Work Text:
The first time Dennis has a seizure at work, it’s in the staff lounge. He’s eating a sandwich, writing in his notepad, when his grip goes slack and the pen thuds against the table. It’s brief, only a simple partial, but it hits seemingly out of nowhere.
It’s not like he meant to skip taking his medication. Living with Trinity was all well and good, and it gave him a place to call home, but at the end of the day, he was still a broke med student. Still rationing pills, still trying to make them last as long as he could. They’re expensive, and when you’ve lived the way Dennis has, always wondering when you’re going to eat next, always waiting for another expense to crop up that you can’t afford to pay, it’s hard to ask for help.
His pupils blow wide, nausea churning in his gut like milk gone bad. The staff lounge is empty except for him, but when his head twitches to the side, he sees a man with a wooden cross slung over his back. Thorns dig into this skull, blood dripping into swollen eyes. When he speaks, it is with the kind of defeat that says he has accepted his fate and sees no use in changing it.
“It’s all right, my son,” comes the man’s voice. “They know not what they do.” And just like that, the man is gone, and Dennis is alone again, muscles going loose after a moment. He rubs his neck, kneads the muscle there, like maybe he can will it not to be sore later.
Trinity pokes her head in, “Need you in two, Huckleberry. Thoracotomy’s taking a turn.”
“Shit, I’m coming.” He covers the rest of his sandwich in foil, hurries out of the lounge. Ignores the dark spots that dance in his vision. He’ll be fine. As long as he can keep taking his meds, he’ll be fine.
—
Dennis is not fine. It’s day twelve of rationing pills, and he’s had at least six absence seizures during every shift. They’re getting harder and harder to pass off as him being tired, as him needing a break.
One time, when he’s at the nurses' station looking through charts, he has another absence. Nobody seems to notice, at first. But when he looks up, he makes eye contact with Robby, and the attending is watching him like he knows.
“Whitaker,” he calls, like if he puts enough force behind the word, Dennis will come clean. “You okay?”
Dennis paints on a smile. “Didn’t have caffeine today. I’m starting to feel it.”
Robby nods slowly, eyes searching. Dennis turns on his heel and scurries off to discharge a patient.
He tries to do a better job of hiding it after that. Of course, his employee file has information on his epilepsy, but they don’t know that his medication schedule is shoddy at best, that some days he doesn’t even take them, so he can have enough for when it gets bad.
Absence seizures don’t typically last more than a few seconds. It’s not hard to make excuses for the moments where he seems to space out, where he goes quiet, but focal seizures? If he can feel them coming on, he’s usually better off just finding a place to quietly let it happen. When he can’t, though? Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
—
Night shift is always hard on Dennis. Working with Abbot is even harder. It's like working with a fucking psychic— somehow, Abbot always looks as if he can see right through him. If he thought Robby was bad, Abbot is ten times worse. Because he pushes. Where Robby pulls back, Abbot takes his place with a fucking battering ram.
It would almost be impressive how perceptive Abbot is if he weren’t so focused on using that ability to strip Dennis right down to the bone, then break those in half like the marrow holds words that Dennis might be hiding.
Tonight, Dennis clocks into work, and he just… knows. A seizure is coming. His ears have been ringing all afternoon, and his head aches. Like someone’s wrapped a rubber band around it a hundred times. A watermelon, waiting to burst. One more band and his brains paint the linoleum.
Rounds don’t take too long, and by the time he’s by himself, reviewing charts for a case to take on, Abbot is looking at him with an intensity that makes him want to curl up and hide.
“Doin’ okay, Whitaker?” he says, sidling up to him and bumping their shoulders together. “Look a little worse for the wear.”
Dennis blinks, ignoring the way his stomach flips over. At this point, he can’t tell if it’s from proximity to Jack or the aura he’s currently wading through like molasses. “Uh, yeah. Got a headache, I didn’t sleep well.”
Jack hums, lips pursing in a frown. “Take a minute in the staff lounge. Ask for help if you need it.”
Dennis ducks his head in a nod, shame creeping up his neck. The last thing he wants is others worrying about him when there are patients with much more pressing needs. He straightens and walks past Jack, slower than usual. Behind him, he hears Jack mutter to Lena, “Keep an eye on him, will you? I have a weird feeling.”
That makes two of us, Dennis thinks.
Trinity is in the staff lounge when he shuffles in, feet propped up on the lunch table, phone in hand. She glances up when he enters. “Hey, fag. Quitting already?”
Dennis doesn’t have it in him to laugh, to respond with something equally as snarky, so he just sinks into the chair across from her with a long sigh. “Abbot sent me in.”
“Oh. Should’ve known it was a concerned boyfriend thing.”
Dennis turns red, reaches over to smack her arm. “He’s not my boyfriend!” he hisses. Something ugly, something pleased rears its head at the word. Jack, his boyfriend. He tries to hide just how thrilled he is at the thought.
In Trinity’s opinion, Jack and Robby are so obvious with their intentions that it’s a little pathetic. But, in her words, it’s equally as pathetic that Dennis hasn’t caught on yet.
In his opinion, they’re just being nice. Trinity likes to look for things that aren’t there. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been wrong about any of her instincts, because she is wrong about this. Or at least, that’s what Dennis tells himself. Men like Jack and Robby — married men — have no business being interested in someone like him.
Trinity grins, but her eyes are searching, and he can tell she’s assessing him, looking for something that might give away how he’s really feeling. She’s always been too smart for Dennis to keep up with. “Yet.”
He slips further down his chair, arms crossed. The space behind his eyes throbs. He grits his teeth, wonders if it’s possible to hold off a seizure by sheer power of will (it’s not, but Dennis knows that very well by now). “Whatever.”
Trinity turns her focus back to her phone, but he can tell she’s not fully paying attention to it like she was before. Her gaze keeps flicking to him, hovering, worried. It’s obvious she thinks she’s being subtle, but it’s hard not to pick up on the way she side-eyes him. She hasn’t tapped the screen of her phone in a minute, either.
“If you’re just gonna stare at me the whole time I’m leaving.” He lets his head drop, thudding against the back of the chair. It doesn’t help his headache.
She sets her phone down, blinks at him. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t look like that, I’d stare less.”
He scoffs, shakes his head. Hopes it’s not obvious how queasy he feels. Oh, who is he kidding? If Abbot noticed, surely others have, too. “Look like what?”
“Like you might pass out.”
He goes quiet at that, swallows loudly in the silence. Tries to huff a small laugh. “I’m not going to pass out.”
“I’ll believe it when the shift’s over, and you’re still vertical.”
He closes his eyes, hums a tuneless song in the back of his throat. Why did she have to be so observant?
—
Three a.m. comes around.
Dennis knows it’s happening soon.
He walks around the ED like someone’s just knocked him upside the head, fluorescent lighting ringed in halos of color. He has time, he knows he has time, so he’ll find an empty room soon and lie down on a bed. That way, no one has to babysit him. Nobody has to worry; nobody has to see just how much he’s struggling.
Trauma three is open. It’s perfect. He pivots, makes to head towards it.
He groans, feet stumbling on their next step. The smell of burnt garlic meets his nose, mouth flooding with the taste of copper.
The world tilts, goes all blurry like he’s crying. For the first time in a while, fear opens its jaws, swallows him whole. He hasn’t felt this way since he was a kid, undergoing all those tests. The prick of a needle in the crook of his arm, cold metal against his forehead. This wasn’t supposed to happen here.
He lurches forward, arms flailing, and ends up slamming into a counter. Then, he’s hitting the floor. By the nurses’ station. Fuck.
—
Jack doesn’t get there in time to catch him. He sees it happening, sees the way Dennis stops walking suddenly and locks up. Sees the way he had stumbled over himself, the way he had been heading for an empty trauma bay. And before he can get to him, Dennis is hurtling towards the nurses’ station. His hands scrabble at the countertop, desperate, and then he’s on the ground, head smacking against tile.
Before Jack can even drag a full breath in, Lena is rounding the nurses’ station and shouting orders to Bridget, rolling Dennis onto his side, and shoving a blanket under his head. Jack’s legs feel numb as he runs across the ED, crashing to his knees by Dennis’s side. They’ll probably bruise later, but he can’t bring himself to care.
The sight of Dennis is scary. His skin is slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythm that has Jack’s stomach rolling. He sweeps a hand over Dennis’s head, checks the blankets underneath, and—
Swelling. A bump, large enough to fit in Jack’s palm, pushing up underneath dirty blonde hair.
Scalp hematoma. Relief floods Jack’s veins, but it is quickly followed by dread. There may only be bleeding under the skin, but Dennis still has to get through this seizure. And until they can get a head CT, they won’t know the extent of his injuries. It makes him want to throw up.
Bridget and Sophie appear with more blankets, faces drawn, brows creased. They hover, holding their breath.
“Start timing,” bites Lena, unusually harsh for someone typically so calm. She motions to Bridget to hand her another blanket, tucks it against Dennis’s back. “It’s been forty-five seconds.”
Jack marks the time on his watch, grabs a blanket from Sophie to add more support against Dennis’s spine.
A minute passes. Jack can feel himself sweating. His heart is beating like it wants to jump out of his chest.
Two minutes. Lena’s hands hover over Dennis’s side, ready to adjust him again if he rolls onto his back.
And then, “What the fuck?” comes Trinity’s voice. She races over, drops to the floor beside them. “What’s going on?” she demands, arms raised, reaching for Dennis but not quite touching.
Jack grinds his teeth, jaw clenching; he can’t bring himself to acknowledge her, vision tunneling in on Dennis. It’s been almost three minutes now, and he’s starting to panic. He hears Lena talking to Trinity, hears more cursing, more frantic voices. For an emergency department, they don’t do very well when one of their own is hurt.
He glances at his watch, curls his hands, then uncurls them. He knows how to fix this. Knows how to treat seizure patients and how to stay almost infuriatingly calm under pressure. But this is different. Because it’s Dennis. It’s like all intelligence has left his brain, replaced with raw, unfiltered panic. He breathes through the knot in his chest. “Prep ten of Midazolam, intramuscular,” he barks, hopping up to snap gloves on.
Lena’s neck cricks with how fast she looks at him. Trinity is watching them both with bated breath.“It hasn’t even been four minutes.”
Jack’s eyes follow the line of Dennis’s legs, mapping out the skin along his thighs. He watches the rhythm of the convulsions, the space between them. “If this goes on much longer, he’ll need it.”
Four minutes and thirty seconds. Jack has the syringe in hand, flicks out any air bubbles. At the five-minute mark, he tugs the cap of the needle off and administers the injection, pushing, pushing, until the hilt of the needle meets skin. He pulls it out, waits, chest heaving. At first, there’s no improvement, and Jack thinks he might lose his mind. Come on, Den. Come on, baby, push through.
He can tell Trinity is itching to intervene in some way, and lets himself meet her eyes, understanding passing between them. He’s gonna be okay. It says. We’re getting him the help he needs.
Another minute goes by. Stretches along slowly, agonizingly, seconds caramelized in fear and agitation.
Finally, finally, Dennis stops seizing.
His muscles go slack, mouth open. He vomits onto the blanket underneath him. Some of it leaks down to the floor.
Jack is pretty sure he just aged ten years. He drops his head into his hands, inhales shakily. Trinity looks to the ceiling with a whispered, “Thank fuck.”
Above him, Sophie speaks, “Postictal after six and twenty-three.”
Jack scrubs a palm down his face, watches as Dennis swallows harshly, doesn’t open his eyes. Bridget hands Lena a cup of water, straw already inside.
Dennis groans, opens his mouth, shuts it again. There’s vomit dribbling down the side of his face, clinging to his lips.
Jack swallows back remnants of panic, puts a hand on his head, carding gently through the curls there. “Don’t try to move, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Lena shares a look with Bridget and Trinity over his head, something like surprise and amusement flashing in her eyes. Bridget has to hold back a smug quirk of her brow.
In low tones, Jack addresses Lena. “I want an EEG and a CT. He hit his head pretty hard.”
Trinity nudges Jack, suggests they move him now that he’s done seizing. He grunts in agreement, lets her take the lead. He’s shaken down to his core, lips pressed thin as they lift Dennis onto a gurney.
If Robby isn’t the death of Jack, Dennis certainly will be.
—
When Dennis wakes up fully, he’s in a bed. There’s an IV in his arm, monitors beeping softly in the background, and an oxygen mask over his face. It takes him a minute to open his eyes. When he does, Jack is there, along with Robby.
The overhead lights are turned off, casting the room in dark shadows and dim lighting from outside. He groans softly, moves his head to look at Jack properly, tugs the mask down. The movement hurts. Both of their attention snaps to him, Jack sitting forward in his chair, Robby looking like he was just seconds away from falling asleep.
“Fuck,” is the first thing Dennis says. His throat is thick. It feels weird to talk. “How long?”
Jack leans in close, speaking softly. “You’ve been out of it for a little over an hour. We’ve got you on fluids, don’t worry. Put the mask back on.”
“No, how long was I seizing?”
“Oh.” Jack leans back, lips pursing. If Dennis were more coherent, he would see that Jack is pissed. “Six minutes, twenty-three seconds. Hit your head hard, too. Got a concussion. Lucky for you, that’s the extent of it. Now, put the mask back on.”
“Fuck,” Dennis says again. The persistent ringing in his ears makes it hard to fully understand what’s happening. Or maybe that’s the concussion. Or the fact that he’s currently postictal. Again, fuck.
Robby speaks where he was silent before. “Have you been taking your meds?”
Dennis just stares at him, confused. His brain is taking much too long to catch up. “What?”
“Your chart. Says you’re epileptic. Have you been taking your meds?”
Dennis blinks, hesitates. Is it worth it to lie to them? He thinks Jack might actually kill him if he does. “...Sometimes,” he settles on weakly.
“Sometimes?” Jack bites, brows drawn together in a harsh frown. There is anger in his gaze. And so, so much concern. And, if he weren’t so good at hiding it, Dennis would see fear there, too.
Dennis closes his eyes, draws in a breath. “It’s hard to stay on top of my meds when I can barely afford them. Easier to ration.”
Jack pauses, processes the words, deflates a little. “Shit, sweetheart.”
Robby scrubs a hand through his beard, watches Dennis with gentle eyes. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” his voice is so soft, more of a murmur than anything else. “We could’ve helped. The hospital could’ve helped.”
The tears beading on Dennis’s lashes are humiliating, to say the least. He almost doesn’t respond. But then, “Didn’t want to be a burden.” His tongue moves slowly, sticks to the roof of his mouth. Jack grabs the cup of water by the bedside and makes Dennis take a few sips.
Robby looks like he doesn’t know what to say to that. He mulls the words over in his head, chews on them like maybe if he breaks them down into small enough pieces, they’ll be easier to digest. “Does Trinity know?” he settles on, because anything else would sound too intimate, sound too much like he spends an inordinate amount of time thinking about Dennis. He does, but that’s not the point.
“No. Thinks I’m on the right dosage for it. But, I can take care of myself.”
“You call this taking care of yourself? Dennis, you seized for over six minutes. You could’ve sustained serious brain damage.” Robby leans forward, puts a hand on Dennis’s arm. Rubs back and forth in small, soothing strokes.
“But I didn’t. Okay? I didn’t.” Dennis’s voice comes out harsh, hoarse, like he’s trying really hard not to cry. “Just a concussion. Like I said, I take care of myself.” His words are clipped, shortened, and as he looks between his two attendings, all he really wants to do is sleep.
Jack slumps back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to, Den. You shouldn’t have to.”
He hiccups, turns over onto his side, pulls the covers up higher. Adjusts the mask so it covers his nose and mouth. Yeah, he knows he shouldn’t have to. But it’s easier. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the last thing he registers before he closes his eyes and gives in to the sweet embrace of slumber.
—
He’s given the week off from work, after that.
Trinity gives him a very long and very loud lecture about being mindful of his well-being. Tells him to never scare her like that again, starts crying, wrestles him into a hug. It softens him a bit. Has him warming up to the idea of accepting help. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Jack insists on visiting Trinity’s apartment every moment he gets, and more often than not, he’s shadowed by Robby.
It’s midweek by the time both Robby and Jack are able to visit together again. Trinity’s on shift, so Dennis is home alone, and he kind of wishes he wasn’t. Maybe then, it’d be harder for the two of them to gang up on him, to bully him into taking care of himself. He’s only one man, after all. And a weak one, at that.
He’s sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, hand shoved in a box of Cheezits, when the doorbell rings. When he answers, he’s greeted with the worried faces of his two attendings. “Hi,” he grunts, monotone. Already, he’s turning around and shuffling back to the couch. They’re quick to follow, closing the door and toeing off their shoes before wandering after him. “Checking up on me again?”
Robby clears his throat. “Actually, we wanted to talk to you about something.”
Dennis glances between them, pauses. Slowly sinks into the couch. As he does, he stops, blinking in rapid succession, the muscles around his eyes twitching. An absence. It’s gone just as quickly as it came. He continues on, resting his head against the back of the couch like nothing happened. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like what you’re about to say?”
Jack settles in a reading chair by the window and snorts. “Because you’re not.”
Robby doesn’t sit down. Instead, he crosses his arms, squares his shoulders. “We’re going to pay for your medication.”
Immediately, Dennis opens his mouth, a protest ready on the edge of his teeth. Robby holds up a hand.
“We are, and that’s final. You said yourself that you can’t afford it. You don’t have insurance? Fine. Me and Jack will help. Money isn’t an issue.”
Dennis shrinks into himself, pulls his legs against his chest. Remembers what Trinity told him.
(“You would rather put yourself in danger than let people help you? Do you realize how fucking stupid that is?”)
He feels unbelievably small. But not… not in a bad way, surprisingly. There’s warmth in it. Safety. It’s a strange feeling. He swallows. “Why?” he whispers. His gut twists uncomfortably, like maybe if it makes enough noise, it can remind him that he is better off alone. Better off carrying his burdens himself.
“Why?” echoes Jack. He sits forward in his chair. “Because we care about you. Because we’re in your corner. If you can’t take care of yourself, then we will. We want to.”
There’s a lump in Dennis’s throat. He thinks, maybe, affection is easier to come by than he thought. There is such finality in Jack’s voice, in Robby’s face, that Dennis is helpless to do anything but agree. He hesitates, nods. “Okay.”
Robby almost looks surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting it to be so simple. But what he doesn’t know is that Dennis is tired. So, so tired. And if he can make this one thing better for himself, why not? Trinity’s words, it would seem, were more impactful than he realized. Any argument that he would’ve made last week is cast away, along with his resolve. “Okay?” says Robby.
Dennis nods again, pats the space on the couch next to himself. Tells himself there is bravery in asking for help. In asking for comfort. Robby sits on the cushion beside him. Dennis takes a deep breath. “Do you think…” he pauses, chews on his thumbnail. “Do you think you could stay? Just for a little while?”
Jack gets up from his seat and joins them, trapping Dennis between him and Robby. “Yeah, sweetheart. We’ll stay.”
And there is something different about this moment. Something new. It feels charged. Static electricity, sparking along sensitive skin. Could Trinity have been right? Is there a chance at a relationship here, a chance at something tender, something sweet?
Against all odds and for the first time in a very long time, Dennis hopes.