Chapter Text
When Dennis was fifteen, he had a little…crush.
She was a beta. Sweet, and nice, and always laughed at his jokes. She was in his math class. They went to confirmation class together every Wednesday night, and Father Delaney sat them at the same island desk during discussion. He used to daydream about holding her hand on walks through the halls at school, and doodle their names in little hearts in the margins of his notes. He kept it a secret, because he knew his brothers would laugh and his parents would think it sinful. They'd have questioned him- asked him if he'd touched himself to the thought of her, if he'd ever had wet dreams. He'd shamefully have to admit that he had. They probably would have cried.
They’d have an aneurysm if they knew the things Dennis thought about Robby. The many wet dreams about strong, hairy arms holding him against the wall, or pinning him down, spreading him open-
Maybe it’s because he’s due for a heat soon- which, he has Trinity to thank for that. The WHO recommends for omegas using heat suppressants for extended periods of time -especially those that double as birth control- to detox every five years and go through at least one heat cycle before starting them again. Dennis is on year eight without a break. A fact he shared with Trinity drunkenly on a night off last weekend, and a fact he is very much regretting sharing with her right about now.
He’s not sure when the heat will hit. Every article he reads says it’ll take maybe a week after he stops taking the pills for the heat to hit, but that pre-heat symptoms will come immediately and ten times as worse. He’s on day three without taking the pills, and he wants to just curl up and die.
“You alright, Whittaker? You look like…”
“Shit? It’s okay to say I look like shit, I won’t report you for workplace harassment," Dennis deadpans, not even lifting his head from his work station. “I’m fine, just…nauseous. And my head is pounding. And every bone in my body feels like it’s being stretched on one of those medieval torture devices.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re practicing medicine hungover.”
“But you know better.”
“That I do.” Robby’s voice is close- so fucking close. And so, so fond. Dennis shivers, and he swears he feels himself start to slick up. Fuck. “You sick, then?”
“Something like that.”
Trinity, in passing, snorts. “Yeah, you will be in a few more days. Turn in that paperwork yet?”
“Getting there! Leave me alone, mom!”
“Paperwork?”
Dennis lifts his head and looks at Robby. Right.
“Uh- I…I’m detoxing off my…heat…suppressants. So I have to turn in my leave paperwork to HR, so it’s an excused absence from work.”
Robby raises an eyebrow at that, his cheeks dusting pink. Dennis tries not to think about why an alpha like him would blush at the thought of an omega going into heat. “Oh. Alright. Do you have cover arranged already, or do you want me to look for someone for you?..”
Dennis shakes his head. “I arranged it with Victoria- uh. Jivadi. Dr. Jivadi. She’s between rotations, right now, and I was going to ask you just to double check, but she’s happy to get more Emergency Medicine hours, if…that’s okay?”
“That…should be fine.” Robby says with a small nod. “When do you think you’ll..?”
Dennis chokes on air. He doesn't know why the question feels so intimate. Like he's planning on being there and wants to make sure he's on time. “Uh- Tomorrow, maybe Sunday.”
“Okay. If you feel any worse throughout the day, just let me know, okay?”
“Yeah, of course, but I think I’ll be fine. Thank you, Dr. Robby.”
He stands and stretches, and gets back to work. He has an unhoused man with a bad case of gangrene, a little boy that broke his collar bone on the playground, a linecook who spilled grease on himself and his latest waitress fling while cleaning the (still hot) fryer, and a paperboy who flew headfirst over his handlebars. As the day progresses, the nausea and pain continues to edge on. He does his best to push it all to the back of his mind, but it’s fucking hard. There’s a reason Dennis hasn’t stopped his heat suppressants long enough to have one in eight years. His pre-heat symptoms have always hit him hard; some omegas only really get a couple of small cramps, maybe a headache. But Dennis has migraines and body aches and cramps and spikes terrible fevers before the actual heat itself even strikes. He's miserable before the thing starts, and then it happens and he's alone and empty with no alpha to scent him or fill him up and breed him and he's lonely. Fuck, heats suck. Why did he let Trinity convince him to go through with this again?
By the end of the shift, Dennis just wants to sleep. In fact, he almost just goes home with Trinity. But he wants to stick with routine, before he’s stuck at home for a week in agonizing pain, empty in every sense of the word. So he waits for Robby outside, shivering in the late November cold. He’s practically falling asleep leaning against the blue Chevy truck when he hears the crunch of asphalt and leaves underfoot.
“Sorry, I was handling something. You good?”
“Hm? Yeah, good. Tired.”
“Yeah? I couldn’t tell. C’mon.” A hand finds the back of his neck and Dennis makes a noise in the back of his throat, melting at the touch. Robby opens the passenger door for him, and he allows himself to be carefully guided inside. He blinks, and when his eyes open, he’s buckled up and they’re already halfway out of the parking lot. A soft jazz station plays on the radio tonight. He blinks again, and he’s looking at the inside of Robby’s garage. Huh. He must really be more tired than he thought.
He climbs out of the car and enters the house, already knowing Robby will be in shortly. He’s quick to change, suddenly very aware of the fact that his scrubs are itchy and gross and probably smell like the dozens of patients he’s seen today. The sound of the garage door opening and closing is a comfort as he takes a minute to run some cold water over his face in an attempt to wake himself up. It doesn’t do much.
He pads his way down the hall, skipping the kitchen all together tonight and heading straight to the couch- he takes up a bit more space than he maybe usually would, sprawling out a bit as he lays his head on the arm of the couch with a heavy sigh. Fuck, he’s tired.
“Whittaker? You good?”
“Yeah!”
“You still want your tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m not feeling well…”
“Okay. Maybe before you leave.”
He can hear Robby go about making his own cup, the sound soothing and familiar. He’s asleep before the alpha even makes it to the living room.