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Jack didn’t mean to hide it.
That was the thing—he hadn’t woken up thinking I’ll ignore this. He’d woken up thinking I’ll deal with it after shift, which had turned into after dinner, which had turned into tomorrow, which had turned into three days of low-grade fever and a dull, insistent ache he told himself was just overuse.
The prosthetic had rubbed raw before.
Redness happened.
Soreness happened.
This was… louder.
Jack noticed Robby noticing when he caught him washing his hands for the third time in an hour, jaw tight, movements careful in a way Robby recognized immediately.
“You’re limping,” Robby said.
Jack didn’t look up. “I always limp.”
“You’re favoring,” Robby corrected.
Jack shut off the sink harder than necessary.
“It’s fine.”
Robby leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely—not confrontational, just present.
“Take it off,” he said.
Jack hesitated.
Robby’s voice softened. “Jack.”
With a sigh that sounded like surrender, Jack sat and unfastened the prosthetic. The smell hit first—faint, but unmistakable. Not rot. Not yet. But wrong.
Robby’s expression didn’t change. That worried Jack more than if it had.
“Okay,” Robby said gently. “Let me see.”
The skin around the stump was angry—deep red, swollen, shiny. A small break near the distal end oozed faintly, warm to the touch.
Jack watched Robby’s eyes track every detail, clinical instinct sliding in effortlessly.
“You’ve got erythema extending beyond the pressure points,” Robby said quietly. “And warmth. And you’re guarding.”
Jack shrugged. “It’s probably just—”
“—cellulitis,” Robby finished. “At minimum.”
Jack finally met his eyes.
“You’re a doctor, Jack,” Robby said softly. “I know you know the signs of infection.”
Jack swallowed.
“I didn’t want to make a thing of it.”
Robby stepped closer, hands gentle as he palpated around the area, careful not to hurt.
“Shhh, hey,” Robby said immediately when Jack flinched. “I’m not mad. Just worried.”
Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“I didn’t want to be the patient again,” he admitted.
Robby’s hands stilled.
“I know,” he said. “But you don’t get to martyr yourself quietly in this house.”
Jack huffed a weak laugh. “You’re one to talk.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Fair.”
They went to the ED because they had to.
Jack hated walking through those doors without a badge on. Hated sitting instead of standing. Hated the way the department seemed to look at him differently when he was the one hurting.
Robby pushed the wheelchair in quietly.
At triage, Robby didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Prosthetic-related stump infection,” he said. “He’s immunocompetent but febrile at 102. I’ll manage.”
Princess nodded immediately.
Robby turned to Jack. “I want Dana.”
Jack smirked faintly. “Of course you do.”
Dana arrived in under a minute, eyes flicking from Jack to Robby.
“You look like hell,” she said to Jack.
“Theme of the department,” Jack replied.
Dana’s gaze sharpened. “You ignoring an infection again?”
Jack winced. “Allegedly.”
Robby cut in smoothly. “I want the room closed. Just us.”
Dana didn’t question it. “Done.”
Inside the room, Robby helped Jack onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his usual brisk efficiency.
“Shoe off,” Robby said.
“Yes, sir,” Jack muttered, giving a mock salute.
Robby removed the dressing Jack had slapped on earlier, jaw tightening at the worsening redness.
“You’ve got streaking,” Robby said. “Low-grade lymphangitis.”
Jack sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
“I was hoping you’d come in yesterday,” Robby replied.
Jack looked away.
Robby reached out, thumb brushing Jack’s knee.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
Jack did.
“I’m not mad,” Robby repeated. “I’m just… scared of losing ground with you.”
Jack’s expression softened.
“I didn’t think it was this bad.”
“I know,” Robby said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Dana returned with supplies and antibiotics already ordered.
“IV cefazolin and acetaminophen, some oxy for the pain” she said. “Blood cultures pending. Ultrasound if you want to rule out deeper abscess.”
Jack looked like he was about to argue against the pain relief, but a look from Robby silenced.
Robby nodded. “Let’s start with this.”
Dana glanced at Jack. “You behave.”
Jack smiled weakly. “No promises.”
When Dana stepped out again, the room went quiet.
Robby cleaned the wound slowly, methodically, murmuring explanations even though Jack didn’t need them.
“You’re allowed to rest,” Robby said. “You know that, right?”
Jack swallowed. “I’m better when I’m useful.”
Robby looked at him for a long moment.
“You’re useful when you’re alive,” he said. “Everything else is negotiable.”
Jack’s eyes burned unexpectedly.
“God,” he muttered. “You’re unfair when you’re gentle.”
Robby smiled. “Occupational hazard.”
The house was dim when they got home, lights left low on purpose. Robby nudged the door shut with his foot and waited while Jack leaned heavily against the entryway bench, breathing through a wave of dizziness.
“Okay,” Robby said quietly. “We’re not rushing.”
Jack nodded, eyes closed. “Room’s spinning a little.”
“I’ve got you.”
Robby moved in close, an arm around Jack’s waist, solid and steady. He’d learned the exact balance—how to support without lifting, how to let Jack feel in control even when he wasn’t.
They made it to the couch in stages.
Jack sank down with a sound halfway between relief and pain, jaw tightening as he adjusted his stump on the cushion Robby had already set out.
“Good,” Robby murmured. “That’s it.”
Jack exhaled shakily. “You’re very prepared.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Pattern recognition.”
Jack settles on the couch, stump elevated, Robby nearby with a blanket and a glass of water he didn’t let Jack forget to drink.
“Pain?” Robby asked.
“Manageable,” Jack said. “Embarrassment is worse.”
Robby snorted. “Please. You’ve seen me try to open a jar one-handed.”
Jack smiled, then grew serious.
“I don’t like needing help,” he admitted.
Robby sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
“I don’t like watching you hurt yourself trying not to,” he said.
They sat there quietly for a while.
Jack finally spoke. “Next time, I’ll tell you sooner.”
Robby nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Jack reached for his hand.
“You take care of everyone,” Jack said. “Let me take care of you sometimes.”
Robby squeezed back.
“We’re a system,” he said. “We fail if one of us pretends we’re not.”
Jack closed his eyes, exhaustion settling in at last.
“Okay,” he murmured.
Robby stayed right there, listening to Jack’s breathing even out—gentle, steady, safe.
For tonight, that was enough.
The nausea hit twenty minutes later.
Jack went pale in a way Robby recognized instantly, one hand bracing against the arm of the couch.
“Oh,” Jack muttered. “That’s… not great.”
Robby was already moving.
Bucket. Cool cloth. Water.
He knelt in front of Jack, one hand steady on his knee.
“Lean forward,” Robby said gently. “I’ve got it.”
Jack barely managed before retching, body folding in on itself, a harsh, miserable sound tearing out of him. Robby held the bucket steady, other hand firm between Jack’s shoulders—anchoring, grounding.
“It’s okay,” Robby said softly. “Let it happen.”
Jack gagged again, dry this time, whole body shaking.
“I hate antibiotics,” he rasped.
“I know,” Robby said. “They’re bullies. They’ll settle.”
Jack slumped back when it passed, breathing hard, eyes glassy with embarrassment and exhaustion.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This is—”
Robby cut him off immediately, voice warm but firm.
“Don’t,” he said. “You don’t apologize for being sick in this house.”
Jack looked at him, something fragile flickering across his face.
Robby wiped Jack’s mouth gently, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Pain crept in as the adrenaline faded.
Jack shifted restlessly, jaw clenched, trying not to show it. Robby noticed anyway—he always did.
“Scale of one to ten,” Robby said.
Jack sighed. “Six. Maybe seven.”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a six.”
Jack gave a weak huff. “Fine. Eight.”
“Thank you,” Robby said, and reached for the meds.
He sat beside Jack, waited while he swallowed, then guided him back against the cushions.
“Give it fifteen,” Robby said. “I’ll stay right here.”
Jack’s shoulders slumped, tension draining in slow increments.
“You don’t have to hover,” Jack said.
Robby rested a hand over Jack’s forearm, thumb brushing lightly back and forth.
“I know,” he said. “I want to.”
The nightmares didn’t announce themselves.
They never did.
Jack went quiet suddenly, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall, breathing shallow. His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening.
Robby felt the shift immediately.
“Jack,” he said softly.
Jack didn’t answer.
His chest hitched. A low, involuntary sound escaped his throat—half breath, half memory.
Robby moved closer, lowering himself to Jack’s level.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re here.”
Jack shook his head, eyes unfocused. “I can’t— I can’t feel—”
Robby took Jack’s face between his hands, grounding without trapping.
“Look at me,” Robby said. “Not back there. Here. In our little house in Pittsburgh. With the green trim you picked out. The big spruce out front. The leaky basement window.”
Jack’s eyes flicked, struggled, then found Robby’s.
“There you are,” Robby whispered.
Jack’s breath stuttered. “I hate this,” he said hoarsely. “I hate needing help. I hate that I—”
“Shhh,” Robby said immediately, thumbs warm against Jack’s cheeks. “It’s okay.”
Jack’s eyes burned.
“I lost my leg because I didn’t move fast enough,” Jack said. The words came out flat, rehearsed, like they’d been waiting a long time. “And now I can’t even take care of myself without—”
Robby leaned in, forehead resting against Jack’s.
“You lost your leg because you were in a war,” Robby said softly. “Not because you failed.”
Jack swallowed hard.
“And needing help now,” Robby continued, “doesn’t erase who you were then. Or who you are now.”
Jack’s breath hitched again, but this time he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” Jack whispered.
Robby’s voice was steady, absolute.
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re my husband. My best friend.”
Jack let out a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
Robby wrapped his arms around him carefully, mindful of the pain, holding him like something precious rather than broken.
“You’re allowed to rest,” Robby murmured. “You’re allowed to be taken care of. Especially by me.”
Jack’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him at last.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Later, Robby helped Jack to bed.
Slow. Careful. Every movement narrated so nothing startled him.
“Leg up,” Robby said softly. “Good. Easy.”
Jack lay back, exhausted, eyes already heavy.
Robby tucked the blankets around him, set the bucket nearby just in case, water within reach.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hand resting lightly on Jack’s hip.
“I’m here,” Robby said.
Jack’s fingers curled around his wrist, weak but insistent.
“Stay,” Jack murmured.
Robby smiled, warm and tired.
“I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Jack’s breathing evened out slowly, sleep finally claiming him—not deep, not perfect, but enough.
Robby stayed exactly where he was, listening to the rise and fall of Jack’s chest, making sure the pain stayed controlled, the nausea stayed quiet, the memories stayed at bay.
For tonight, Jack didn’t have to be strong.
Robby was strong enough for both of them.