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13:46PM
There’s no reason for them to be in a conference room really, given that this meeting is just for three people.
It’s too big, too cold, and it smells like burnt coffee and dry erase markers and the general sort of stale mustiness of the non-clinical rooms.
It’s an institutional sort of staleness really, because too many times has Robby been in here arguing over the same bullshit, getting scolded for making the right decision, purely because it’s not the most economical decision for the hospital.
He’d be lying if he said he was in a good mood. Actually, his jaw has been clenched so hard that his teeth hurt since the very minute Gloria opened her mouth.
She’s at the head of the table, her tablet in hand, glasses perched low on her nose as she clicks through a slideshow that the old projector is displaying up on the whiteboard.
Robby hasn’t read anything on any of them, titled as it is with something sort of soul-sucking like ‘Optimising PMTC’s Emergency Department Flow Under Fiscal Constraints’.
It’s bullshit, because Jack and Robby should not be sitting here listening to this nonsense, and that annoys him. Because no one should, really, it’s all money-hungry idiocy from The Powers That Be that Robby doesn’t care about. But that’s not really grinds his gears.
It’s the fact that the Pitt has no senior attending right now because of the fact that he and Jack are sitting here, doing this instead. That’s what makes him so indescribably angry that he’s sort of finding it hard to control himself.
Jack’s hand sits warm and firm on his knee, thumb rubbing gentle circles through his cargos as they listen.
Robby’s got his arms crossed over his chest, whole body tense. If it wasn’t for Jack’s steady, grounding reassurance next to him, he’d have walked out already.
“So,” Gloria is saying, “Corporate is really encouraging us to think creatively about throughput. We want to be aiming for shorter patient contact times, minimising any… redundancies, let’s say—”
“— oh, so now we’re just parroting their bullshit corporate-speak for ‘do more work with fewer people’ so they can give themselves bigger bonuses.” Robby cuts in. ”Actually, Gloria, I think there’s been a lot of research into the fact that shorter patient contact always results in worse outcomes,”
Jack coughs into his hand, badly disguising a laugh.
Gloria gives Robby a tight smile. “Dr Robinavitch, if you’d let me finish—”
“Oh, by all means,” Robby says. “I’m dying to hear how we’re going to safely cut another two nurses per shift without patients, you know, dying.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ll back him up on that,” he says evenly. “We’re already running unsafe ratios most nights.”
Gloria sighs. “No one is saying our staffing levels are unsafe, we’ve seen no significant increase in incidents or near-misses.”
Robby raises his eyebrows. “We’re saying that it’s unsafe. We’ve been there time and time again, working our assess off to ensure the standard of patient care is still as best as it can be.” He rubs a hand over his face. “And here’s corporate thinking that they can get away with it because of how hard we’re working. We’ve been at unsafe staffing levels for months. And you literally just suggested hallway beds as a primary solution to that!”
“They’re a temporary—“
“It’s not been temporary for the past few years, and yet you keep suggesting it. Is it a solution for trauma patients?” Jack asks, incredulous now.“Absolutely not. For post-rosc patients? Absolutely not. For literally anyone who requires continuous monitoring? No. The hallway isn’t safe, Gloria.”
Gloria’s mouth tightens. “PMTC has to adapt. Other hospitals are making it work. Pressures are only mounting and we need to cope.”
Robby leans forward, palms flat on the table. “Other hospitals are displacing their staff from other specialties to cover their ER’s and burning people out. That’s not ‘making it work,’ they’re not coping, no one is coping. Every single fucking attending across the state is in the same position as we are, desperately doing everything they can to protect their patients and staff.”
There’s a beat of charged silence.
Then —
Both Jack and Robby’s phones go off.
They both glance down automatically, and Robby swears.
13:49PM
< Dennis: CRITICAL LOW >
< Dennis: 44 mg/dL >
Jack’s screen shows the same thing.
They look at each other, the irritation from the meeting evaporating instantly, replaced by something sharp and cold and familiar.
He’s dropping fast, arrow pointed straight down, and Robby swears again as he stands, chair scraping back. “We have to go.”
Gloria blinks. “Excuse me?”
“One of the staff in the Pitt,” Jack says quickly, already standing. “Medical issue. We need to—”
“Sit down,” Gloria snaps. “This meeting isn’t over. If it’s a staff member then they’re in the right place, there’s plenty of doctors and nurses around to help them. This is an important meeting,”
Robby turns to look at her, incredulous. “It’s Dennis, he’s hypoglycaemic, he needs medical intervention now.”
Gloria frowns. “And?”
“And? He’s type one diabetic,” Jack says, voice clipped now. “And he’s at work, he might not be in the position to safely look after himself.”
“There are plenty of trained staff downstairs, Doctor Abbot, the last I checked we do hire plenty of doctors in this hospital.”
Robby almost sees red.
“Gloria. We are leaving. He needs our help.”
Gloria sighs, then waves a dismissive hand. “Fine then. One of you can check on him. The other stays.”
Robby stares at her like she’s just suggested amputating someone in the supply closet, and he’s fairly sure Jack’s wearing the same expression.
“No,” he says flatly.
Jack nods. “No. We both need to go.”
Gloria straightens. “That’s not how this works.”
Robby’s voice goes dangerously calm. “With respect, Gloria, this isn’t a negotiation.”
“You are senior attendings,” she says sharply. “You can’t both abandon a mandatory management meeting for—”
“— For a medical emergency,” Jack cuts in, anger breaking through now. “If Dennis doesn’t get help right now, he could seize. He could lose consciousness and stop breathing, just because we’re in a fucking hospital doesn’t mean that there’s anyone nearby who can help him. What if he’s in the bathroom or the locker room? Who’s going to know he needs help?”
“And he is our responsibility,” Robby adds, already moving towards the door. “And frankly, if corporate has an issue with the fact this meeting hasn’t been finished, they can take it up with me personally. I dare them to fire me.”
Gloria’s lips press into a thin line. “You are being dramatic Dr Robinavitch, why don’t we — ”
Robby ignores her. “Reschedule,” he says over his shoulder. “Or don’t. But if anything happens to Dennis because we were sitting here talking about Corporate’s budgeting fantasies, that’s on you.”
Gloria opens her mouth to respond, but the door shuts behind them before she can get a word out.
They’re halfway down the hall before Jack speaks again, already pulling up the little graph of Dennis’ blood sugars.
“Still dropping,” Jack says. “39 now.”
Gloria follows them. She hesitates a minute in the conference room, then pushes open the door, heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurries to keep up, irritation and confusion written all over her face.
As they make it down the stairs to the Pitt, she opens her mouth, presumably to continue the argument, when the three of them spot Dennis.
He’s slumped, half lying half sitting on the floor against the wall of trauma one, legs awkwardly stretched out in front of him. Langdon is sitting half beside him half behind him, taking most of his weight. He’s got one arm braced behind Dennis’ shoulders to keep him upright, although it looks like it’s a loosing battle. Dennis’ head has lolled forward, chin dipping toward his chest, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He’s breathing, but it’s shallow and uneven, and sweat darkens the collar of his scrubs, his hair wet where it’s plastered against his skin.
Still, Langdon’s free hand is buried gently in his curls, fingers stroking slow, grounding circles over his scalp.
“Hey, hey,” Langdon murmurs to him. “Stay with me, alright Whitaker? You’re doing great.”
Perlah is kneeling in front of him, holding an open packet of glucose gel in front of his mouth. She’s gently pressing it against his lips, but he doesn’t really seem to be cooperating.
“Come on, Dennis,” she says firmly but kindly. “Just keep swallowing. I know it tastes awful.”
Dennis does what he’s told, the verbal prompt seeming to register in his mind, but it’s sluggish. His lips close around the torn packet, jaw working with visible effort. His hand twitches weakly in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling like he’s trying to remember how to move them.
Shit.
Shit.
Robby drops to his knees without thinking, sliding in close, one hand immediately coming up to smooth Dennis’ damp hair back from his forehead.
Langdon pulls his own hand away, fingers brushing against Robby’s.
“Hey, Mouse,” Robby says softly, voice steady even though everything inside him is screaming. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. We’re right here. We got you.”
Dennis’ eyes flicker, unfocused, hazy, and they drag themselves toward Robby’s face. His brow furrows faintly, like he’s trying to puzzle something out.
“R…Robby?” he slurs.
“Yeah,” Robby says, thumb brushing gently at Dennis’ temple. “It’s me.”
Jack comes down at Perlah’s side, taking one of Dennis’ wrists, fingers pressed against his pulse point.
Dennis is pale, his breathing still shallow, but he’s a little more with it than he’d initially seemed.
“Perlah,” Jack says calmly. “How much gel has he had?”
“Most of one,” she replies immediately, shifting back to give him space. “He was still able to swallow when we started, but he’s just getting more and more out of it”
“Good, okay,” Jack says. “Thank you.”
Langdon adjusts so he’s not in the way, letting Dennis sag against his shoulder. He lets Jack get closer, but he doesn’t let go of Dennis, not entirely. “He just… went down,” he says softly, meeting Jack’s eyes over sandy curls. “I caught him before he hit the ground but he just wasn’t making any sense.”
Jack nods. “Thanks.”
Jack unhooks Dennis’ monitor from his waistband, clicking onto the graph. “52, he’s coming up. Perlah, can you grab one of the juice boxes from the staff room fridge?”
There’s a box of them in the bottom drawer, specifically for Dennis but also for anyone else who needs. Jack’s seen Mel drinking one a couple of times, tucked away in a quiet corner whenever she needs, and it reassures him to know that his staff are benefitting from what he’s bought for… well, his staff, really.
He squeezes the remaining dregs of the gel in the tube up to the top, and gently coaxes Dennis’ mouth open, letting him suck the last of what’s left.
“There we go, good boy, Mouse. Well done.”
Jack leans back, letting Robby take over, cupping Dennis’ face in his big hand. “You with us, kid?” he murmurs.
Dennis blinks, and he looks a little clearer as he finds Robby’s face. He looks at him, then looks away again, before he seems to process what was said. “I… feel weird,” he mumbles, words a little slurred,
“I know,” Robby says gently. “That’s the low talking. You’re safe, you did the right thing.”
Dennis’ mouth downturns. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Robby exhales, the hand on Dennis’ hair slipping down to clasp the back of his neck instead. “Hey. No. Don’t apologise.”
Perlah returns with the juice then, the straw already sticking into the carton, and Dennis opens his mouth obediently when Jack holds it up to him.
He drinks it better than expected, and by the time he’s drained the carton he’s already looking so much brighter.
It’s only then that Robby becomes dimly aware of Gloria standing just a few feet behind them, clipboard clasped to her chest as she watches them.
She looks… different.
The irritation is gone… Her corporate polish has cracked, replaced by something closer to shock, something a little more human, as she takes in the scene: Dennis on the floor, still so pale and shaking; two senior attendings kneeling beside him, and half the staff hovering protectively around them.
Jack looks up, and catches her eye.
“This,” he says evenly, gesturing down at Dennis, “is why we left the meeting.”
Gloria swallows. “Is he—”
“He’s okay, now.”
Robby doesn’t look at her though. He can’t. He’s still just staring at Dennis’ face, the way his lashes flutter with every slow blink, the colour returning to his cheeks, the way the rise and fall of his chest has grown deeper, steadier. Nothing else matters in that moment other than Dennis, that he’s alive and he’s safe and he knows it.
“There we go,” Robby whispers, watching as the fog clears. “That’s it, Mouse. Keep breathing.”
Dennis swallows again, then lets his head fall fully against Robby’s chest.
“ ‘s too bright,” he mutters.
Robby angles his body slightly, shielding him from the overhead lights. “I know. You’re doing great.”
Langdon finally eases his arm away, standing carefully once he’s sure Robby’s got him. “I’ll clear some space,” he says quietly, and moves to shoo back the curious onlookers.
“Nothing to see here folks. Let’s move on. C’mon, scram.”
Gloria steps forwards, then back again, finally looking at the ground instead of Dennis. “I… I… didn’t realise,” she says stiffly.
Jack just nods. “Now you do.”
Robby doesn’t say anything at all.
He traces circles against the skin at the nape of Dennis’ neck, murmuring reassurance under his breath, holding him steady until the worst of it passes, until his sugars finally rise, and the fear Robby’s chest loosens its grip just enough for him to breathe again.
There’s a long pause, before Jack sighs, and gobs Robby’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be okay with Langdon for a minute, Mouse, we’re going to talk to Gloria.”
Robby shakes his head, but Jack’s fingers dig in a little harder, just beyond comfortable.
“We are going to talk to Gloria,” he says again. “Langdon’s got you, yeah?”
Frank kneels back down next to Dennis, a strong hand on his back, and Dennis nods. Robby leans in and presses a quick, gentle kiss to his temple, before he reluctantly peels himself away. “We’ll be right back”
Perlah’s produced some crackers, which Dennis takes to feed himself, now able to sit upright of his own accord, and he’s fine now, he really is, but Robby hates every inch of space he puts between them all the same.
They move to the far corner of the Pitt, just round the corner by the bank of lockers where the general mayhem is a little quieter. Robby folds his arms tight across his chest, jaw clenched, adrenaline still buzzing unpleasantly through him, and Jack stands slightly in front of him, angled towards his husband. A mediator, more than a protector.
Gloria approaches them… slowly.
She looks… subdued. Gone is her clipped authority, her corporate impatience. She clasps her hands together, fingers worrying at each other.
“I owe you both an apology,” she says.
Robby doesn’t respond. Jack gives a short nod. “Go on.”
“I didn’t understand the severity of the situation,” Gloria continues. “That’s on me. I should have listened when you said it was an emergency.”
Jack exhales through his nose, some of the tightness easing from his shoulders. “Thank you.”
There’s a pause. Gloria glances back toward Dennis, still surrounded by staff, still very clearly being cared for and doted on, still in the middle of the Pitt floor.
It’s clear that this isn’t the first time this has happened, not by a long shot.
“I also need to ask something,” she says carefully. “And I want to be clear, I’m not asking this in a punitive way.”
Robby’s posture stiffens anyway.
“Why didn’t I know we had a staff member with a medical condition like this?”
Robby’s on the defensive immediately, “You don’t need to,” he snaps before Jack can speak. “Dennis is entitled to his privacy.”
“What Robby’s saying,” Jack cuts in, “ is that his diabetes is well managed,” Jack adds, voice firm. “He’s competent. He’s safe to work. We’ve been through occupational health and they’ve cleared him.”
Gloria raises both hands slightly. “I’m not questioning his competence. At all.”
Robby’s eyes narrow. “Then what are you questioning?”
Gloria takes a breath. “I’m asking whether we’ve failed him — whether we are failing him by not having systems in place to support him.”
That makes Robby falter.
She continues gently, choosing her words carefully. “If I’d understood the severity of it, I wouldn’t have tried to keep you both in that meeting. I would’ve dismissed you myself.”
Jack tilts his head. “Explain.”
“I don’t mean disclosure to management in some formal, documented way,” Gloria says quickly. “I mean… awareness. Safeguards. People knowing what signs to look for. Knowing when an alert on your phones means drop everything. I can see that your staff down here seem mostly aware of the situation and what to do, but… you understand what I’m trying to get at?”
Robby runs a hand through his hair, frustration knotting in his chest. “Dennis doesn’t want to be treated differently.”
“And I respect that,” Gloria replies. “I’m not asking you to go around giving out private medical information, I’m just asking you to help me make sure this never gets that far again. Because today, I was the one who didn’t understand. Next time, it might be someone else, someone who might not be willing to tolerate you walking out.”
Robby swallows hard. The anger drains, leaving something heavier behind.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Gloria replies. “And — for what it’s worth, I am glad Whitaker has people watching out for him.”
Robby doesn’t answer that. He just turns back toward the Pitt, toward Dennis, who looks up at that moment and spots them. He’s standing now, leaning heavily against Langdon. He gives a small, sheepish wave, and Robby half raises a hand in return, before Langdon gently guides Dennis away towards the staff room.
Dennis is okay.
That’s all that matters, really.
13:38PM
It starts the way it sort of always does.
It’s not dramatic, it’s never dramatic, not really.
It’s not even that obvious half the time, other than the initial creeping sensation of something being… wrong.
It’s why he’s not that good at recognising it yet, it’s why this keeps happening.
Or maybe it isn’t.
He’s not sure.
He's in the middle of filling out a patient chart on the iPad while they’re up in CT, perched half on the edge of the bed, half on his toes, when he suddenly realised that half the words he’s typing don’t make any sense.
His hands feel… floaty, like they’re not really connected to the rest of him. He flexes his fingers once, then again, then frowns down at the tablet.
Okay, he thinks. That’s annoying.
He shifts his weight, stands up, and the room tilts. It’s only only slightly, more a rippling away, but it’s just enough that his stomach drops. His heart gives a strange little stutter, then picks up too fast. His mouth feels dry and metallic all at once.
Oh fuck.
He’s low.
He swallows, annoyed with himself. He ate. He checked. He was fine ten minutes ago.
Although, even as he tells himself that, he doubts it.
Because was he? Maybe it was longer than that, he can’t remember when he bolused earlier, maybe it wasn’t before his lunch, maybe he got it wrong. He doesn’t remember, at all.
Shit.
Push through it, he tells himself automatically. He’s good at that. He'll be okay.
He finishes entering the last vitals with fingers that don’t feel like his, but as soon as he turns toward the door, though, it hits him properly.
The world narrows. The edges of his vision fuzz and darken, like someone’s turning down the contrast. Sweat breaks out across his spine, cold and slick. His knees wobble.
Shit.
He reaches into his pocket out of pure habit, but he comes up empty.
Of course. He left his glucose tabs in his locker in his hoodie (Robby’s hoodie, he unhelpfully reminds himself) when he’d taken it off earlier. He’d meant to grab them out of his pocket, but it’d slipped his mind.
As far as he’s aware, his monitor hasn’t alarmed yet. Or maybe it has, and his brain just hasn’t processed it. Everything feels kind of muffled, and delayed, sort of like he’s underwater.
He needs help.
That thought is distant and oddly calm. Practical.
He just needs to get out of this room.
He grips the doorframe as he steps out onto the Pitt floor, forcing his legs to cooperate. Each step feels heavier than the last, like gravity’s been turned up just for him. The noise of the ER presses in but it all really does just sound muffled, far away.
He scans the hallway, blinking hard.
Langdon, he thinks. Find Langdon.
He can help.
He spots him at the desk, laughing at something Perlah says. Relief crashes through him so hard it almost sends him sprawling. Not that he needs much help with that, the way his knees threaten to give way.
“Dr Lang—” Dennis tries.
Nothing else comes out.
Langdon looks up anyway, and their eyes meet.
Something on Dennis’ face must give him away, because his smile vanishes instantly.
“Dennis?” He’s already moving, sidestepping the edge of the nurses station, reaching out for him.
Dennis opens his mouth again, tries to explain, tries to say ‘I’m low’ or ‘I need help’ or ‘I need glucose’ or maybe even ‘I’m sorry’, he’s not sure what, but the floor surges up to meet him before he can get it out.
The next thing he’s aware of is hands on his arms, strong and steady, and Langdon’s voice right in his ear.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Then his knees give out completely.
He doesn’t fully pass out, not completely, but he ends up somewhere close.
The world becomes fragmented, various pieces of sensation and sound and touch, his brain hazy.
There’s pressure against his shoulders, a permeating cold seeping up from the floor into his scrubs, someone stroking his hair away from his sweaty forehead.
“Hey, hey, stay with me,” Langdon murmurs.
Dennis tries. God, he tries. But his body feels wrong, disconnected, like it’s running on empty. His hands are shaking so badly he can’t make them stop.
“You low, kid?” He asks, and Dennis tries his hardest to nod, but he’s not sure it works.
“Okay, I’ll go get one of the gels,” Perlah says firmly, fingers glancing Dennis’ shoulder briefly as she gives him a reassuring squeeze.
13:49PM
There’s a beat, honestly Dennis has no idea how much time passes, before a hand presses something sweet and thick against his lips. “Dennis, can you swallow for me?”
He nods, or at least he thinks he does. The gel is overwhelming, sickly sweet, but his mouth won’t cooperate properly. Some of it dribbles down his chin. That embarrasses him, distantly
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, though it comes out slurred.
“Don’t apologise,” Perlah says firmly. “Just focus on eating.”
He manages to swallow without much difficulty, Langdon keeping one arm braced around his shoulders. He’s so warm, solid and grounding, and despite how grossly sweaty Dennis is, he craves it, slumping back against him.
His vision swims, as he tries to swallow more of the gel, and suddenly he feels like he doesn’t know how. He can’t really open his mouth properly, can’t make his lips work, no matter how hard he tries.
Time stretches strangely.
Then he registers voices. Familiar ones. Urgent, panicky.
“Hey, Mouse.”
Robby.
Robby’s there, suddenly, dropping to the floor in front of him, hands immediately in Dennis’ hair, thumbs brushing his temples.
Jack’s there too, and when he tells him to swallow he does (or at least he does as best he can). He’s trying his hardest to focus on them, on the familiar shapes of their faces, but everything’s all fuzzy. They both look… stressed.
He wants to tell them he tried. That he didn’t mean for this to happen. That he thought he could handle it. But speaking seems to be kind of off the tables so instead, he just leans into Robby’s touch, breathing shallow and shaky, while Jack takes over talking to Langdon and Perlah in his doctor voice.
Somewhere behind them, he dimly registers another presence
Gloria.
He doesn’t have the energy to care.
All he knows is that his boyfriends are here, hands on him, voices anchoring him to the moment, and for now, that’s enough to keep him upright, even as the world slowly, grudgingly starts to come back into focus.
Everything sort of comes back to him in pieces. Not all at once, but something good enough.
The pounding in the base of his skull eases up first, then the shaking in his hands soothes, no longer so violent he can feel it in his teeth.
The reality of the fact he’s sitting on the floor registers then, but he’s not quite with it enough to be completely embarrassed.
There’s a plastic straw at his lips and he drinks dutifully, the juice a welcome relief from the cloying viscosity of the gel still clinging to his teeth and tongue.
When it’s empty though, Jack and Robby have the audacity to move. “We’re going to go talk to Gloria,” Jack whispers, his voice a gentle relief from the ringing still fading from his ears. “Langdon’s got you, yeah?”
Dennis nods. He hates how small and tired he feels, how desperately he wants them to stay. Theres a quick, gentle kiss to his temple, something grounding and familiar, but it’s not enough.
“We’ll be right nearby,” Robby murmurs, and then they’re gone.
But Langdon stays.
He’s still sitting on the floor with Dennis, one arm loose but solid around his back, like he’s anchoring him in place. He waits a beat after Jack and Robby leave, giving Dennis a moment to breathe, before he speaks.
“Alright, kid.” He says reassuringly, big hand squeezing his shoulder. “How you doing? Let’s get you up, yeah? No rush.”
Dennis swallows and nods again. His throat feels raw. Everything feels heavy, like he’s been wrung dry.
Langdon moves first, careful and unhurried as he dislodges himself from behind Dennis, shifting up onto his knees before he moves so he’s crouching.
He lets Dennis cling onto him before they move together, one strong arm around his waist as he guides him up.
Dennis’ legs wobble immediately, traitorous, and without really meaning to he slumps forward.
Langdon catches him, “Easy,” he murmurs, one hand warm and steady between Dennis’ shoulder blades. “I’ve got you.”
And Dennis can’t help himself. He just… lets himself lean. His forehead drops briefly against Langdon’s chest, sagging momentarily into his embrace. The warmth of their contact grounds him in a way he hadn’t really expected, but he definitely needed.
They stand there like that for a second too long, before Dennis pulls back slightly, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
Langdon snorts. “For what? Being alive?”
Dennis straightens up, still holding onto the man before him with one hand, before he glances instinctively round towards where Jack and Robby are talking to Gloria.
Robby’s looking at him, he realises, and as their eyes meet he can’t help but sheepishly wave.
He waves back, more of an acknowledgement than anything, but it makes Dennis smile all the same.
Langdon guides Dennis down the hall toward the staff room, one slow step at a time. His feet drag a little as he walks, but he feels a little steadier than he did. A lot steadier, actually, far more than he did earlier.
His sugars have definitely come up, because he can finally think again, his brain no longer static as he follows Langdon.
Once they’re safely inside the staff room, Langdon steers him towards the couch.
“Sit, Whitaker.”
Dennis doesn’t argue with him, just sinks down into the cushions, his head lolling back as he closes his eyes.
He’s embarrassed now, about how public that was. He’s been good at getting ontop of lows before he properly crashes lately, he hasn’t had a serious low like that in a while.
He definitely fucked up with his insulin. He doesn’t really remember bolusing, but he must have done something wrong, given too much, given it too late, he doesn’t remember, but it’s the only reason he can think of why he’d have crashed as hard as he did.
Langdon bustles about the little kitchen, before returning with a protein bar and another juice box.
He hasn’t put the straw in it yet, which Dennis is glad for, because he doesn’t really need anymore short acting carbs, but he takes the protein bar.
“Small bites,” Langdon says softly. “You don’t have to rush.”
Dennis peels the wrapper with clumsy fingers, taking a small nibble to start with.
Langdon sits across from him but leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on Dennis. Langdon’s always been kind of intense with his eye contact, but it’s weirdly reassuring.
If a little weird.
He gets halfway through his protein bar before the crash hits. Not physical, not his sugars, just… his emotions, the shame and embarrassment and fatigue of it all.
The adrenaline drains out of him all at once, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a tight, humiliated ache in his chest. His shoulders sag. His eyes sting, burning as he drops his gaze.
Langdon notices immediately though.
“You okay?”
Dennis shrugs, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry… I didn’t… I thought I was doing better with my insulin, I didn’t mean to go low like that.”
Langdon sighs, but he’s smiling when Dennis peeks up at him, head tilted forwards.
“Whitaker, no one means to give themselves a hypo. You’re fine. You knew to get help. So what if it was in the middle of the Pitt? It’s not like everyone doesn’t know you’re diabetic at this point.” He shrugs. “We all care about you, and we’re all here to look after you.”
That makes the lump in Dennis’ throat grow, and he ducks his head again, blinking away the tears threatening to fall.
They really do care, he knows that, he’s known that, but it’s still kind of surreal to actually acknowledge it. He’s never really felt like a true part of something before, but here at the Pitt, he does. He genuinely feels like a part of the team, genuinely feels like a part of the family, as cheesy as it sounds, and it’s insane.
He’s not used to feeling so loved.
And he really does feel loved.
“Thanks.” He manages to whisper, and Langdon just huffs a soft chuckle.
“You’re welcome. You feel like you’re ready to head back out yet?”
Does he?
“Yeah.”
