and what i've seen on tv.
The kick came fast. Wild. Desperate. And perfectly placed as it slammed directly into Jackâs right knee.
There was a sickening, sliding pop deep inside the joint. Something abruptly, horribly wrong, followed by a white hot explosion of pain that shot up his thigh. The feeling made something inside him light up.
Not just pain, but recognition. Violence. Shock. Impact. The brutal, jarring force of something hitting where his leg used to be. Where it ended.
For half a second, Jack couldnât breathe. Then training snapped back into place before his body could fully react.
âSecurity, a little help here!â
His voice came out sharp, controlled, authoritative, while his entire right side screamed in electric, nauseating agony. He stayed between the patient and everyone else until hands flooded in, restraints locked, sedation pushed, danger contained.
Only when the room finally settled did Jack shift his weight. Just slightly, nothing he didnât do thousands of times every day. But the movement made it feel like someone was grinding shards of glass inside his knee, the socket of his prosthetic pushing the tissue of his leg upwards, making matters worse.
The pain was deep, that of internal trauma. Of something being misplaced. Compressed nerves. Shock reverberated through scar tissue that still remembered shrapnel and heat and blood and dirt and screaming.
His vision tunneled. Someone touched his arm, making him flinch like he had been burned.
âJack -â
âIâm fineâ he said immediately, too fast, too sharp.
He wasnât fine. He could feel swelling inside the socket already, pressure building where there was no space for it to go. Every heartbeat throbbed through the limb like a drumbeat of pain.
He turned toward the door. Took one step, and the pain punched the air out of him. Jack grabbed the nearest surface hard enough to make his fingers slip.
âSomethingâs wrongâ Shenâs voice was distant in his ears. Jack shook his head immediately.
âNo. Just - just took a bit of a hitâ
But he wasnât moving. He wasnât putting weight on it again. He felt like a caged animal, suddenly, with people hovering nearby. The pain in his leg was making it hard to focus, and when someone offered him a chair, he sat down only because his vision was blurring and his brain was yelling at him that passing out in this environment meant danger.
Shen knelt beside him, his voice gentle and friendly.
âJack, we should remove the prosthetic and - â
âNoâ Immediate. Absolute. Non-negotiable.
âWe need to check the damage, the swelling might -â
âNoâ
Jackâs voice wasnât loud, but it had the immovable finality of bedrock. He stared at the wall ahead of him with unblinking eyes, overly aware of the sweat slowly dampening the collar of his shirt.
âDonât touch itâ The words sounded like the warning they were, and John let it go. Jackâs hands were shaking against his thighs, no matter how hard he tried to grip the worn fabric of his pants.
âIâll waitâ
âFor what?â
His throat moved when he swallowed.
"...Robbyâ
â
By the time Robby arrived, the department already knew two things: Jack was in significant pain. And no one had been allowed within six inches of his right leg.
He sat upright on a gurney like a soldier holding position under fire. His face was pale and shiny with a sheen of sweat, eyes glassy and staring at something no one else could see.
Robby walked in fast, and then stopped short, taking all of it in. It wasnât the posture, it wasnât the paleness, but the stillness. That rigid, controlled, inward-turned stillness he had only ever seen when Jackâs past had its hands around his throat.
ââŚheyâ Robby said gently, and Jackâs dark eyes snapped to him with terrifying accuracy. And just like that, something in his face broke open. Relief. Strain. Pain he had been holding back with sheer force of will.
âGot kickedâ he said quietly.
âSo I heardâ
Robby approached slowly, deliberately visible, giving Jack full control of the space between them. He stood next to the bed, didnât touch the prosthetic. Didnât even reach toward it.
He just looked at Jackâs face; at the tension around his mouth, the shallow breathing, the protective way he held his hip slightly off-balance.
"That bad?â
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. âFucking hurtsâ
Robby had been around for long enough to know that even on a good day, the prosthetic could cause discomfort. Not just the residual limb, but something that radiated upwards and affected Jackâs whole body. He could only imagine what it was now.
âDo you want to take it off?â
Silence, followed by a small nod.
âI willâ Jack said. Not âyouâ. Not âhelp meâ. âI willâ.
Jackâs hands moved slowly, deliberately, with mechanical concentration. Release sleeve. Unlock mechanism. Shift weight carefully.
When the prosthetic finally slid free, Jack inhaled sharply, pain spiking as pressure released and blood flow shifted. He set the prosthetic aside like something fragile and sacred and only then did Robby move closer.
âCan I look?â
Another nod, allowing the touch of gentle, warm and familiar hands.
Robby examined the residual limb carefully. It was already flushed, slightly swollen, tender along the distal end where force had transmitted upward through the socket. Slightly deformed where the kneecap had pushed out of its cup, on the outside edge of it.
âNo skin breakâ Robby murmured. âBut your knee took a hitâ
Jack closed his eyes briefly.
âFeels like itâ
âWe need to reduce itâ
Robby rested one hand lightly against Jackâs thigh.
âPain meds?â
âNoâ
âJack -â
âNoâ
Robby let out a sigh at the sheer stubbornness, but didnât push the matter. He could work the pain management later, when Jack was less wound up and more accepting of help.
Reduction required positioning, positioning required movement. Movement required Jack to allow it, which took negotiation. Bribery. Thankfully Robby was familiar with all of that as well.
Eventually, Robby slid one hand gently behind Jackâs thigh, the other steadying below the knee.
âBreathe with meâ he murmured.
Jack grabbed his wrist with bruising force.
âJust⌠Slow, okay? Go slowâ
âI know. I will. Take a deep breath for meâ
Jack closed his eyes, his inhale shaky, and Robby moved his hands on Jackâs leg with it. Slow extension. Gentle pressure. Careful alignment.
The kneecap slid back into place with a wet, heavy clunk.
Jack choked on a scream that turned into a strangled gasp, his whole body jerking forward, grip crushing tight as the pain spiked bright and overwhelming. He sagged forward, forehead pressing against Robbyâs shoulder, breathing hard and uneven. Robby petted a gentle hand through his curls, quietly exaggerating his own breathing so Jack had something to imitate.
Eventually, Jack leaned back against the pillows, breathing shallowly, face pale but calmer. Robby adjusted the blanket over his legs with slow movements, mindful to avoid touching the right one.
Jack didnât refuse when he offered to get an icepack. He didnât refuse when Robby pushed a dose of pain medication into his palm after they got home a while later. He accepted the help easily, and Robby was silently thankful that he was allowed to be the one Jack trusted with all of it.
Another whumpy fic idea- chemical exposure in the Pitt, Jack and the pittlings are exposed and Robby has to take care of them
// i find myself struggling to write the Pittlings for something that isn't thousands of words long. something to learn, for sure.
No peace for the wicked. Thatâs what Robby had learned, mostly the hard way, through working in the ER for as long as he had. It didnât matter there was no mass casualty. It didnât matter that they were, for once, decently staffed without too many sickleaves. Didnât matter that it was one of the quietest days in the ER history.
Because there was always something.
The sharp, acrid smell biting at the back of his throat as soon as he walked into the building was a cruel reminder. All it took was one slightly undertrained member of staff in the environmental services for his day to go to shit before it had even started.
It wasnât the usual cocktail of antiseptic and sweat and fear. This was harsher. Chemical. It made his eyes sting.
It explained the coughing. The chaos despite the quiet in the waitingroom he had just walked through. The cluster of staff corralled near the far end of the department, oxygen tanks rolling in fast.
Robbyâs gaze snapped to the pair by trauma two.
Jack was sitting on a stretcher, hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs. His face was ashen beneath the flush creeping up his neck, chest hitching visibly with every breath. A mask covered his mouth, fogging with each shallow inhale.
Beside him, Trinity was blinking furiously, eyes red and watering, hacking into her own mask like she was trying to cough up a lung.
Robbyâs chest tightened and as if on cue, Jack looked up. Eyes unfocused but immediately relieved.
âHeyâ Jack rasped once Robby made his way to him. Even that single word triggered another coughing fit, deep and wet and awful.
âThink you could go one day without getting yourself into shit?â Robby muttered, crouching in front of the other man, his hand on Jackâs knee for both of their comfort. Jack gave him a weak, apologetic look through the mask.
âYouâre the worst oneâ Robby said flatly, already scanning vitals. âOf course you areâ
âHe was busy⌠getting everyone else awayâ Trinity sounded like a kid who got the chance to snitch on her sibling, if one ignored the wet rasp in her voice. âNever mind he was the closest⌠to the sourceâ
A look of betrayal crossed Jackâs face as he frowned at her past Robbyâs shoulder. He lifted one hand, attempting a shrug, immediately regretted it and slumped forward again.
Robby fought the urge to roll his eyes. Switching Santos to night shift had allowed for an extremely annoying dynamic to form between Jack and her.
âExposure time?â Robby asked.
âAbout four minutes before evacuation,â Santos croaked, not done exposing all of Jackâs secrets.
Jack wheezed softly, fingers curling into the fabric of his scrubs like he needed something to hold onto. Each breath looked like work. Too much work.
Robby decided that the lecture about putting on oneâs own oxygen mask before helping others could wait, if for nothing else than the utterly miserable look on Jackâs pale face.
â
They moved them to observation once the worst of the chaos settled.
Trinity was uncomfortable but stable. Sore throat, burning lungs, headache. Miserable, but improving.
Jack was not.
Robby stood at the foot of Jackâs bed, too wound up to sit down. He had his arms crossed tight, watching the rise and fall of Jackâs chest. Still too fast. Still too shallow. Jackâs eyes fluttered closed between treatments, exhaustion pulling him under in short, uneasy snatches.
âYouâre allowed to rest, you knowâ Robby murmured, squeezing Jackâs ankle with reassurance when he stirred. âYour lungs took a hitâ
Jack frowned faintly. âYou⌠okay?â
Robby snorted quietly. âI wasnât even in the building when it happened. Focusâ
Jack smiled weakly at that, then winced as another coughing spell seized him, harsh and rattling. His whole body curled inward with it.
Robby was instantly at his side, steadying him, counting his breaths under his own.
âThatâs itâ Robby said softly. âSlow. I know it burnsâ
Jack nodded shakily, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Half pain, half frustration.
âFuck meâ he groaned once it passed.
âYeah, wellâ Robby brushed a hand through Jackâs sweat damp hair, âMaybe not right nowâ
Jack huffed a breath that almost turned into another cough, then let his head tip back against the pillow. His eyes drifted shut, but his hand found Robbyâs wrist and stayed there, fingers loosely hooked so he could feel Robbyâs pulse thrumming against his fingertips.
âRest, Jack. Pleaseâ
Robby stayed where he was, letting Jack sleep with his pulse steady beneath his fingers.
No peace for the wicked, they had learned mostly the hard way. But after all these years, they had also learned how to make their own.
