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Coming off a night shift is hard.
The transition from night to day sucks, coming home at daylight, waking up to the fading lights, the exhaustion that seems to permeate every fibre of Dennis’ being?
He hates it.
So much.
He hates trying to play catch-up with his circadian rhythm, hates trying to sleep as little as possible so he can reinstate himself into a daytime routine, it just sucks so much.
And it fucks with his blood sugar so badly too. On nights he always ends up having a low around sort of 2-4am, right when he’s at his most fed up with the shift, when chugging a can of soda or eating some candy just makes him angry. Then he’ll spike high, then crash again at about 6, right about when he gets super nauseous, when any carbs he tries to take on just threaten to reappear instead of correcting his hypo.
And then he’ll go high.
Again.
He always finds himself coming home just on the wrong side of hyperglycaemic, his teeth fuzzy, head pounding, exhausting mixing with the unsettling buzz of his body rebelling in a way that leaves him feeling… shit, really. He’s used to it, and he’s used to the fact that it’s a high he can’t really fix, because normally no matter what happens he’ll run high until he wakes up for his next shift, and there’s just not really anything he can do about that. Insulin will send him low, the last thing he wants is water because then he won’t sleep for all the peeing, and exercise is not really on the table at 8am after a 12 hour shift.
It’s not fun.
Not for him, not for Jack and Robby when he ends up miserable and frustrated, curled up against whoever is home as he tries to adjust.
Runs of nights are normally fine though, because at least he can sleep, and sleeping helps with his difficult body. Frankly if Dennis was only working nights he’d be okay with it, but he’s not. That’s what sucks. (Not that he’d want to only work nights. Absolutely not.)
He’d staggered back to his and Trinity’s apartment this morning rather than back to Jack and Robby’s, he’s not entirely sure why really, but they’ve made it clear that it’s important for him to have time not with them, and he just kind of wants to sleep in his own bed in the apartment.
Besides, Jack and Robby had the night to themselves last night, and even though Robby’s got work today, something about intruding on their peace had just felt… wrong.
He’d passed out almost as soon as he’d fallen into bed, exhausted after his run of shifts. The only good thing is at least he sleeps so deeply after nights, deep to the point he doesn’t even dream.
But it doesn’t last long.
The world feels so far away, everything muffled as Dennis lays curled up under his blankets, broken only by the sharp insistent trill of his phone.
It’s a noise he knows well, and one that makes his heart sink at the sound.
Low.
He groans, fumbling blindly for his phone on the bedside table. The screen is too bright, numbers swimming for a second before they settle and he finally focuses on what’s displayed before him.
He’s not too low, not low enough that it’s scary, but not high enough that he can get away with ignoring it. He’s low enough that it’s annoying, because he has to actually do something about it.
He drags himself upright, casting a hand through his hair (it’s sticking up in every direction, greasy from where he didn’t shower after his shift), his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He reaches for the stash he keeps next to bed, juice boxes, candy, glucose tablets, gels… and the bright orange case of his glucagon for when he can’t swallow.
He goes for a juice. It’s the only thing he can imagine stomaching right now, and he downs it quickly, letting the cloying sweetness linger on his tongue.
Once it’s in him he tips his head back against the wall, feeling the cold of the plaster seeping through his hair into his scalp.
He waits until his numbers trend back upwards out of the red, until the faint tremor in his fingers has eased, before he decides he’s probably good.
He tucks himself back up under the covers, pushing his phone back onto the table before he closes his eyes.
Sleep doesn’t take long to come for him again thankfully, and he’s swept back under before he knows it.
The next time he wakes, it’s immediately different.
His alarm is going off again, but this time it doesn’t register quite as fast. His head feels heavy, but bizarrely like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool. His mouth is dry, his hands shaking. He’s sweating too, he can feel the clamminess on his skin.
He blinks up at the ceiling as he tries to orient himself, before his still beeping alarm finally registers in a way he can understand.
He’s low.
Again.
“Oh, come on,” he whispers, before he pushes himself up, a little clumsy as he reaches for his phone again.
He squints at the number on his screen, at the definitive downward trend, before he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm.
He’s already played this game and he did correct it earlier, he knows he did… and yet here he is again, dropping. Again.
Dennis swings his legs over the side of the bed. As tempting as some more juice is, he should probably have something more, given that the juice didn’t work earlier.
As he stands though, he sways, and catches himself on his dresser as his legs threaten to give out. He’s a little dizzy, but not enough that his vision blurs which is reassuring.
He makes his way into the kitchen and only collides with one doorway, which is pretty good going really for how unsteady he feels.
Once he makes it into the kitchen, he beelines for the fridge, wrenching it open. Once it’s open though, for a moment all he can do is just stare at the shelves longer than necessary, brain lagging as it tries to decide what makes sense.
He needs something more than just sugar this time. Something with a bit of staying power.
He doesn’t really want any of it.
He ends up settling on a yogurt, a banana, and a granola bar (overcorrecting slightly on purpose, he’d rather be a little too high and sleep than wake up low again) and sets them all down on the counter with a carton of juice.
He takes it slow as he eats, even as his body screams at him to fix his low now. His blood sugar hasn’t really dropped any further, which is good, but it takes its damn sweet time to come back up.
As he finishes his snack, the frustration bubbles up again, creeping in under his skin.
He hates this part, hates it more than he hates the lows or the highs. It’s the unpredictability, the uncertainty of what’s coming next, and how no matter what he seems to do sometimes it just seems that it doesn’t work. That’s what he hates, because that’s what exhausts him, what steals his confidence from him, especially when he’s on his own.
He knows his partners would be fussing over him if he was with them right now, taking the decision making out of his hands of how many carbs he needs, what’s going to keep his sugars up for the longest.
It’s good. It’s helpful, and he appreciates it so much, but there’s always a little part of his brain that reminds him that he can’t allow himself to get dependent on them, that there will be times he’s going to have to deal with this by himself… and he hates it as much as he knows it’s true. He can’t get used to their support, can’t learn to rely on them when sometimes they won’t be there.
Like right now.
But also…
Like if they break up. Or someone dies. Or gets sick.
Or something else tragic and unspeakable.
He can’t surrender his health to them, because one day they might break up, as much as Dennis desperately wishes that doesn’t happen. And he doesn’t want it, of course he doesn’t, but he can’t live believing with his whole heart that they’re going to be together forever, because that’s crazy. They’ll be together for life, of course, but that doesn’t mean Dennis fits into the equation long term. They’re happy now, deliriously so, but that doesn’t change the fact that that might change.
Might, though.
Heavy emphasis on the might.
Besides, for as frustrating as this is, it’s something he can manage. He’s got a fair idea of why he’s still so low, and it’s because he’s been working nights. It’s hard to eat as much as he’d like to on nights, because he’s just not hungry late like that, and it’s pretty unreasonable to try and force two meals in during the limited hours he has to sleep. So his glycogen stores are shot, not like he’s got much to him in the first place, and without a good few solid meals to stock him up again, he’s not got much to draw from.
It’s fine. He’ll be fine.
He checks his phone.
His sugars are still a little on the low side, but the low side of normal. It’s not bad, he’s not worried, because it takes time for whatever he eats to push his sugars up, he knows that.
But still.
It sucks.
Dennis leans back against the counter, squeezing his eyes closed as he presses his forehead to the back of his hands.
He does feel a little better, the fog in his mind thinning enough that he's starting to feel like himself again (or close enough).
Back to normal then.
Most days he’s good at getting on top of his sugars, he’s been trying. But clearly today just… isn’t one of those days.
He tidies up the wrappers, rinses his yogurt spoon, and shuffles back toward the bedroom. Before lying down again, he pauses, glancing at his phone. His eyes flicker towards his messages, like he’s considering texting someone.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he sets an alarm to check his sugars in a bit, crawls back under the covers, and lets himself rest.
Just for a little bit longer.
When his alarm goes off a half hour later, he feels better. Still not 100%, and when he checks he’s still the low side of normal, but he doesn’t feel any worse than he did.
Which is good.
He feels… grim, frankly, skin grimy with sweat and 12 hours of hospital, and his hair greasy to the point that running his hand through it makes his mouth downturn automatically in disgust.
Hopefully a shower will make him feel a little better, and help him shake the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin
Hopefully.
Dennis drags himself into the bathroom, and stands under the hot spray, head tipped back, eyes closed. He lets the water beat over his face and chest, hoping the heat will wash away the lingering heaviness from his limbs.
Steam fills the small bathroom, fogging up the glass and mirror, and he finally begins to relax as he leans against the tiled wall.
Well.
Begins to.
Because as soon as he finally starts to genuinely feel better, his phone goes off.
Low.
He shouldn’t be surprised, because the heat of the shower always makes his sugars drop, but also his monitor always reads a little lower than he really is, something about the heat and some metabolic stuff. Honestly, he doesn’t care enough to understand it, and he doesn’t care enough to even try right now.
He ignores the alarm, it’ll go off again in two minutes if he doesn’t check it, and he doesn’t feel particularly dangerously low right now.
And two minutes later it does beep again.
Then again.
Dennis sighs, and draws back the shower curtain enough to reach a wet hand out of the spray. He snags his phone from the counter, squinting at the screen through droplets of water.
Yet again he’s just low enough that it’s not an emergency, but it’s not really okay.
Really fucking annoying.
Whatever.
He gets halfway through shampooing his hair when the alarm goes off again, then he’s only just got to rinsing it out when it goes again.
He’s in a dangerous position now, because this many ignored low alarms are going to catch Jack and Robby’s attentions, and he’s starting to feel a little shaky.
His alarm goes off again, and as Dennis scrubs conditioner through his hair, the world swims, just a little.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself.
He rinses the conditioner straight back out, then turns the water off quickly, skin prickling with the sudden chill, and steps out of the shower, movements a little too sluggish now. He wraps a towel around his waist and pads out into the kitchen, hair dripping down his back, water slicking the floor behind him.
He grabs another juice.
Drinks it. Logs it. Waits.
Ten minutes later, his sugars have barely budged.
He can’t stomach any more juice right now, so he eats something. Crackers this time, then peanut butter straight from the jar because he can’t be bothered to put it on the crackers. He leans his hip against the counter, chewing mechanically, watching his monitor.
Still low.
But he’s not crashing. He’s not actually dropping. That’s the worst part. He’s just… stuck. Stuck low, no matter what he eats.
Dennis sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs, towel slipping a little as his shoulders slump. His legs feel weak, like they don’t fully belong to him and there’s a dull ache behind his eyes, the sort of pressure that makes it kind of hard to focus. His hands as he reaches for a lancet and his actual physical monitor. Maybe his CGM is wrong, maybe he’s not actually that low (he is, he can feel it), so maybe a fingerprick will show something different.
It doesn’t.
He’s low. Still.
“Why won’t you come up?” he asks quietly, and his voice cracks just a little.
He knows the answer, he knows the anatomy and physiology behind it all. He can list all the reasons this might be happening fucking backwards at this point: maybe he overcorrected during the night, maybe he’s been taking too much insulin lately, maybe he’s not eaten anywhere near enough recently (that’s definitely the biggest factor to it), maybe he’s been timing his boluses wrong, maybe he’s been doing more physical activity than normal, maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe his body just hates him.
Knowing doesn’t make any of it feel better.
If anything, it just makes him feel worse. Because there’s so many reasons and all of them are his fault.
He has another snack, this time it’s a slice of toast and jam.
It makes him kind of nauseous.
He waits.
It doesn’t work.
Still low.
For fucks sake.
By now he’s starting to feel properly miserable. He’s freezing cold, shivering as he sits in the kitchen. It doesn’t help that he’s still wet, still just wrapped in his damp towel. He’s kind of too weak to move, weak in the bone-deep sort of heaviness that’s started making even sitting upright feel like a little too much effort than he’s willing to put in.
His mood always nosedives with his blood sugar, but now irritability has begun to give way to something… worse? Heavier, maybe.
He’s not sure.
He just hates this. Hates this so much. He hates being trapped in this vicious cycle, and the way time seems to stretch out.
And right now he hates that he’s alone right now.
Dennis presses his forehead into his palm, elbow braced on the table, and breathes through the wave of dizziness that rolls through him as he shifts just a little too fast. His stomach churns, not with with hunger, exactly, or nausea, but with that hollow, unsettled feeling that comes from being too low for too long.
“I am doing everything right,” he tells the empty apartment, like it might listen. “I am trying.”
Eventually, the numbers begin to trend upwards.
Again.
It’s still not enough to feel good, but it’s enough that the shaking eases, before he plateaus again, just shy of where he’d like to be.
And Dennis doesn’t have the energy to fight it anymore.
He cleans himself up half-heartedly, scrubbing at the remaining dampness on his skin with his towel before he pulls on the softest, warmest sleep clothes he can find, before he makes his way back to bed. He keeps his phone in his hand this time, but he can’t bear to look at his graph anymore right now.
He feels entirely wrong out, like he’s been running a marathon all night that he’s somehow not noticed. Every single muscle aches with exhaustion and his eyes burn, heavy and sore as he stares at the ceiling. He’s so tired, and still cold from drip-drying in the kitchen, the kind of cold that makes him shiver from the inside out. He’s already starting to warm up under the covers, thankfully, but it’s just another thing that doesn’t help.
He needs more sleep. Maybe that’ll help.
He sort of doesn’t really trust himself, though, to actually sleep right now. He’s not doubt he’ll fall asleep the second his eyes close, he’s just scared he’ll go low again, and at this point he's not sure he’ll be able to manage with another correction yet.
So he doesn’t let himself sleep, not right away.
Dennis rolls onto his side and curls up, pulling the golden retriever teddy that Jack had bought him one day (that now lives in Trinity's apartment) up to his chest as a deep sigh escapes him.
Being low like this… sucks.
Plain and simple.
It’s not flashy, or dramatic, really, not like his usual hypos. It’s not like it’s not as dangerous, but it’s just… gruelling. It saps his strength a little at a time, leaving him weak and miserable and so very, very tired.
He sort of dozes, for a bit, but it’s not really sleep that he drifts into. He’s just so exhausted, and when his phone buzzes again, he just can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn’t want anymore actual food, can’t drink anymore juice, and the idea of a gel or glucose tablets makes his stomach churn.
So instead, he opens his bedside drawer, and pulls out a bag of candy. Peach rings, easily one of his all time favourites. It’s not portion controlled, like the fruit snacks are, just a proper big bag and he doesn’t bother to even try and count out the right amount as he shoves a few into his mouth.
They’re aggressively sweet, too sweet, and there’s a reason why he doesn’t like to use his favourite candies for a low on the regular because it makes him nauseous immediately, acid rising in the back of his throat and swilling around his back teeth.
He forces his mouthful down all the same, because what other choice does he have?
He should be trying to have a full meal, should be having some proper carbs that will sustain him and replenish his body stores but he just can’t bring himself to cook, the fatigue of a persistent low rendering him stuck, sluggish and heavy and weak, unable to find it within himself to actually try and cook.
He could order something, but the idea of spending so much money on one meal, and the thought of actual food makes his stomach twist sharply, and he has to swallow again against the rising tide of nausea.
The amount of sugar he’s had is kind of making him feel worse than better, but he needs more, needs to bring his sugars up to some semblance of normal so he can actually get it together to have a proper meal.
He has another piece of candy, then another.
He’s sweating now, curled up in his bed, half propped up by a too-flat pillow. Everything he’s eaten sits heavy and wrong in his stomach, and he’s starting to get genuinely worried he might actually be sick, which would really fuck everything up.
“Okay,” he whispers, voice thin. “You’re okay.”
He tries another piece, chewing slower this time, even as his jaw aches. Then another. The sweetness becomes cloying, almost painful as his head starts to throb.
He needs some water, needs to try and wash the taste out of his mouth, but as he reaches for his bottle the room tilts sharply. The dizziness doesn’t help the nausea, and he’s forced to take a few shallow breaths until the worst of it passes.
God.
He’s so fucking exhausted by this, so tired, so worn out, and as he finally slumps back onto the bed,
He just doesn’t want to bother anyone. Robby and Trinity are at work, and he especially doesn’t want to wake Jack, who he knows is asleep… but…
Dennis drags his phone out from underneath his pillow and swipes onto his contacts, staring at the picture of Jack smiling up at him from his screen.
He can’t wake him.
He shouldn’t.
He really doesn’t want to.
And then his phone pings again.
Low.
Still low, still fucking low, no matter what he’s done, he’s still low.
Dennis swallows, throat suddenly tight, and taps the call button before he can talk himself out of it.
It rings once. Twice.
He almost hangs up, thumb twitching towards the red button.
“Hey,” Jack says, voice thick with sleep, rough and low. “Mouse?”
The sound of his voice makes Dennis’ resolve crumble.
“Hi,” Dennis says, and it comes out small and wobbly. He clears his throat, tries again. “Sorry. I — sorry, I know you’re asleep.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says instantly, and Dennis can hear the rustling of the sheets, and the faint buzz of the police scanner in the background. Jack can’t sleep in silence when he’s alone, just like Robby always has the TV on, Jack always has the police scanner. Dennis hates it, hates the white noise, but he knows it comforts them. “What’s wrong?”
Dennis presses his free hand into the mattress, fingers curling into the fabric as he tries to find the words. “I… I keep going low. Like, not dangerously, don’t worry, but I can’t get it to come up. I’ve eaten so much sugar and I just feel worse, and I’m really tired and I don’t—” He breaks off, breathing suddenly uneven as he curls up a little tighter.
There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough for Jack to fully register what he’s hearing.
“Okay,” Jack says gently. “I’ve got you. Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you safe right now?”
“Yeah,” Dennis says. “I just — Jack, could you… could you please come get me? I don’t want to be here by myself. I just want to be at yours. With you and Robby.”
“Of course,” Jack says, without missing a beat. “Yeah. Absolutely. I’m getting up now.”
Relief hits Dennis so hard it almost knocks the breath out of him. “Really?” he asks, stupidly.
“Mouse,” Jack says, and Dennis can hear him getting out of bed. “You never have to ask twice. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Keep your phone on you, okay?”
“Okay,” Dennis whispers.
“Don’t worry about anything, okay?” Jack adds.
Dennis nods even though Jack can’t see him. His shoulders sag, tension finally draining out of him as the responsibility is lifted off of his shoulders.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Always,” Jack replies, soft, tender. “Sit tight, pup. I’m on my way.”
As the call clicks, Dennis drops his phone onto the sheets, staring up at the ceiling.
He still feels beyond awful, shaky and weak and sick, but the relief that Jack is coming means that he feels a little better.
A lot better, actually.
Help is coming.
Jack pulls up outside far sooner than Dennis expects.
Dennis is half-dozing again, but he’s up again as soon as his phone rings. Jack’s name flashes up on the screen and Dennis answers immediately.
“I’m outside pup,” Jack says. He sounds fully awake now, and Dennis feels a little guilty that it’s only early afternoon and he probably won’t be able to get back to sleep now, and he’s got to go to work in a couple of hours. “Can you come out, or do you want me to come up?”
“I can come out,” Dennis says, pushing himself upright. The room swims a little, but not as badly as before. “Give me a sec.”
“Take your time,” Jack replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Dennis grabs his phone and his work bag, but leaves everything else. He’s got a dual life going on, and there’s nothing here at Trinity’s that he needs to bring. He’s got everything he needs at his partner's house.
As he shuffles out of the door, the fresh air is cool against his flushed skin, but for as sweaty as he still feels, he’s cold.
The passenger door is already open when Dennis reaches the car, and he just sort of slumps into the seat as he drops his bag onto the floor.
“Hey,” Jack murmurs, reaching out to squeeze Dennis’ arm. “You don’t look too hot.”
“Mmh… don’t feel great.”
Once the door is shut and the engine’s running, Dennis now wearing his seatbelt, Jack glances over again, his hand falling to Dennis’ thigh.
“Okay,” he says. “What do you think you can eat? And don’t say ‘nothing’.”
Dennis huffs weakly. “I don’t feel good. I’ve been eating, and I’m not hungry but… I probably do need real food.”
“Yeah, you definitely do. Okay? How about… something high-carb and pretty simple. We can get… sandwiches maybe? Or fries and a burger? What sounds the most tolerable?”
Dennis thinks about it for a long moment, brow furrowing as he tries to make his brain work.
“Um… not a burger… but fries, I want fries.” He drops his head into his hands. “And… a milkshake? But not one of the super thick ones.”
Jack nods, giving his knee a squeeze before he reaches for the steering wheel. “Okay pup, but you need a proper meal too. If you don’t want a burger then… a chicken sandwich? A wrap? Burrito?”
Dennis groans, leaning his head against the window. “Um… wrap, I can do a wrap.”
“Perfect,” Jack says, signalling out as he looks in the mirror. “We’ll do that.”
They pull into a drive-thru a few minutes later. Jack orders for him, large fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a buffalo chicken wrap. And then something for himself.
He pulls around into the carpark, handing Dennis his milkshake to start.
“Start with this,” he says. “Slow sips.”
Dennis obeys, grateful for the cold sweetness that doesn’t hit quite as aggressively as the candy did. His hands are still shaky, but the edge is softening.
Jack waits until he’s had a few good mouthfuls before passing over the fries. “Eat what you can. No pressure.”
Dennis eats slowly, one fry at a time. Jack wolfs down his own meal, but Dennis is still a little fuzzy, and it takes a while for the hot salty potato to start to ground him somewhat.
The heaviness in his stomach eases a little bit with the introduction of something solid, and Jack eventually passes him half of his wrap.
“Here, try some of this. It’ll be good cold though, so don’t worry too much.”
The first bite is a little off putting, but as soon as his stomach registers that he’s eating actual food, he’s suddenly starving, and he wolfs down the rest of the half in his hands.
It doesn’t take long for pretty much everything except the dregs of the milkshake to disappear, and as Dennis flops back into his seat, he suddenly feels a whole lot better than he did.
Jack’s been watching him out of the corner of his eye, pretending that he’s not, but Dennis can see the soft fond curve to the corner of his mouth as he drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
Neither of them speaks for a couple of minutes, before Dennis checks his phone. His blood sugar is trending upwards. It’s not dramatic, not as high as he’d like, but for the first time all day he's properly inching back into normal ranges, double arrows up.
“Okay, good,” Jack says with a curt nod when Dennis shows him. “That’s what we want.”
Dennis slumps back in his seat,the same exhaustion from earlier washing over him now that the immediate crisis is passing. “ ‘m sorry I woke you.”
Jack snorts. “Don’t be. I’d rather be tired at work than have you dealing with this alone.”
Dennis swallows around the lump in his throat and takes another sip of milkshake.
They drive home in companionable silence, the peace broken only by the quiet hum of the radio. The car is warm, the heating cranked up for Dennis’ sake, although Jack cracks his window. Dennis feels like he should feel guilty about that, but he can’t really bring himself to care.
He was colder than he thought, now that he’s warming up, the heat finally permeating the remnants of the low inside of him.
By the time they pull up outside the house, Dennis’ hands have stopped shaking, and he feels clearer, like his brain is actually working the way it’s supposed to.
He’s no longer in the red either, his sugars finally consistently green. And still climbing, not plateauing like they did earlier.
Jack parks the car, then turns to him.
“How you feeling, pup?”
Dennis shrugs, looking down at bush hands for a moment before he looks over at Jack.
“I’m… I’m o— no… I’m not, I’m not okay.” Dennis replies, voice a little unsteady. “I'm fine but…” he shrugs.
Jack, blessedly, doesn’t push, he doesn’t ask. He knows it’s not something Dennis can really explain.
“Okay. You wanna get settled on the couch or go to bed?”
“…couch. I’ve spent all day in bed.”
Jack nods again.
They walk in together, Dennis’ arm hooked around Jack’s forearm.
Dennis sits on the couch, tucking his feet up under his thighs as he pulls the blanket folded on the back over himself.
Jack disappears into the kitchen, and when he returns, he’s carrying a mug of something steaming, and a glass of water.
He sets both of them down by Dennis, then returns with a mug of coffee which he sets down on the coffee table, before slumping down onto the couch next to Dennis.
Dennis whispers, soft and sincere as he picks up the water. “Thank you.”
Jack reaches out and squeezes his knee. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Dennis sets his drink down, then shifts so he can curl up against Jack. He’s expecting to be cuddled, but instead a broad hand gently pushes against his shoulder. He’s about to protest, but then Jack shifts, swinging his good leg up onto the couch, then detaching his prosthetic before he shifts so he can fully tug Dennis against him.
He can’t protest against this.
Jack wraps his arms around him, and Dennis goes slack against his partner, curling into his embrace as finally, finally all the stress of the day starts to ease.
And his phone beeps.
The noise that escapes him is… probably a little too distressed, given the way Jack tenses, but he just can’t check. He can’t. Because if he checks and he’s low then he’s just not sure what he’s going to be able to do about it.
Jack frowns, and gently reaches down into Dennis’ pocket, sliding his phone out from where it sits.
Dennis genuinely doesn’t want to know what it says. If he’s high then whatever, but he actually really truly does not have the mental capacity to cope with being low right now. Not after everything he’s done.
Jack doesn’t say anything though, just unlocks Dennis’ phone, and hesitates.
Cold dread runs through him, a prickle of fear that steals his breath from him momentarily, but Jack still doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he gently hooks the cuff of Dennis’ sleeve up, exposing his tricep, and taps his phone against the sensor.
“Lost connection,” he murmurs, rubbing his free hand reassuringly up Dennis’ arm. “That’s it.”
The sigh of relief that escapes Dennis is… immense, and Jack chuckles, before he drops a kiss to the top of his head.
“You’re okay pup, let me look after you.”
Dennis really, really can't say no to that.