when dennis gets pregnant, everyone is a little worried. not because they think its a bad choice for him to have a baby, or that robby is a bad alpha for him to be mated with (on the contrary, robby is the most doting alpha anyone has seen), but because they're worried about how his body will take it.
pregnancy has always tended to be a little harder on male omegas than female ones, but the real issue lies in the fact that dennis is delicate, physically. a hangover from his days homeless mean that while he's gained weight after mating robby, he's still too skinny. too many of his bones jut out slightly and are visible, and robby constantly trying to feed him can only do so much. it will take time before he's a healthy weight.
so, people are worried. that the morning sickness will be terrible, that his body will be too weak, that he'll all round have a miserable pregnancy. robby is terrified more than anyone, and wants dennis to go on maternity leave right away, but his omega refuses. tensions are high as people wait to see how carrying a pup will impact their sweet dennis.
against everyone's expectations, he glows. he takes to pregnancy like a duck to water and ends up looking healthier than anyone's ever seen him. his cheeks immediately come up plump and rosy red, his eye bags fade and he gains much needed weight very quickly. he has no morning sickness to speak of, nor seems to have any intense mood swings. he just.. glows. this is all before his belly has even swollen, his and robby's puppy still the size of a raspberry in his womb.
robby is delighted and spends every possible moment kissing and cuddling and pampering his beautiful mate, who purrs constantly whenever his alpha is around. when dennis frantically wakes him up one night, robby is terrified that it's all coming crashing down and his omega is hurt, but dennis simply hurries to switch the light on to show robby his new bump, on show for the first time.
male omegas sometimes have issues with milk production- not dennis, whose breasts swell quickly and fill with milk when the pup is still months away from birth. his belly grows fast too, and his belly button pops to give him the prettiest stomach any of them have ever seen. even patients that he treats compliment him on how good he looks and how well carrying babies suits him. dennis's rosy cheeks just blush more.
even when he gets very close to the due date, he doesn't feel worse, or sluggish, or antsy. his belly is massive now yes, their pup a large one due to robby's genes clearly, but dennis doesn't fret. he just cuddles himself into his birthing nest and rubs at his belly, letting it sit heavy in his lap and feeling his puppy wriggle within him. full as his tits already are, he has an alpha who will either help him pump or will drink from him himself, so he never aches badly. he spends more time than he'd like to admit taking pictures of his belly in their bedroom mirror, obsessing over how proud he felt of having such a beautifully round tummy, all thanks to robby.
even birth goes smoothly. their little alpha daughter is one of the biggest babies the hospital had delivered that year, but dennis had somehow delivered her in a scant couple of hours, and with little to no intervention necessary. she's a fat and healthy baby, and latches immediately to dennis's breast. miraculously, dennis is still glowing as he sits in bed holding her. robby is so unendingly proud of his dennis, his perfect omega and their pretty baby.
unsurprisingly, dennis asks robby for another baby right away, having greatly enjoyed his pregnancy and wanting it all over again. who is robby to deny him? (this is how they end up with seven puppies under the age of eight, dennis having sailed through each pregnancy as smoothly as his first. the only thing that stops him from having more is the lack of rooms in their house.)
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
⟡ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ ⌗ ┆afab!reader, discussions of teen parenthood, descriptions of childbirth, use of pet names (honey, sweetie)
𝐚/𝐧 ⋮ more emo teen dad dennis. this is a continuation of this post. i didn't expect for this one to be a bit longer than the last. i think this one touches more on the post-childbirth aspect of the original prompt. i'm kinda not fond of this one though. idk i just really want to write something. the next piece to this series might be a full oneshot. who knows? i have a lot of dennis stuff in my drafts i’m just waiting for this goddamn term to finish. per usual, this isn’t proofread!
"Twins!"
November 10, 2015. Broken Bow, Nebraska. Melham Memorial Medical Center. 6:47 AM.
Those were the exact details of the day your little angels were born.
Elijah and Caleb. Biblical names you thankfully had the liberty of choosing before they could end up as something edgy like Malachi Rain or, God forbid, Luna Jade if they'd been girls, courtesy of your very well-meaning husband… who was still very much in his emo phase.
Birthing them, however, was another beast entirely.
Thankfully, you booked it to the hospital the moment the first contraction hit. Everything after that descended into complete pandemonium.
It started with the nurses insisting you walk laps around the maternity ward despite the fact that you were very obviously in labor. Dennis looked seconds away from arguing with every single one of them on your behalf, but he never got the chance. The second your water broke, it was game on.
The rest came in flashes. Bright lights. Beeping noises. Nurses calling out instructions. Your legs open and shaking. Dennis held your hand while you seriously considered squeezing it clean off. You were drenched in sweat and convinced you had just died and come back to life by the time the first baby arrived.
Relief washed over you. Thank God. It's over.
Then the obstetrician smiled. "Baby number one is here. One more to go. Push again for me, mommy."
Never mind the surprise of having twins. You had never wanted to throw someone out of a window more.
Dennis, bless his poor soul, was a complete sweetheart through all of it despite your overwhelming urge to smack him every time he reminded you to breathe, breathe, breathe. You couldn't remember whether you actually broke his hand during labor, but you did remember him fainting the moment the first baby made his grand entrance. He came to about five minutes later, just in time to watch the second baby arrive.
"This is all your fault," you managed between pushes, your vision dimming. "This is entirely your fault. Don't even think about touching me for the next 10 years, you hear me?" Dennis nodded so quickly it was almost pathetic. "Yes, honey. It's all my fault. I know." His voice cracked, looking just as terrified as he was apologetic. "I— I'll get a vasectomy. I'll get it as soon as they'll let me. I'll do whatever you want." He looked about as exhausted as you did, sweat beading down his face despite the fact that he wasn't the one giving birth.
Then... a sharp cry filled the room. "That's baby number two!" the obstetrician beamed, holding the slimy newborn with her gloved hands. "Good job, mama!" Another tiny bundle was whisked away to be cleaned up before being placed against your chest. Congratulations filled the room as relief crashed over you in one enormous wave for the final time. It was really over. You were done.
Since then, the concept of peace ceased to exist.
Everything came in pairs. Two blankets. Two footsie pajamas. Two bottles. Two diaper bags. Two strollers. Two of everything. Especially the screaming. Your local high school was kind enough to give you and Dennis a few days off to adjust to a new life with the newborns. They understood. Unfortunately, you weren't exactly the first teenagers in Broken Bow to come home from the hospital with a baby. Or, in your case, babies.
"There's something in the water around here," the maternity nurse joked while wheeling you toward the exit. "Teen pregnancy's practically an epidemic." You laughed, snorting at the delivery. Dennis didn't, his grip on the baby carrier tightening ever so slightly. You were still a bit delirious from the residual effects of the epidural. He was still processing the weight of what this meant for them.
Either way, lives were changed that day moving forward.
You and Dennis were parents now. And somewhere between the car seat buckles and the diaper bags nestled two tiny, wrinkly potatoes who depended on the both of you for absolutely everything.
Bringing Elijah and Caleb home for the first time was a day Dennis never forgot. After years of being overlooked, he finally felt a semblance of acknowledgement in the house. His mom was weeping that she’d become a grandmother for the 8th time. To twins, nonetheless! All of her sons are men with families now. His father gave him a simple nod, a smile breaking out of his usually stoic face. Meanwhile, his older brothers teased him.
"Leave it to you to go two-for-one."
"Bit of an overachiever, I'd say."
"Hope you like diapers, Champ." One of them slung an arm over his shoulders, patting him a bit roughly. "I'm afraid it only gets crazier from here on out."
And then there were Dennis's friends who were admittedly bummed out that he'd become one of those guys at school with babies to take care of. Still, they stuck around. They didn't mind that he couldn't hang out as often anymore, and they were endlessly grateful that you kept him on such a short leash.
Your style of parenting baffled them. "Your wife lets you play video games while the babies sleep?" Dennis shrugged. "She says it'll get them used to noise."
A resounding "woah" echoed between them in a synchronized fashion. A unanimous chorus of bewilderment. Compared to their other friends whose girlfriends had outlawed game nights entirely, they were convinced you'd won the title of Coolest Wife in Custer County.
Of course, despite being deemed the coolest wife to ever exist, you struggled. Hard. Being a first-time mommy to two babies was not for the faint of heart.
You were overwhelmed every second of the day. Some days, neither Elijah nor Caleb would stop crying. You'd check their diapers. Feed them. Rock them. Burp them. Check their temperature. Then just cry helplessly right alongside them because you couldn't figure out what was wrong. Other days, you'd wake up still sitting upright in bed, one twin asleep in your arms and an empty bottle dangling from your fingertips. Once, you even put a diaper on backwards. You didn't notice until Dennis quietly pointed it out an hour later.
You were just so tired. And to top it all off, you still had assignments to submit, projects to do, and exams to study for. It felt completely impossible.
Though, the reality of teen parenthood never weighed you down much as long as you had some fun with it. The main target of your amusement was none other than your husband. And the twins. But mostly Dennis.
There were nights where you'd've tapped him awake to take one of the twins just for you to carefully hand him a swaddled teddy bear. Half-asleep, Dennis would begin rocking it without a single question while you stood there recording the whole thing with the actual infant in your arms. He's also been peed on a lot during changing, an occurrence that will unfortunately follow him later in his adulthood. There's also one incident where both boys started rooting while you were getting ready to breastfeed. You handed them to a shirtless Dennis "just for a second." Hungry and desperate, the twins began to latch onto him. You were practically on the floor from wheezing so hard. He never really recovered from that.
Growing up with him was also fun. Nothing ever stayed heavy for too long. You loved watching him work the fields while you bottle-fed the twins from the porch. Whatever manual labor he could find, paired with your tutoring side jobs and the occasional paid proofreading gig, was enough to keep food on the table each week.
His mother helped more than she'd ever admit. Having raised four boys herself, she was someone you relied on and trusted when things get really tough for you.
"It's okay, sweetie." She would rest one hand on your shoulder. "I didn't know a lot too when I had my eldest. You’re doing far better than I did at your age."
You cried at that. You didn’t realize you were being too hard on yourself until someone gave you permission to just be. You never say it often but you were scared. Scared of failing yourself. Failing Dennis. Failing Elijah and Caleb. God, you were just so scared. There was always a voice at the back of your head whispering bad things like how this kind of life will take everything from you until there's nothing left. How you'll be nothing more than a wife and a mother to everyone else.
But then you'd find brochures from UNL and UNO at the kitchen table. Stacks of books that has yet to be returned from the public library. An open Chromebook displaying university applications.
You stopped and just stared.
Then it hit you.
Dennis wanted more, too. Not because he loved his family any less, but because he loved them enough to dream beyond Broken Bow. For the first time, wanting more didn't feel so selfish after all. That responsibility doesn’t always have to take priority over your own ambitions. They can exist together.
Later that evening, you found him asleep in the rocking chair with one twin tucked against each shoulder. His head was tilted awkwardly and his mouth was slightly open.
Somewhere along the way, the terrified sixteen-year-old who fainted in the delivery room had quietly become the young man you needed. Someone who can hold your entire world together, someone who shouldered the burdens too.
You smiled, draping a blanket over them. Leaning down, you press a kiss on their heads.
Life didn't seem nearly as scary as you thought it would be when you have someone who loves like Dennis Whitaker.
Jack who loves your soft skin 🤍 based on this request!
cw: suggestiveness, fluff honestly
a/n: just a fluffy short little blurb 💌
By the time that Jack had arrived home from his surprise day shift, he knew it was late enough that you were already in the middle of your night time rituals
A candle, everything shower, and a face mask was what you told Jack you had on your schedule for the night.
Jack didn’t enjoy being on day shift. He liked his night shift routine. That was what he was after all, a man who liked things perfectly falling into place.
He was able to come home, shower, start your usual morning coffee, all before crawling in bed for just a little bit with his favorite girl.
But with Robby gone, it was all hands on deck wherever needed.
Jack’s first thought upon entering his (your) home was finding you.
It was a long shift and despite the change, you being at the end of every day and night was a non-negotiable.
“Baby?” Jack calls up the stairs.
“Upstairs!”
He found you right where he expected, sat on your plush bench in front of your vanity.
You were freshly showered, hair wrapped up in a cotton shirt and body in a similar soft towel.
You even had a little sonny angel that sat on your vanity sporting the same towel wrap as you.
“How was work?” You ask while patting your toner into your cheeks.
Jack ducks down to plant a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger as he hooks his leg over to straddle the bench.
“Long. Tiring. Missed my girl.”
You laugh. “So same as always?”
“Pretty much.”
His lead falls to your forward facing shoulder, then rolling his head to meet your eyes in the mirror.
“Always missing you sweetheart.”
You feel his arms snaking around your back to grab the plush of your thighs. His big calloused hands are a contrast to your moisturized legs.
“‘so soft,” Jack remarks.
You hum, continuing on with your moisturizer. You work around Jack’s resting head. It works out perfect till you feel Jack’s lips move to your neck.
As Jack innocently kisses your pulse point, his fingers splay out across your legs. His ring and pinkie finger slip under the edge of your towel.
You were seconds away from putting on your light green face mash that you liked to do once a week. But now Jack’s movements were making it hard to focus on anything else.
“You tan today?” Jack hums against your neck. “You’re glistening.”
Your mind is already buzzing beyond your ability to formulate the answer to his question.
“C’mon honey,” he kisses your jaw. “Tell me what you did today.”
You swallow. “I uh…I did some cleaning. Laid out by the pool. And uh..made dinner and waited for you.”
To each activity you stated, Jack would buzz in acknowledgment.
“Mm sounds good. Glad to be home.”
He hadn’t even touched you how you wanted him to and yet you still felt the need to go right back in the bathroom to take a cold shower.
“You almost ready for bed? I already showered. Don’t ask,” Jack huffs.
You press your lips together to hide a smile. "Just gotta finish rubbing lotion on my top. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Jack removes his hands from your body. It’s an unfortunate loss of contact.
“Let me do it, honey.”
He reaches forward to grab your eos vanilla cashmere lotion and squeezes a pump in his hand.
You rotate your body so your back is to the older man. Thee lotion is cool against your shoulders as Jack behind to work his magic.
“‘smell like a cupcake,” Jack remarks. His thumbs press blissfully into the knots of your shoulders.
His thumb hits that one spot that has been bothering you for weeks. Your back arches involuntarily. Jack can only chuckle.
“Sweet like one too.”
It takes three more pumps of your lotion for Jack to finish massaging your now smooth and soft skin.
“So pretty baby,” praises spill out of his mouth. You’re sure your blush is full-body by now. “So soft and smooth.”
Summary: While Dennis's shift runs late into the evening, he gets a call from his wife. Something happened on a night out and she needs his help.
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For what must have been the fifth time in the last minute, Dennis found his eyes levitating up towards the clock on the wall and his hand shifting to hover over the deep pocket in his scrubs where his phone was tucked away.
He tried to resist the urge to pull his phone out, but he couldn't fight the overwhelming need and found himself digging his phone out. Again.
Both forearms were slumped on the nurse's desk in front of him, one knee pushed forward against the counter while his other leg was stretched behind him, as straight as a ruler.
Something between a smile and a longing sense of sorrow washed over his face when he looked at his lockscreen. He glanced from the picture lighting up the background, to the notification that was startlingly bright across the middle of the screen. A text he'd received almost half an hour ago from the one person who had been on Dennis's mind since he got to work this morning.
*Hey babe, don't worry about running late. Just let me know when you're leaving. Love you. xx
He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve her. She should be angry at him. She should be calling him right now telling him that he was almost two hours late, that he promised he would try and be on time, that he said he was excited about tonight but clearly he was still staying longer at work, like he normally ended up doing.
It was all true. Dennis had been eager to go out tonight even though it meant going out after a twelve hour shift- that had blended into an almost fourteen hour shift. He had been happy at the thought of leaving this place and the drama and the mess, putting it all behind him for one night, and going out with (Y/n) and their friends.
But things didn't seem to work out for Dennis very often, something always had to go wrong to counter out the few good things he had in his life or when everything seemed to go on track.
He slid his phone back in his pocket without replying; he knew if he did then he was only going to get himself worked up. Dennis was waiting for the right moment to call it a day, when things properly slowed and seemed under control and he could tell Dana that he was calling it a night and leaving. He wanted to have at least one drink with (Y/n) tonight before they ended up going home.
His only consolation was that she seemed to be having fun while she waited for him, and that was the main thing. That Dennis wasn't ruining it or holding her up by being late.
Another fifteen minutes ticked by where Dennis dealt with a drunken patient from triage, got him on some fluids, took some blood samples for the lab and cleaned up the cuts he sustained in a bar fight.
He could feel his eyes burning as he walked down the corridor, trying to stick to the shadows and the sidelines so he didn't get collared for any other traumas or patients tonight. He was done, he wanted to leave while he still had some reserves of energy left within him.
Both hands reached out to run up and down his face and his fingertips scratched and dug into his eyes as he stiffled a groan against the base of his hand.
Dennis was allowed to call it a night, right? He could say that his shift was well and truly over, couldn't he? There was nothing in his contract that binded him to stay, not when the night shift was here and the freak accidents were being taken care of now. He could go-
His nails scratched into his eyelids and his body jumped from the floor when a sudden vibration started to buzz in his pocket and sent shivers and adrenaline all throughout his body. His nerves sparked right to the tip of his fingers and he gasped into his palm, snapping his aching eyelids open as he rummaged around in his pocket for his phone.
It was (Y/n). She was calling him. She was probably going to ask what was keeping him, if he was on his way yet or if he might not be able to make it after all. Well Dennis was determined to make it for at least one drink, to show his tired face to their circle of friends and prove he wasn't a complete idiot for standing (Y/n) up on a night out like this.
Despite the anxiety in his stomach about disappointing her, Dennis found himself smiling as the picture of her lit up his screen. The picture of (Y/n), sat in a cafe with an extremely large mug of hot chocolate clasped between her hands and a sickly sweet smile on her face with a dash of cream coating her top lip like a moustache.
He answered the phone, his free hand moving to scratch the back of his neck out of nerous habit even though he knew deep in his heart that (Y/n) wouldn't be angry with him. She hardly ever could be. And it wasn't like he was talking to her face to face to apologise and say how sorry he was that he was later than ever.
"Hey baby, I promise I won't be too much longer-"
"Denny?"
He cut off immediately, his lips parted in a silent O shape while his brows started to narrow. There was a strange undertone to (Y/n)'s voice, like she was holding the phone faraway from her face or there was a distinct crackle to her voice that made it sound different from normal.
But the way that (Y/n) said his name, sounding rather confused as if she didn't know who she had dialled or as if she thought he wouldn't pick up the phone, that cut something depe within him.
"Yeah, you okay?" He was rather uncertain what kind of answer he was going to get.
He waited rather impatiently, pressing the phone harder against his ear to try and listen for a response while he chomped down on the inside of his cheek and moved his free hand down to curl around his hip instead of his neck.
Finally, she seemed to take a deep breath and whisper an answer down the line. "Something w- was in that drink," she breathed in a way that told Dennis she was trying not to slur her words.
How much had she had to drink? Was she that drunk already? It wasn't like (Y/n) to get sloshed like this or become confused when she was drunk. Ususally she got tipsy, she had that distant look in her dilated eyes and a lazy smile that always made Dennis's stomach do summersaults.
But she didn't sound like this. Had someone given her a strong drink or a bad shot? Had she had a bit too much vodka in her drinks or a few too many shots with the others?
He almost felt like smiling at the subtle hint of defiance in her tone, but he forced a placid look onto his face as he answered her.
"What d'you mean, baby? Do you feel sick?"
If she felt sick then he would hae to meet her there and take her home, unless someone got her into a taxi. Although Dennis didn't like the thought of her being in a taxi on her own if she was in a state like this. He would rather someone be with her to watch out for her and make sure she was okay and didn't pass out. If she wasn't too bad then she could wait there for him to come and get her, he would be as fast as he could.
"Woozy a- and sluggish… not good, Denny." The whimper at the end of her voice and the hitch to her breaths made Dennis's heart drop to the pit of his stomach.
Oh God. Oh no.
She wasn't overly tipsy or drunk out of her mind. Her drink had been spiked. Someone had put something in her drink, she was having a reaction to something or coming under the spell of a drug.
No, no this was the last thing that was supposed to happen, especially when Dennis wasn't even there to look out for her or help her. He should have left on time, he should have been there before now and then this might not have happened. Or at least if it had, then he would be there in person to look after her and make sure (Y/n) was taken care of.
"Who gave you the drink?" His voice dropped down a tone as his frame went rigid and he moved to the left until he was pressed up against the wall like he was about to collapse.
The thought of someone getting his wife a drink and possibly drugging her, made his blood boil. Either someone who bought her a drink had done that, or someone had managed to slip it into her drink while her back was turned. (Y/n) wasn't the kind of person to leave her drink unattended, she was too smart for that. She was cautious, wary.
"Lia did, from t- the bar-" a quiet mewl broke off (Y/n)'s words and a clatter rattled down the line as she slumped her head against the wall of the toilet cubicle she had locked herself in.
A soft whimper of Dennis's name passed (Y/n)'s lips as she closed her eyes and clung tighter to the phone, just in case she dropped it or she couldn't quite hear his melodic, sweet voice properly.
the plastic of the cubicle wall was cool against her flushed, clammy skin and (Y/n) could feel the tremors rattling through her which in turn made the wall rattle too. Her legs were full of pins and needles from how she was slumped on her knees on the floor with her heels digging into her bum to stop her from falling or wavering on the spot.
She wanted Dennis. She wanted to go home now. She wanted to feel better, not feel drowsy and unusual and so unlike herself, so out of touch and out of control in her own body. This wasn't right.
"Baby where are you? Please tell me you're still at the bar with everyone." The pleading tone to Dennis's voice was drowned out by the anger fuelling every one of his nerves in his body.
He prayed she hadn't tried to leave the bar already and was stumbling down the street on her own. Anyone could follow her and hurt her or try and kidnap her or take advantage. The possibilities were making Dennis flush beet red while his skin turned burning hot to the touch.
He was already pushing off the wall and turning round, aiming for his locker so he could grab his bag- and more importantly his keys. He had been planning to get a taxi down to the club and a taxi home with (Y/n) tonight, so he could leave his dingy, second hand car here at work and pick it up tomorrow afternoon.
The plan had changed now. He would have to drive down there, get (Y/n) and possibly bring her right back here to the hospital, depending on how her situation was.
"Toilet, a guy was g… was grabbing at me… feel dizzy, Denny. Come get me?"
(Y/n) hadn't paid much attention to it before, but the pushy guy on the dance floor hadn't been pleased when she wouldn't dance with him. And he had been hovering around her like a fly for most of the night.
Lia had bought the last round of drinks at the bar and by the time (Y/n) joined her at the bar, there were dozens of people crowding round, pushing to get a drink. And their drinks were already lined up and sloshing all over the bar, and (Y/n) had turned her back for a few seconds to try and locate the rest of their group.
Someone could have- must have- put something in her drink then, because up until that point she had felt just fine.
Then the world started to spin, her balance left her completely and her legs went hollow. Her brain felt like it had turned to mush and she could barely see straight as she wobbled her way to the toilets to get away from everyone. Away from the pushy guy who had been there when she started to feel funny. All she wanted was Dennis to come and take her home.
"I'm coming right now." He promised, slinging his bag from his locker on his shoulder before he spun and started to speed walk, knowing he couldn't run without drawing attention or causing an accident.
He pressed the phone tighter to his ear to try and listen in to his wife, noting the way she was breathing heavy and panting, how she groaned every few seconds and sounded like she was pushing or hitting her head against a wall.
"Stay on the phone with me baby, okay? Stay awake, talk to me until I get there." He urged as he hurried down the hall. If she went unconscious then Dennis would have no connection to her, he wouldn't know if she was okay. She had to stay awake.
(Y/n) had to stay on the line, had to keep talking to him and stay conscious so she didn't pass out and vomit and choke or aspirate or have someone try and get into the toilets and hurt her or get in the way.
A gasp tumbled past Dennis's lips and he almost dropped the phone when his elbow suddenly clipped someone's midsection and they both repelled like magnets. He stumbled back two steps before he found his balance, his brown eyes going wider like bowling balls as he stared up at the charge nurse in front of him.
"Woah, kid where you going in such a hurry?" Dana's hands moved to her hips and she looked down her glasses at him over the bridge of her nose. It was a motherly look that would have made Dennis flush and stutter on any other occasion.
But right now, his panic for his wife was overwhelming everything else. She was his priority, nothing else mattered or came close.
"I got an emergency." He huffed as he weaved around her, ignoring the raised brow and rather surprised look on her face. Like she wasn't sure whether to laugh or clip him round the ear.
"This is the ER, everything's an emergen-"
"Personal one!" He hollered, barely looking back over his shoulder before he was aiming for the ambulance bay doors. It was the quickest exit.
Dennis couldn't be faffing around rushing through triage, unlocking the door to the waiting room and then slowly weaving through or beside the metal detector to get outside. He had to move fast, and this was his nearest and least time-consuming exit.
His wife needed him.
By the time Dennis got himself into the car and revved the engine, he realised he hadn't heard (Y/n) whimpering or muttering anything for a while. The thought sent his heartbeat spiking and he set his phone on speaker before he began to pull out of the carpark.
"Baby, you still there?"
"M'sick."
He tried not to sigh in relief and have it misconstrude; he was glad she was still with him, still awake and relatively safe where she was while she waited for him to turn up.
"That's alright, you might feel better if you throw up. Are you still at the same club you texted me to meet you at?" He paused at the junction and scrolled through his messages to find the name of the club he was supposed to meat her at almost two hours ago.
He prayed she was, because (Y/n) clearly wasn't in any fit state to be remembering or telling him the name of whatever club they might have wandered to in the meantime. She might not even know where she was if they had moved on from the previous club.
"Yeah."
Another burst of relief swelled through him, especially when he figured that he would be there in less than ten minutes, if the traffic lights were on his side tonight. "Good, I'm on my way now."
It was hard for Dennis to catch a proper breath when he pulled up on the curb and tripped over his feet in his haste to get into the club. He'd just ended the phone call with (Y/n), promising that he was outside now and he would be there in person within the minute.
But now that he was here, he was really starting to panic. What state would she be in when he found her? Would she be okay? Was he going to hae to take her back to the hospital? Probably. If she was that bad he might have to call for an ambulance; God he hoped not though.
Why did this have to happen now? Why did this have to happen to (Y/n), of all people?
The music was pulsing down the street and when Dennis headed inside, he felt awfully overwhelmed and certain that he would be deaf once he walked out. How on Earth had (Y/n) and the group managed to last in here for over two hours? Two seconds was enough to have Dennis desperate to turn and flee.
He winced before trying to put on a stoic expression and hide the panic rattling through him. The loudness of the ER was horribly different to this; no sobbing family members, no patients shouting and demanding to be seen. No machines blurring in the background or feet bashing on the floor, no trolley wheels squeaking and people yelling for help or charts or an extra pair of hands.
Dennis tried to stick close to the wall as he weaved around the drunks aiming for the dance floor and the loud couples kissing and groping in the corners.
He knew he stood out; if anyone looked his way they would stop and stare at the man who had come to the club wearing hospital scrubs. Not the best attire unless he was here for a fancy dress party. Especially with the flecks of fluids and beads of sweat soaked into his clothes.
Terror continued to pool within his eyes and darken the circles beneath them as he panted like a rabid animal, aiming for the green illuminating toilet sign that was pointing to the corridor on the left.
"Dennis!"
His head snapped sharply to the right, eyes locking onto Lia, (Y/n)'s friend from college. The one who had been at the bar with her when her drink must have been spiked. Clearly she was well, it had only been (Y/n)'s drink that was affected.
That was a good thing, Dennis tried to tell himself. He didn't exactly wantn any of their friends to need a hospital visit either, or to have to ferry them all down in the car for check ups or call a round of ambulances if more people were affected or drugged. But it grated Dennis's nerves to think why it was only (Y/n) who was the one suffering.
"Hey doc, you made it." Dane hollered from the dance floor with an arm strewn in the air. He looked like he was about to aim in Dennis's direction, to reel him into a sideways hug and steer him to the bar to get him drunk- that was usually his method of greeting.
But Dennis didn't have the time for either of them, despite how happy his friends looked to see him finally arrive. He waved a quick hand in their direction before he pointed to the toilets and fled. He needed to get to (Y/n).
Without thinking twice, Dennis blundered through the heay oak door that led into the women's toilets. He tried to ignore the strange look he got from the two ladies pressed up against the sinks, reapplying their make up. They glanced at him through their reflections in the mirror but didn't make a sound or a fuss when he flicked the hospital ID badge clipped to his top pocket.
He knew he was in the wrong bathroom, but he was here in both a professional and personal capacity. He needed to look after (Y/n), and he wasn't some freak trying to mess with any women or upset them, he only wanted to find his wife and help her.
With his teeth sinking down into his lower lip, Dennis took a deep breath, braced his hands on his knees and crouched down. He tried to peer beneath the stall doors to try and find out which one (Y/n) was in.
He rapped his knuckles gently on the first locked door, uttering her name but he jerked back when a gruff "Get lost!" snapped back at him.
Side-stepping to the right, he moved to the next door and tried again. Utter relief circulated through his stomach and up to his chest when (Y/n) mewled his name and he heard the door bashing as she tried to reach up for the lock.
The moment the locked click, Dennis grabbed the door and swung it wide so he could scuttle inside and go down on his knees beside (Y/n).
Tears had already been trickling down (Y/n)'s face since the moment she called Dennis, but to see him now, to finally have him here with her, made a torrential downpour cascade across her features.
Her eyes barely managed to stay open, but (Y/n) caught sight of Dennis's worried orbs staring down at her. The look of utter panic written across his face, his red lips parted and his jaw loosened while his hands instantly reached out for her.
(Y/n) tried to push herself up from the wall, but her balance was no longer proportionate. As soon as her head leant forward towards Dennis, her entire body was flowing with it and she crashed against his chest with a thud. Both hands tried to scrunch up in his shirt, but (Y/n) found herself shaking so hard that she could barely hold onto him.
"Denny," whatever else (Y/n) wanted to say faded out on her tongue and she could feel the burning sensation within her eyes that just wanted to close and let her rest for a few minutes, hours, days even.
She felt his hands cupping either side of her neck, and the firm press of his fingertips beneath her jaw told her that he was checking her pulse, something he didn't often do unless she was feeling particularly unwell.
"I'm here now, it's okay." He hushed before gently tilting her head away from his chest so they were now face to face. "Let me look at you."
His voice was so soft and lulling that (Y/n) found herself closing her eyes once again. Her head bent back until his fingers were there at the base of her skull to stop her head from flopping all the way back to her shoulders like her neck had been broken. He held her head up, analysing her clammy skin, the beads of sweat flushed across her face.
He took note of how she was shuddering against him like she was frozen cold, how her breaths were shallow and weak. And when Dennis lifted one hand so his thumb could peel back (Y/n)'s eyelid, he noticed her pupils were tightly constricted; he was surprised she had been able to see him at all.
"Oh baby," he sighed as he leant forward on his knees until his lips were smothering her burning temple and (Y/n) whimpered into the touch. Reaching out to flop her hand over his wrist like she wanted to pin him there and keep his touch from disappearing.
"We need to get you checked out, can I take you back to the ER with me?"
As much as (Y/n) didn't want to, she knew she didn't have much of a choice when she felt like this. Her stomach was rotating and twisting like a washing machine. Her head was splitting apart at the seams and felt like it had tripled in size. She could barely keep her eyes open, let alone keep herself awake. And she was burning up. Her body was overheating like she had been stuffed into an oven, all the fluids she intook were going to be secreeting from her skin as the sweat dripped off her in buckets.
Sitting here felt suffocating with how much heat her body was producing, the bathroom was probably frosted cold with aircon but (Y/n) couldn't feel it at all.
"Let's get you looked after, hm?" Dennis reached out and shoved (Y/n)'s phone into her bag which he then hooked onto his left shoulder, not wanting to leave any of her things here to be pinched.
He was careful when he looped her arms around the back of his neck and bound his arms around her waist, slowly pushing up from his knees as he pulled (Y/n) along with him. Once she was up on unsteady feet, Dennis tucked her into his side, his left arm around her waist and his right hand clutching her arm to keep her from collapsing.
(Y/n) let her head loll against Dennis's shoulder, eyes closed because it was easier than trying to keep them open. She kept her arms loosely draped around his neck as her way of clinging to him and making sure that she didn't drop to the floor.
Rather than lifting her feet and walking normally, (Y/n) found that all she could do was drag her feet against the floor, her feet bent and set oddly on the floor like they were trying to flop and fold in on themselves. It was all that she could manage, the only way she could help Dennis get her out of here. She didn't want to become a dead weight for him to have to lift and carry.
(Y/n) felt just how strange her body was now becoming because as her husband practically dragged her towards the exit, she realised the blasting music wasn't affecting her. It wasn't thrumming in her ears or pulsing through her veins or sounding too loud in her head. It was background noise she couldn't focus on. She couldn't recognise one word that was sung through the speakers.
The cold night air hit her like a truck. A gasping breath stuttered past (Y/n)'s lips and her nails scratched into the back of Dennis's neck as she pushed into him. It felt like ice had penetrated through to her lungs that stuttered and seemed to stop.
"Shh, I know, I know it's cold baby I'm sorry. Just a little further to the car, come on." Dennis soothed with his lips meshed against her temple breathing warm breaths against her already clammy skin.
He knew in her overwhelming, overheated state, going from extreme warm to violent cold was going to shock her system, but he didn't have any other choice if he wanted to get her to the car and down to the hospital. His hand ran up and down her arm as he trudged towards the car, pulling her along with him until he could unlock the car and yank open the passenger door.
By the time he leant over and managed to get (Y/n) into the car, she had started to gasp and pull in a few shallow breaths.
Her arms shook and coiled to her chest and she began to curl up in her seat. The smallest flicker of a smile danced across her lips when Dennis leant over her and she felt his warm chest rubbing against hers as he pulled her belt around her and buckled her in with a wet kiss to her cheek in the process.
When the door closed, (Y/n) slumped to her right and lolled her head against the door frame, shuddering every now and then despite the warm air inside the car.
She managed a smile when she felt Dennis's hand brush her thigh when he dropped her bag on the floor between her feet, and his fingertips brushed over her skin and gave a comforting squeeze before he started up the car.
"Th- the others," (Y/n) mumbled, unable to look in Dennis's direction as she wondered whether she had spoken loud enough for him to hear her or not.
They had just left everyone else in the club. They hadn't said goodbye or told them what was happening. They would be worried, wondering where (Y/n) had gone if Dennis didn't tell them that they were leaving.
"I'll text Dane in a while and tell him what's happened. He saw he go in, he'll know you're with me when they can't find us."
If Dennis hadn't of seen Lia or Dane when he went in, he would have debated calling one of them or rushing back in to quickly tell them what was happening. But they had spotted him. When they couldn't find (Y/n) anywhere and realised Dennis had gone too, they would assume he had found his wife and copped off with her somewhere in the club or that they had disappeared together.
Their friends shouldn't be to worried about them for now, they would know both of them were safe and together. He would text them later to explain what had happened and make sure the rest of them were all okay too.
"Don't fall asleep on me, beautiful." Dennis chided softly after a few minutes, and he reached out to brush his finger against her cheek and jaw to gain her attention.
He got a small hum in response, but that was enough to tell him that (Y/n) was still conscious. He didn't want her falling asleep until he'd got her back to the ER and under observation.
Dennis could feel his heart pounding and hammering against his ribs and by the time he pulled back up in his parking space, his whole body was thrumming and vibrating. He could feel a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin in the moonlight from utter panic and sheer exhaustion, despite being more than wide awake.
He scrambled out the car, making sure his keys and phone were in his pocket so he didn't have to bring his whole back pack into the ER again.
"Alright baby, we're here now."
He crouched beside the open door, leaning over to unclip her belt before he helped swing her legs out of the car.
He didn't like how unresponsive and loose-limbed (Y/n) had now become, she looked positively knocked out. Reaching one hand out, Dennis pinched her earlobe sharply, breathing in relief when she took a sharp breath and tried to twist her head away from his touch although she couldn't move far. She was still awake.
He looped (Y/n)'s left arm around the back of his neck, slid his right arm around her back and hips, and lifted her up from the car. With the door shut with his heel, he locked it up and slid the keys into his pocket before he aimed for the ambulance bay.
Again, it was closer than trying to get through to the waiting area and having to weave through all the waiting patients and buzz himself in which would surely cause an uproar from all the people he would be cutting in front of. He needed to get to an assessment room, not run through triage and make his journey longer.
Once they got through the double doors and stumbled into the main floor of the ER, Dennis debated whether or not to just scoop his wife up in his arms if that would be easier than dragging her like this. He looked like he had some kind of hostage situation going on.
His grip on (Y/n)'s hand tightened to keep her arm around the back of his neck and his other arm pinned her tighter into his side, holding her close. (Y/n) hadn't been lifting her feet properly before, but she was barely shuffling them across the floor anymore. Her knees were bent forward, her legs bent and wavering towards the floor as her cheek nuzzled into Dennis's shoulder, telling him she was still awake. Mostly.
Robby couldn't quite believe what he was seeing when he turned to his left. He had to take a moment to rub his exhausted, sore eyes and pull in a deep breath before he did another once-over. Sure enough, he had been right in what he had seen.
Dennis, stumbling into the ER with a woman hanging off of him like she was about to flop down to the floor. There was no blood on either of them, and she wasn't crying or screaming or seeming in any agony, but she wasn't talking or looking around either. She was barely even walking, it looked more like she was being hauled around by Dennis.
"Whitaker, is this the emergency Dana was talking about?" Robby snatched a pair of gloves from the desk before he rushed towards them to try and give some help.
(Y/n)'s head slid down from Dennis's shoulder until her cheek was meshed against his chest instead. Her arm was becoming loose around the back of his neck, but it was her legs that concerned her the most. They were starting to tingle, like they had been flooded with bubbles, no bone or tendons and ligaments left within them.
"This is (Y/n)," Dennis let go of her arm that was around his neck in favour of gripping her waist a bit better. "Someone spiked her drink at the club, I need a ro- oh shit!"
His body surged forward when (Y/n)'s legs finally gave way on her and she spiralled down towards the floor. Her head rebounded off of his sternum which made his entire diaphragm quake but he tried to ignore the sensation and dig his fingers into the flesh of her hips and waist, pulling her up before she had chance to hit the floor.
With one arm bound around her back, he slid his other arm beneath her knees and with a clenched jaw Dennis straightened up with (Y/n) limp and unconscious in his arms.
"Central five is free."
His eyes locked on Trinity who was already rushing towards them with a gurney and a rather worried look in her eyes. She had never met (Y/n) before, but she had seen the pictures on Dennis's phone and lockscreen. She knew this was his wife.
"Let's get her in." Robby nodded and reached out to steady (Y/n)'s head and neck while Dennis eased her onto the gurney.
It seemed that their already stretched shift was going to extend even longer, and Robby didn't want to think how long he was going to be here. Maybe until morning at this rate, but it didn't matter. (Y/n) was clearly family to Dennis, and they looked after their own.
"Transfer on three. One, two, three!" Between the three of them, they moved the slide sheet over until (Y/n) was onto the bed rather than the gurney which was pushed out of the room, discarded for someone else to shift or use.
Dennis found a new pair of gloves but he couldn't help but smooth a few tendrils of hair back from (Y/n)'s face that had gone soft and relaxed now that she had passed out.
"Do you know what she took?"
Dennis shook his head, a large lump now forming in his throat. "She called me, she felt drowsy, she knew someone spiked her drink. She'd been sick when I got there."
He knew she had thrown up while they had been on the phone on his way down to get her, which was probably a good thing to get some of the drugs out of her system. Although most of it would already be absorbed into her bloodstream by now.
"Alright, Santos get ready to take bloods for the lab. We'll get fluids wide open and something to take down that fever. And check her blood sugar, some roofies can make them drop sharply."
A subtle shake rattled through Dennis's arms as he handed over the ECG stickers to Robby to attach to (Y/n)'s chest so they could get the monitors up and running. He prayed it was just some simple roofie, some type of benzo was most common because it was tasteless and could act fast. If it was and (Y/n) hadn't been given an overdose, she would need monitoring and fluids and she should wake feeling more like her self in a few hours.
While Robby got a blood pressure cuff on her left arm, Dennis gently pressed his index finger between her lips and parted them to see her gums.
"Slight cyanosis, she needs oxygen." Her inner lips were had a slight blue tinge to them; she wasn't getting enough oxygen in her blood.
Dennis wasted no time in turning on the oxygen machine attached to the bottom of the bed and finding the mask. He was now glad that (Y/n) had passed out, she wouldn't have liked all this. The oxygen mask would have made her panic, the needle Trinity had slid into her elbow to draw blood would have made (Y/n) feel sick. And the cannula Robby was getting into her hand would definitely make her cringe.
"Pulse and BP slightly elevated, not concerning yet though." Robby took a step back once he'd looked across at the monitors and the cannula was inserted into (Y/n)'s hand with the fluids set on the fasted dosage.
"I'll take these down to the lab, then come back." Trinity finished her smallest, neatest handwriting on the label of the vials of blood she had drawn. Rather than waiting for a courier to take them down to the lab, she would do it herself. It would get there quicker, assure no errors and also give her a bit of time to relax and not be dragged to another patient.
"I'll go get something for that fever and tell Sasha depending on those bloods, we might need some antibiotics. If its not benzos and she starts to react, we'll get some inhibitors on standby and charcoal to bind it up in her system and flush it out. Is that okay?"
Dennis nodded aimlessly, barely managing to look over at Robby when he knew one sympathetic glance was all it would take to break the dam and have tears spilling down his face.
When the door clicked shut behind the attending, Dennis let out a short breath he didn't realise he had been holding in. He reached down for (Y/n)'s clammy hand, threading their fingers together and pulling their hands towards him as he flopped down into the chair beside the bed.
"You're alright now, baby." He whispered, his lips meshing against the back of her hand as he started to glide his free hand up and down her arm. "Few hours of observation and fluids, and you'll be much better."
He knew he was right, he knew this wasn't as serious as some of the other cases that came flooding through those doors. His wife wasn't suffering a heart attack or had an amputated limb or a foreign object impaled into her body. She would hopefully need this less evasive course of treatment, in the morning she should be back to almost full health again.
Dennis just had to wait out the night here at work, sitting in a crummy chair by his wife's side instead of dancing the night away with her on the dancefloor.
Toddler regressed Ghost and baby to very young Toddler regressed reader. Ghost is trying to be a sweet and good big brother, just randomly picking up the reader and carrying them around while they're half asleep and not paying attention to anything he's saying. Price has to try and get Ghost to let the reader go and give them to him, but he's being all stubborn because he needs to be there for the reader.
I just love older regressors trying to take care of younger regressors like siblings do.
There was only one thing that little Simon loved more than his Mr. Kitty plush, and it was you. John had a knack for finding his strays, and while Johnny and Kyle weren't littles, you certainly were. When you first slipped around the team, Simon spent ten minutes watching you have tummy time. You grunted and babbled at him, waving one of your foam blocks around demandingly.
"You okay, bubba?" Johnny coos, getting Simon's attention.
"Baby." Simon insists softly as he pointed at you. You grab hold of his hand, squeezing his finger softly.
"Yes, Bubba, that's a baby. They're smaller than you, so be gentle with them, okay?" Simon nods seriously, and from that day on, you were his baby.
He helped put you down for nap time and even got to feed you bottles in the morning. He didn't like it when Kyle or Johnny would tease you because you may not understand them, but he did.
"Not stinky!" He huffs defensively as he helps you build your tower during tummy time. "Mean." He huffs, pointing an accusatory finger at his two Bubba's.
"We're only teasing, Si. We don't mean it." Kyle assures hoping that he can calm Simon's irritation.
"Still mean." He grumbles as he kisses your head gently. "Don't pick on my baby." Johnny had to bite back his laugh, but Kyle couldn't contain his shock. Simon hadn't ever grumbled or snapped at them before, until you. When you let out a soft fuss, whining from tummy time, Simon clumsily scoops you up into his arms.
"Si, buddy, they need some time on their belly. Put em down." John orders softly from the recliner, looking his newspaper at him. Simon whines at that, shaking his head as he squeezes you close.
"Little one, you heard what Papa said." Nikolai scolds softly as he steps out of the kitchen. "Let baby go." Simon pouts a little but slowly puts you down onto your belly. He joins you, laying on his tummy in front of you.
"Build blocks, or race cars, baby?" Simon asks as he shows you the two toys, giggling when you try to put the car in your mouth. "Nooo, silly baby! Cars aren't for mouths. Look, like this." He shows you how to roll the toys across the soft play mat, making you coo in excitement.
You were more content to watch Simon play with the toys, suckling softly on your pacifier as you wait for dinner.
WORD COUNT. 1228
SUMMARY. frank comes to collect you from a nightout with your friends. you're sloppy and slurring, tripping over your words and feet in a way that shouldn't fill him with as much adoration as it does.
DISCLAIMERS. for the plot it's the readers bday, but has no relevance - just bc she gets absolutely sloshed and she’s out with her friends. one tiny suggestive mention but that's it. just frank babying her and being all gentle and helping her into his truck
Your messages had hardly been concise, to an untrained eye it'd be mumbo jumbo, a casual slamming of keys on the screen, but to Frank he knew what your nonsense texts meant; somehow, and rather bizarrely knowing that 'raedt ihn 1p' did in fact mean 'ready in 10.'
He was already outside the club awaiting your drunken, stumbling arrival, he didn't need the reminder be where he needed to be. Nine minutes had passed since your text and he hops out the truck, stepping around the heaping pile of junk to meet you kerbside. Frank places his phone into his jean pocket and directs his attention back to the bar doors — gaze almost surveying as he filters his focus through the groups of inebriated individuals in the smoking area.
Though his dark darting eyes still when he recognises a friend of yours, cigarette hanging out her mouth as she seemingly describes a story with theatrics, it inevitably catches his attention until you step into clear view. He leans backwards and against the passenger door of his truck behind him, getting comfortable as he watches you just simply exist. From afar he watches you —well, twenty or so feet away— you're smiling and laughing, chewing on the straw from your drink as you make input with that said story. You look happy, most genuinely.
He can't help but mirror you, match the joy that seems to spread in your face. Though he realises where he is, standing in the middle of the street in front of a truck, watching a group of women outside a bar — that doesn't exactly bode well. And with that thought shocking him back into reality, he lowers and shakes his head, hoping the act will straighten out that grin he can't help.
"Frankie," he hears a loud voice, your voice.
He directs his eyes back to how they were a moment ago and he sees you jumping on the spot, arm up in the air as you wave at him. Smile so sincere that it made the one you had on your face a minute ago look almost fake. He watches you as you hug your friends, giving them all a little individual moment before you stumble away, shoulder bag dragging on the floor with each uneasy step.
Frank's eyes remain locked on you, attention hawk-like as he watches you totter closer and closer towards him. As if he was weary of someone else snapping you up.
"Hi," you smile and grab his extended hand, the one he was holding out for you to take.
He brings his other hand out from behind his back and places it across your elbow, dual hold on your arm keeping you stabilised.
"Hey, baby," he greets, voice low and gravelly.
Your name gets called from where you were standing a minute ago, though you can't make out the direction from where it came. You twist your head left to right, back to left, trying to locate where your friends had disappeared to.
Frank chuckles, the noise deep but slight. He nods behind you, gesturing to the smoking area from where you stumbled away from.
"Right over there, baby," he guides, eyes directing your gaze.
You twist around, the sudden motion making your head spin. You make out a rather hazy image of your friends, all of them right where you left them.
"Get that birthday dick, babe," one shouts and another punctuates it with a heckle and hoot, holding up her drink to cheers you in spirit.
Your mouth hangs open enthusiastically and your eyes squint, almost like it was a laugh so quiet that no noise came from it all. You give them an unstructured wave goodbye and turn to look at Frank, giving him a small head shake and a giggle.
"They're… gross," you slur, wiping your eyes.
Frank straightens his amused grin and looks over to your friends.
"Your girls got rides comin'?" he questions and you give him a singular nod, the motion almost unconvincing, "sure?"
"Abso-pos-a-fruitly."
His smile spreads, features entertained. Frank releases his hold around your forearm and reaches for the truck door behind. Pulling you away carefully, he tugs on the door — opening it for you. You stumble over your own footing as you itch closer to the door, ankle rolling in your high-heels over the uneven weight you just rested on it.
"Easy there," he supports you, holding you up by your underarms, "steady, sweet girl."
"God, my feet kill," you exaggerate, features almost dramatic in their wild movement.
"Yeah, I bet," he glances down to your feet for a moment and then up to you, eyes unknowingly filling with adoration, "let's get you in the truck first, huh?"
"But my feet," you whine, reaching down, trying most miserably to undo the clasp.
He gives you a solid nod and bends, either arm coming up behind you. He settles one behind your knees, the other on the small of your back — distributing the weight of you he found no such trouble. Bridal-style, he lifts you and sets you in the passenger seat of his truck; placing you carefully inside.
Frank releases his grasp around you and lowers either arm down to your feet, the ones you have preemptively lifted up for him to take. He shakes his head as if to hide his smile, and then wedges your foot between his thighs — holding it there in place.
"D'you have a good time?"
You bite down on your bottom lip and smile, head nodding dramatically as if to further emphasise it. "I did."
"Yeah?" he hums.
He lowers his gaze from your own and directs it to the clasp he's struggling to undo, fingers too large for something so fiddly. With much an effort, he removes your first heel and drops it into the foot well of the truck. He sets your foot down and picks up the other, placing it between his thighs like the one before.
"Get any special birthday treats, my girl?" he asks, eyes flicking up to yours.
You giggle mirthfully and lean in closer to Frank. "Oh yeah."
"Yeah? What?"
"Lots, and lots, and lots of shots," faint lines of joy crease in your face as you whisper. You stick your blue tongue out and bite down onto it lightly, pulling an exaggeratedly playful face. "Like so, so many," you whisper.
Frank unclasps your heel and places it with the other, lowering your foot like he did with the one before. He settles his hands over your knees, using them as leverage and stability while he itches in, closing the distance.
He presses a kiss to your lips and pulls back, the sudden motion like a jolt.
"D'you have a smoke?" he questions, tasting faint cigarette amongst the cherry and vodka and grape and tequila and raspberry. It was slight, but he knew it was there.
You shake your head diagonally, not quite a yes, not quite a no. You instead lift a hand, pinching a small gap between your thumb and index. "Only a little," you slur on your words.
"Only a little," he repeats after you, rugged voice soft in a way that's reserved for you alone. He smiles down at your lap, the act an effort to hide it. "Get that belt on baby, and we'll get you somethin' to eat."
⎯ 𑄹 ⎯
its so hard to not make a tipsy reader sound cringe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A small smile graces your lips when you walk into the living room after coming home from work.
There he is, Simon lying on the couch. One arm rests over his eyes and the other one lies under Snowballs (the cat he definitely didn’t want) body.
His eyes are closed and a low snore rumbles over his lips.
Your smile grows bigger at the sight and you walk up closer to the black couch.
Your sleeping giant stays still asleep while Snowball raises his head shortly to look at you before the sleep crawls back into his mind and takes him back into his napping session.
Your bag drops to the floor next to the couch table and your body decides to nap with your baby and your boyfriend.
You take Snowball into your arms climbing onto Simon’s body and resting between Simon and the couch.
His arm immediately finds your waist grabbing onto you and pulls you closer to his side (if that is even possible because the couch is that small).
A low grumble leaves Simon’s lips when he hides his face into your hair and takes a deep breath.
The chain link gate rattled as people came and went—but no one anticipated a Cody to come strolling in, dressed in a pair of hot pink swim shorts with a pattern of rubber ducks. Dennis said it would make him, “more inviting to the public eye, babe.” He was beginning to doubt that.
Mothers lounging on their sun chairs began to hurriedly beckon their children over as teenagers just turned their backs and congregated at the deep end of the pool. Even the lifeguard took to quizzically glancing towards him.
No one would be more confused as to why Pope Cody showed up to a communal pool on a blistering Thursday afternoon—until Dennis trotted in behind him.
Holding a noodle that engulfed him twice over, the tension in the air eased just a fraction.
“Drew get your ass over here so I can put sunscreen on you—and don't argue. I don't want you looking like a lobster again.”
Huffing through the whole ordeal, onlookers stared in amazement. Here was Pope Cody, someone who was known to easily control the fate of most people's lives, being subjected to the lovingly smother of sun protection, eyes watering when the aerosol spray attacked his face.
By the time both of them were satisfactorily slicked up by Dennis’ standards, Pope immediately beelined to the water, slipping in while Dennis took his time pulling out a well-cracked paperback and a pair of sunglasses, lazily lounging to his heart's content.
Most realized there was no potential threat—except for the eerily silent dips Andrew took off the diving board. He looked up to Dennis for approval, only to receive a thumbs up while flipping a page. It's good enough for him.
As Dennis reaches a stopping point, he glances up to find Andrew face down, floating like a starfish. No one else seems to notice, and really it wouldn't be abnormal for him to do such silly things, but the absence of bubbles that should be appearing at the surface send a chill through him.
The shock of cold water greets him as he paddles over the Drew, laboriously flipping his battered body and being met with blue orbs staring at him in wonderment.
“So strong,” Andrew gurgles out, as he's pushed under the water.
“Stupid mutt,” Dennis hisses. “Thought you'd drowned.”
But he knows Pope is too in love with him to ever do such a thing, as the older man eyes the droplets of water rolling down his tanned stomach while making his way back to the lounger.
Half an hour later, Dennis is flipping to lay on his stomach, foregoing his book to doze off to the rhythm of splashing.
The burn doesn't feel half as bad when his boyfriend is generously using up a quarter of the bottle of aloe for unintended purposes.
You'd think Dennis would find this funny, wouldn't you?
Housesitting for your boss, when one day a dirty magazine arrives in the mail. Oh how hilarious. Now Dr Robby not only owes him a favour, but Dennis now has something funny to tease him over too. Fantastic. Trinity will piss herself laughing.
But that's not what happens.
Dennis immediately drops the thing out of shock, shouting "shit shit shit shit shit-" in a progressively panicked tone.
Because this, this, is the magazine that, back when he was extremely desperate for money, he did a boudoir style shoot for.
He never thought about those photos again after they took them. Until now obviously. But now all he can think about is that his boss/friend/crush might have seen him like that.
Arms above his head, with his jumper riding up, and his nipple peaking out.
Oh god Dr Robby might have seen his nipple.
He also tries to shove down the unhelpfully hopeful thought about how Robby is subscribed to this magazine. This magazine that this is very much targeted towards men who are attracted to other men. Dennis has to actively stomp down that giddy internal monologue squealing "I have a chance!"
Because that is ridiculous. No matter what this subscription might suggest, there is no way someone like Robby would want a relationship with him.
As far as he could tell, from overhearing Princess and Perlah's gossip, all Robby's previous 'relationships' had been with women. All the ones serious enough to be known about at work anyway. This must just be some fun that the man enjoys privately? Right?
The thoughts become even harder to shut down when Robby starts casually phoning him at his rest stops.
"To check how things are going."
That's what his attending says he's doing anyway. But over time the calls have morphed more into friendly chats than practical discussions about the house.
Asking more about what music Dennis likes and what it was like growing up in Nebraska, than about if he remembered to take the bins out or if any of the neighbours had asked after him.
These chats flowed both ways obviously. Dennis learned a lot about Robby too. From how he liked his eggs cooked, to how he sung and played bass in a very shortly lived rock band in medical school.
Robby was momentarily horrified when Dennis managed to find a grainy camcorder video on YouTube of "The Flu Fighters" performing in a crowded bar sometime in the 90s. He also blushed when his resident complimented how good the performance sounded. And laughed when Dennis screeched out "IS THAT DR ABBOT?!" mid way through watching the clip.
It was, the night shift resident was on vocals, and at one point had his leg (not yet a prosthetic) propped up boldly on one of the amps, strutting like a peacock at someone in the front row of the crowd.
So given how 'close' they had gotten, it only felt natural when eventually these chats turned into video calls.
Their talks usually took place after Dennis' shift, so this way he could make himself some dinner, without the need to sandwich his phone between his shoulder and the side of his face. It was much easier just propping 'Robby' up on the worktop so the older man could watch Dennis potter around the kitchen prepping and cooking a stir fry while they shared details about their day.
It makes the house feel less big and empty. And good lord Dennis definitely notices the difference on the days the Motel's lack of wifi stops Robby from calling.
Robby jokes skeptically on one of these calls that Dennis "probably hasn't managed to keep any of the houseplants alive". That he was expecting to come back in just over a week to "a barren wasteland in colourful pots".
To which the younger man became very mock offended. Because as he pointed out, he is "an excellent plant foster dad, thank you". Proving his point by taking Robby on a tour of the luscious, green, and thriving beauties.
Though when he goes to show off the Monstera by the front door that was now actually starting to flower, Robby suddenly goes white as a sheet. Dennis taps his phone at first, thinking the feed must have frozen given how still and silent his boss had gone.
He scans the room for what may have panicked Robby.
Oh god. Did he fuck up somehow?
Did he trek mud in on his boots?
Did Trinity leave a liquor bottle laying somewhere?
Did the mail pile look too mess--
Oh shit
The magazine. It was clearly visible on the entry way table right next to the plant.
Dennis hadn't known what to do with it, so he'd just sort of left it there hoping it would disappear like a bad dream. But if the thing arriving here in the first place was a bad dream, then this was a nightmare.
Just as Dennis is about to start a frantic diversion onto another topic, Robby waterfalled out a thousand apologies.
"Fuck! Shit Dennis I'm so fucking sorry. Shit fuck I thought I cancelled the damn- "
"Robby?"
"-fucking hell- Dennis I cannot apologise enough, this was a total overstep-"
"Robby."
"-of boundaries and I completely understand if you want to swap shifts or-"
"ROBBY!" He shouted. Which finally made his attending stop babbling, didn't make him look any less frantic though. "I-It's fine, honestly! You have nothing to be ashamed of. There's no need for me to swap-"
"Nothing to be ashamed of?!" Robby cutted in again, "Dennis I don't know how stringent HR laws are in Nebraska, but an attending subscribing to a magazine because they saw a picture of their resident in an issue of it is so far beyond the realms of-" Robby cut himself off as he realised what he'd let slip. The chief hid his face behind his hands and let out a long sigh turned despairing groan.
"W-what- you- how did-" stuttered Dennis
Robby sighed much lighter this time. "Jack bought me one copy of it. As a joke. A 'funny' Christmas present after I came out to him as bisexual"
"Oh.. I, didn't know you were bi,"
"Honestly? It's a fairly recent thing. Well, recent in proportion to the rest of my life, I guess..." Even over a video call it was clear Robby was looking anywhere but him. All this talk of sexuality very clearly still made him a bit nervous.
"Well that's, ok? You know?" Dennis tried his best to be comforting. He hadn't exactly had many positive coming out experiences to base this chat off though. "There's no timeline for these things"
"I didn't even know I was on a timeline. I've only ever liked women. I'd never even looked twice at a man like that until I met-" Robby cut himself off and shook his head
"Until.. you met..?"
Those deep brown eyes returned to Dennis.
"You."
It felt like time stood still. Surely he can't be hearing this right, could he? That's impossible.
"Why would you say that?" Replied Robby with a furrowed brow
Oops, Dennis had said that last part out loud it seemed.
"Dennis, you're... you're amazing. You're smart, and you're funny. And you're somehow both handsome and adorable... How could I not start to like you?" His attending's kicked puppy expression returned. "I can only apologise that you've been saddled with an old man fawning over you like this..."
"You're not old! Well, you are- I mean, you're not that old, er, I don't mind that you're old? Or the fawning. Because I am too! The fawning that is, not the uh, old... Yeah"
Robby's face was a mix of shocked eyes and a tiny hopeful smile.
Meanwhile Dennis tried his very best to be brave. "So maybe when you, uh, get back, we could? Fawn? Together?"
The attending smirks at the unintelligible waffle of cuteness "Whittaker. Are you asking me on a date?"
"Yes. I think so. If you want to. Or er, would like that or- something."
"I would like that."
"That's great!" He shouted, unable to curb his enthusiasm. "Ah- yeah that, erm that would be cool" Great save Whitaker, flawless.
Neither of them spoke for a while beyond beaming like smitten teenagers and playfully telling the other to "piss off".
⟡ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ ⌗ ┆afab!reader, mentions of teen pregnancy, discussions of unplanned parenthood, emo dennis
𝐚/𝐧 ⋮ yes, this is inspired by gerran’s emo pictures from the late 2000s to early 2010s that have resurfaced on the internet lmao. this isn’t proofread by the way!
Not necessarily romanticizing teen pregnancy but somehow the thought doesn’t sound quite as terrifying when your baby daddy is someone like Dennis Whitaker.
Whether you’re a girlfriend from 8,000 miles away finally visiting him after years of e-dating, or a girl from Custer County who’s known him since childhood, it doesn’t really matter. Dennis is still Dennis. He’ll take care of you.
Honest work has a funny way of showing up in a person’s character. Accidentally getting you pregnant is only a setback he’s determined to work through. Maybe being a farm boy wasn’t something to look down on after all. His mom didn’t raise a quitter.
And so, you told him. When he found out, he grew deathly pale and nearly threw up in the hayloft from how terrified he was. You had to fan the poor boy while he sat there trying to catch his breath. But after a long moment, he calmed down and took both of your hands in his, looked you straight in the eye, and quietly promised, “We’re doing this together.”
He marries you as soon as he can. Whether it’s in the little church a few miles from home or the county courthouse, he couldn’t care less. It isn’t about obligation— it never was. As far as Dennis is concerned, the Lord isn’t confined to places of worship, and He would definitely understand why these two would choose to stand before Him this early in life. If he’s promising to love you for the rest of his life, then God will hear those vows no matter where they’re spoken.
He builds the crib himself. Works his hands raw in the fields before dragging himself to class. Picks up every job he can get at his age. To him, the callouses on his palms are proof of the future he’s trying to build. He’d skip a meal before he’d ever let you or the baby go without.
At night, he’d rest a hand on your swollen belly and quietly talk to the baby until sleep takes him first. In the mornings, he’d wake up before the roosters and spend a minute simply looking at you, still unable to believe this is his life now.
You worry, of course. About his health. His studies. The bills. About work. About what comes next. You worry a lot.
Dennis always finds it a little funny that you’re the one carrying a whole watermelon of a baby and still insist on carrying every other burden too. He’ll tease you for stressing so much. And that’s coming from someone who wears skinny jeans, faded band tees, and has side-swept bangs. Then he’ll distract you with whatever his mom made for dinner, and somehow… it works.
His mom’s tuna casserole? A game changer. You swore that it would always knock you out every time. But that’s beside the point.
Soon enough, you’ll find yourself lying awake beside him, listening to the crickets echo across the Sandhills. The howling wind rattling the old windowpanes. The strange noises creeping through the dripping pipes. Dennis breathing softly against your back, one arm draped protectively around you.
You trace back to the vows you made.
For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish.
Pairing: Dr. Frank Langdon
Warnings: fluff, comfort, mention of rehab.
Summary: Frank always makes sure you never run out of energy.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The shift had been a relentless, non-stop from the second you stepped onto the floor.
But despite the chaotic pace, a pattern kept repeating itself.
Every time you returned to your usual workstation to sign off on a patient’s chart or update a note, a piece of candy was sitting right beside the keyboard.
First, a strawberry hard candy.
Later, a mini chocolate bar.
Then, a honey caramel.
You stared down at the caramel, a familiar warmth knotting in your chest.
Before he went away, before the sudden leave of absence, the rehab, the heavy silence that had hung over the ER in his absence, Frank had made a habit of doing exactly this.
He’d slip you sweets between heavy cases, a quiet, unspoken way of keeping your energy up and reminding you to take care of yourself without making a scene in front of the rest of the staff.
But you hadn’t seen him.
You weren't assigned to the trauma bays today, and as far as you knew, Dr. Langdon wasn't even back on the schedule yet.
"Hey," Robby said, cutting through your thoughts as he nudged a chart into your hands. "I need you to consult on a complex laceration down in bed 6. I practically had to drag Frank over there myself to take the case, he’s trying to ease back in, but we're drowning today and he's being totally stupid by doubting himself."
You froze, the chart hovering mid air.
"W-what do you mean? Frank? He's back?"
Robby paused, looking at you like you’d missed a flare going off in the middle of the hallway. "Langdon. He came in this morning. HR sign off, official return, the whole deal. Though honestly, he’s spent half his shift dodging the main floor." Robby gave a quick wave of his hand, already moving toward another bay. "Anyway, go give him a hand before he tries to escape the case."
Your heart took a hard thud. You clutched the chart to your chest and walked toward bed 6, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Eyes fixed on the patient's vitals on the top clipboard page, you rounded the curtain, talking fast to cover the sudden flutter in your stomach. "Dr. Robinavitch said you needed a second look at-"
You stopped mid sentence.
Standing at the bedside was Frank.
He looked rested, sharp, and unmistakably him.
He paused mid glove snap, turning his head as his eyes locked onto yours. A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips, carrying all the familiar warmth you’d missed for months.
A breath escaped you, half laugh and half disbelief.
"I knew you were here," you said, a bright smile breaking across your face as you reached into your pocket and held up the little wrapped caramel.
Frank chuckled, his eyes turning tender. "I couldn't let my favorite resident run out of energy on my first day back, could I?" You smiled, then pouted slightly, tilting your head.
"Hi." You'd missed him terribly.
"Hi, you." he answered, smiling sweetly at your expression.
♡ synopsis: due to seasonal depression, your own self-care, & accuracy at work both begin to suffer. unwilling to stand by while you're put through the wringer for the next few months until spring rolls around again, jack takes it upon himself to look after you in the meantime.
♡ content: caretaker!jack, d/s vibes (lil bit of dd/lg too), pining robby, jack braids your hair, makes you eat snacks, gives bath time, etc
♡ a/n: based on this request, ty!
You're not yourself today.
Well... You haven't been for awhile, truth be told. Change of the seasons, you think. Fall isn't terrible, but it nevertheless serves as the herald of the worst time of year: winter.
It brings about slick roads that you're terrified to drive on, power outages that cast people's homes into negative digits, an uptick in emergent cases because of car accidents and slipping on ice, snow that piles up on a driveway that exhausts you to shovel, everything dying or hibernating or migrating south to wait out the cold, and the Northern Hemisphere being bathed in darkness for the grand majority of each day.
Safe to say you absolutely despise it and plan to eventually marry rich so that you can one day get yourself a home in Key West that you'll winter in as soon as October rolls around every year.
A silly daydream, yes, but nevertheless a nice thought.
While Abbot gives his typical obnoxious pep talk about nightcrawlers and the wild west, you stand to the side while shifting on your feet and studying the electronic board ahead—its colorful fields filled to the brim, as always, with cases that never seem to cease in volume.
When the speech finally concludes, you jump slightly, then turn to walk away... Until Abbot calls for you.
You swing back around to him with a forced cheery smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes.
"You alright?" he asks while resting a calloused hand against your upper arm in concern.
You nod while glancing past him. "Yeah. Fine."
"Didn't join in tonight. Getting tired of your old man already?"
Your eyes flit back to his and you shake your head. "Just thinking about getting to waiting patients." Swerving around Jack—not wishing to give him an opportunity to dig any deeper than surface-level—you head in the direction of an occupied trauma bay.
In the middle of a debridement, a patient's local anesthetic wore off—something you were meant to be keeping in mind, as they were going to require further dosages as you worked to ensure that the site was kept good and numbed while you cleaned—and were made more than aware of that fact when they started howling in pain due to your negligence.
Gently pushed aside when Abbot came sprinting into the room, you stood idly by and sniffled quietly while your eyes filled with tears and apologies poured forth from your lips. "I'm so sorry," you'd whimpered while wiping at your cheeks and mentally berating yourself to get it together!
Once the patient was given a dosage of anesthesia and another resident was summoned to take over, Jack pulled you into an empty room to check in with you.
"Sweetheart, what has been going on with you?" he asks gently with crossed arms.
Wrapping your own around yourself, you shake your head in denial. "I just forgot by getting lost in what I was doing. I'm so—" you clamp a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry."
Jack sighs, then takes a step forward and does something unexpected: he wraps his arms around you before tucking you beneath his chin and safely against his chest. "You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping well?"
You yawn and decide to give in. You screwed up, so he deserves explanation. Plus, you're too beat to try and worm your way out of this. "I think I have SAD."
You can't help but feel the least bit pitiable for it. You're surrounded by people with broken bones, burns, lacerations, and unidentified chest pain. Meanwhile, you're in a depressive mood because it's gotten cold outside.
He hums. "You taking anything for it?"
You shake your head. "I had a script for vitamin D once, but I don't feel like it made me any happier. Or any less stressed, for that matter."
Jack runs a hand up your back. "I thought you seemed off lately. I didn't know if it was something outside of here, or work itself."
Your eyes water. "All of it."
"Startin' to worry me. You're not taking breaks, you're taking on more cases than you can handle—"
You pull away while wiping your tear-stricken cheeks with the sleeve of your undershirt. "I'll be fine."
Truth is, you had hoped that by overwhelming yourself here, your bouts of sadness would subside because you were more than occupied and didn't have time to think about anything else.
Jack makes to reach out to you, but you turn and head for the door. "I have patients to get to. I'll be more mindful from now on. I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."
He watches with disappointment as the door clicks shut behind you.
You're standing idly by and observing Dr. Garcia perform an emergency thoracotomy on a patient with penetrating trauma when you end up having to squeeze your thighs together due to a suddenly straining bladder. Continually shifting your weight from one foot to the other in hope of relief does you little good, though.
Just another way you've been neglecting your own wellbeing lately: by not even bothering to use the restroom regularly.
Hopefully it doesn't result in a UTI. It'd just be another issue to add onto the already growing pile.
Abbot glances to you curiously and watches as you rotate your neck and squeeze your eyes shut before popping open again. Trailing his own lower, he notes the familiar little dance you seem to be doing and sighs.
This damn girl.
Discreetly, Jack silently crosses the room to reach you, then turns and leans in close. "Go to the restroom and relieve yourself."
You glance up to him and blink.
"Go potty, sweetheart," he mumbles before stepping away.
You turn and exit without anyone noticing.
The next time Jack takes note of your obvious self-neglect is when he's passing by the computer station just as you're making to stand, and you sway on your feet before thankfully catching yourself on a nearby counter.
Circling back around, he settles a hand on your hip and guides you in the direction of the employee lounge.
"What're you—"
He stops just outside the door and slides his hands into his pockets while nodding toward the room's interior. "Go get a snack. I'm not going to have you passing out from hypoglycemia."
You roll your eyes, then open your mouth to insist that you're fine and will eat a Snickers later, until he crosses his arms and steps forward with an unwavering expression painted across his features. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"
You stare blankly at him. "I'll be okay. I had a protein shake before I left the house. I'll have a granola bar later."
Jack grips your shoulders and spins you around while ushering you into the break room. "You're going to have a cup of Ramen, which you will finish every bite of, as well as a juice box, and only once both are on your stomach will I deem you fit to return to work."
A juice box? What, are you five?
"I really am fine," you insist.
He blocks the doorway. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself, I'm taking up the obligation instead."
You glance away in humiliation. "I'm not an invalid."
Jack sighs with remorse. "Honey, I didn't mean it like that. But you're worrying me sick. How can you expect to properly look after your patients if you're continually putting your own needs aside?"
Walking further into the room, you yank a container of Ramen off the counter. "I just have to get through to Spring. I'll be fine."
"That is months away," he counters. "So until then?"
You peel the lid off the thin cardboard bowl and toss it into the trash. "I eat my Ramen and drink my stupid juice box," you mumble while filling the container up to the designated line at the sink.
You're slurping up a mouthful of seasoned noodles when Robby waltzes into the lounge for a bottle of water before he clocks out.
Grabbing a cold one from the fridge, he looks at you with a sportive expression. "I'm sorry," he begins with a chuckle. "Are you having a snack in the middle of your shift?"
You narrow your eyes while chomping down on your noodles—sending them sliding back into the bowl. "Jack made me."
He leans back against the fridge. "Jack made you?" Robby asks incredulously before nodding toward the table. "He make you drink the juice box, too?"
You sip at it, then mumble your response. "Yes."
He softens then, with only a slight, playful grin now upon his lips. "Are you alright?"
You shrug while stirring your noodles. "Just not myself lately."
Robby's tennis shoes squeak quietly against polished tile as he heads for the table you're seated at. Pulling out a chair, he seats himself across from you before leaning back. "Something happen?"
"SAD."
He sighs. "Are you taking any—"
You hang your head. "I swear you're both two halves of a whole."
"Guessing he asked the same thing?" he inquires while unscrewing the lid on his bottle.
You return to your noodles. "Yes."
"And?" he asks while leaning forward.
"No."
Robby shakes his head while sliding his clasped hands atop the table. "Do one of us need to write you a prescription?"
Now finished with your noodles, you go in for the juice box so you can finally get back to work. "I'll be fine."
"And how many times have you fed that line to my supposed 'other half'?"
You glance to him and sip the remaining dregs with a frown. Releasing the plastic straw, you reply quietly. "Couple times."
Robby leans back with a sigh and a hand planted atop his thigh. "Well, I suggest you take Dr. Abbot's advice and do a better job of looking after yourself going forward."
He rises, then comes to your side and rests a hand between your shoulder blades while looking down at you. "Otherwise, one of us will. And speaking for myself, I already have enough patients to worry about as it is. So do you."
You crumple the juice box before standing. "I will," you supply—desperate for them both to crawl off your back. "You don't need to worry, Robby," you finish while tossing the item into the trash.
Sliding a tender hand down the side of your neck, he purses his lips. "I hope not." He heads for the door. "Need to be able to look forward to seeing my favorite girl every night before I go home."
Robby turns the handle to finally head out. "Don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here for me to set eyes on."
You watch as he leaves, completely taken aback by his comment. But it nevertheless causes you to warm all the more toward him, now knowing he's so fond of you.
When you wake the next evening, it's with a renewed vow to yourself, your patients, and coworkers: you'll be making every effort going forward to do considerably better. More bathroom breaks—including stops for water afterward—and you have a shopping bag full of nonperishable snacks you plan to lock away in a drawer at the computer station to munch on when you're charting.
Small efforts, but all good steps in the right direction.
Standing in your bathroom, cast in only the soft yellow glow of a nightlight—too early...or, rather, late for the glare of an overhead bulb—you brush your teeth while doing your best to keep your eyes open.
And then a firm, heavy knock resounds from your front door. Your plastic toothbrush clattering from your hand and landing in the sink, you quickly swipe your phone from the porcelain countertop and when you check your outside camera, your jaw falls open.
"Is—Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital, or with Robby, or—"
Abbot raises a brow while easing his way inside and over the threshold of your home while brushing past. "Robby always the first thing on your mind in the morning?"
You cross your arms while turning around—curious as to the bag he holds. "No. You two just seem attached at the hip."
He blows a raspberry, then hands you the bag—which seems to have some heft to it—before bending at the waist with a groan to untie his shoes.
"What is this?" you ask while gently lifting the item.
"Breakfast," he replies. Tossing his shoes to the side, Jack stands upright while settling his hands against his back and lightly stretching.
"W-Why?"
He takes the bag again, then plants a palm against the small of your back. "Kitchen?"
You pad in that direction.
Once you've reached it, Jack reaches up and switches on the hood light atop the stove—you're thankful that he didn't go for the ugly hanging chandelier overhead instead, which you plan to replace when you finally have the funds—before opening and closing cabinets in search of a plate.
"I can just eat it with my hands," you say while peeling the brown paper bag open—not that you even have an idea as to what's inside.
You assume some sort of sandwich or biscuit.
You've only just removed plastic utensils when he slides a plate in front of you and snatches the bag away. As he's pouring the contents of a steaming breakfast bowl onto it, you look at him. "How...How did you know where I live?"
He smirks, then steps away to throw away the now empty plastic container and bag.
"Wait," you blurt. "Did you look in my employee file?"
"Took down your cell, email, and home address," he retorts before glancing toward the hallway you emerged from but a few minutes earlier. "Bathroom this way?" he asks while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yes..." you reply with furrowed brows while watching him disappear around a corner.
Talk about making one's self at home...
Jack is satisfied to see you cleaning the plate in front of you while also sipping on the bottle of orange juice he purchased.
You bristle at the sound of his heavy, ambling footfalls, and open your mouth to begin hounding him with questions until you feel a brush suddenly being run through your hair.
You jerk in your seat and a forkful of scrambled eggs plop back onto the plate in front of you. "What're you doing?"
"Your hair. What's it feel like?"
You toss down the fork before spinning around. "Why're you doing this? The—The breakfast, and you having my information, and now trying to—"
"I told you," he says while settling his hands on his hips. "I am taking up the mantle of your personal babysitter. At least until the seasons change." He shrugs. "Probably until well after, if I'm being honest." He circles his finger. "Turn back around."
"But—"
He leans in close while gripping the back of your chair. "Finish your breakfast, young lady. Now."
You gulp at his demanding tone, and ultimately do as you're told.
You raise a brow at the feel of him parting your hair before consistently running a finger through it and tightening as he goes. "Are you braiding my hair?" you ask between chews.
He hums in response.
"How do you know how?"
He snorts. "These hands can do more than just hold a scalpel." He happens to slide a finger down the back of your neck. "And braid hair, but that's a conversation for another time."
You remain silent while sipping at tangy OJ.
"There was a woman I served with. Hurlston was her name. Her daughter was only a few months old when she got deployed. Got into her mind that she needed to know how to do all these fancy hairstyles for whenever she got older. So, she ordered one of those big fuckin' Barbie doll heads and practiced on it constantly. Complicated shit.
"When there's down time in the Army, there's a few things you can do: read, write letters, watch movies, some plays games... She did hair. Sometimes, I watched when I got bored with a Tom Clancy novel. Learned how to do just a basic braid that way. French? Had her teach me that."
Your plate now being clean, you swirl your juice around to occupy your hands. "Why? Just...boredom?"
Jack shrugs while tying a band he found in your medicine cabinet around the end. "That. And...if I ever got married again, or had a daughter of my own, I figured it'd be something worth knowing how to do."
He squeezes your shoulders while taking the plate to slip into the dishwasher. "Finish your juice and then we're going once you're dressed."
Jack seems to be set on going the extra mile with this. Such as him not allowing you to so much as carry your own bag, and when you slide into the passenger seat...
"Ok, I can get my own seatbelt—" you sigh with irritation as he clasps it into place anyway.
Placing one hand on your seat's headrest and his other forearm across your lap, Jack remains close while speaking. "I am only gonna say this once, so you need to listen."
You draw your knees inward and keep your eyes on his arm before finally meeting his gaze again.
"You need someone to look after you for the next few months. Sweetheart, I refuse to turn a blind eye when someone that I care deeply, deeply for is suffering in silence. All your 'I'm fines' are bull, and you know it. So, until the change in seasons—hell, probably even past that, given where we stand, like I said earlier—you can consider me glued to your side. That means giving you designated break times at work, ensuring you're eating three square meals a day, as well as snacks, bath time here at your home or mine, bedtime—whatever I need to do to ensure that you're being looked after the way you not only need to be, but deserve."
Your chin wobbles. "I'm not a child, Jack. I can—"
"No, but if you need someone to father you—or...or just act like a surrogate husband when things get dark, then baby, that's what I'm here for. Alright? All the shit you're having trouble carrying right now? Put it on me. I can handle it. Okay? I am not losing you to depression—seasonal or otherwise. Because, sure, right now maybe it's forgetting to eat or use the restroom, but what about when you don't have the energy to bathe, or the mental fortitude to get out of bed every evening?"
You sniffle while settling a palm atop the back of his hand. "Are you sure?"
He slides his hand out from beneath your own, and cups your cheek. "My purpose at work is obvious. Outside of it?" he swipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Honey, you're it. And I couldn't be more thrilled."
Jack sort of moves you into his home in the middle of the fall season. Nothing drastic like furniture, but he does have you pack up the basics: clothes, toiletries, hobbyist materials like your laptop, some books, a journal, and so on. And as your newly designated caretaker, he only thinks it fair that he pay your rent and utilities while you're away, since he's the reason for your sudden absence from your domicile.
He once makes a joke while giving you a bath—yes, something which most certainly sent you reeling the first time he drew one for you—that if you give up your lease, then he won't have to worry about checking on dripping faucets once snow starts to fall.
In way of repayment, whenever you're both off, you try doing chores and general tidying up around his house while he watches TV or works on bullet reloading. Until your pacing and utterly inane babbling finally does Jack's nerves in...
After yanking you into his lap one afternoon in the living room and practically cradling you in his arms while threatening to shove his thumb in your mouth if you didn't calm the hell down, you finally got the message that you needed to sit and shut up for awhile.
Now, he gives you designated chores on a chart on the fridge for you to do a few times a week, so as to occupy you, and time set aside for you to talk your little heart out where he listens until you've run out of words. He adores talking with you, but God if you can't be a chatterbox at times when you get excited.
It honestly gets to a point that, when you're outside of the ED—which you're once again flourishing in because of Jack's consistent, precise direction—you almost wholly turn your mind off and otherwise leave it in more capable, trusted hands because you feel so safe and taken care of with him.
Jack drives you home, bathes you, puts you in clean PJs, makes you dinner, and even tucks you in right next to him every morning.
He'd initially tried out the arrangement of giving you his bed—he refused to listen to your protestations when you insisted it be the other way around—while he would sleep on the pullout couch, but it didn't last long because of his back.
Turned onto your side with Jack behind you, he runs a calloused palm beneath your camisole and up your back, trying to coax you to sleep. "Do you need a cup of warm milk?" he whispers.
You pop open a curious eye. "That actually sort of sounds disgusting."
He smirks. "I thought so, too, but figured it worth offering if you thought it'd help."
He tugs the hem of your camisole up to just below your breasts, then returns to massaging your back. "There's another tried and true method that usually helps get me to sleep."
You close your eyes again. "Hm?"
He grows quiet for a moment. "Be easier to get started on if you took your clothes off."
You sigh in irritation. "I don't think my attending is supposed to say things like that to me."
He chuckles. "I think that ship sailed when I appointed myself your caregiver, sweetheart."
Rolling onto your other side, you drag yourself closer, then burrow into the warmth his bare chest provides. "Goodnight."
Cupping the base of your skull, he tilts your head back and brushes a kiss over your lips. "Good morning."
You tangle your limbs around him before making to count up to a hundred in an attempt to finally drift off.
"Maybe we should move to Alaska," he mumbles. "Then there'd be no reason for this to ever end."
You shake your head while giggling. "Go to sleep."
Jack wraps his arms around you. "Sooner I get to see you again, the better."
If you doze off with your head on his shoulder, Bob instantly freezes. He becomes a human statue, terrified that even a slight twitch or a deep breath will wake you up. He will stare blankly at the TV for hours, refusing to reach for the remote.
He’ll gently untangle your hair from your face, slide a pillow under your head, and drape his favorite worn out jumper over your shoulders. He’ll whisper ask if you’ve had water today before you completely drift off.
Bob loves the quiet vulnerability of these moments. While you’re half asleep, he’ll gently trace your knuckles and press soft, lingering kisses to your temple. It’s during these quiet times, away from the weight of the world, that he feels truly safe and loved.
He will try so hard to be quiet that he inevitably causes a disaster. He’ll attempt to tiptoe out of the room to get you a blanket, only to stub his toe on the coffee table, let out a strangled, silent scream, and knock over a stack of books in the process. He’ll then freeze and stare at you with wide, panicked eyes to see if you noticed.
Bob takes sleeptalking entirely too seriously. If you mumble something nonsensical, Bob will lie awake in a cold sweat, trying to analyze the metaphorical meaning of it and get genuinely stressed if your dreamself doesn't answer him.
Bob is too polite for his own good. If you slowly roll away, cocooning yourself in all of the duvet, he won't wake you up. He will just lie there, shivering in his t-shirt, curled into a tight ball. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you’ll find him trying to stay warm by hugging a pillow, looking like a freezing, abandoned puppy.
He is incredibly gentle when it comes to waking you up in the morning. He’ll make a quiet cup of coffee or tea, set it on the nightstand, and sit on the edge of the bed, softly brushing your hair out of your eyes. He’ll wait patiently until you blink your eyes open, offering a tired but incredibly warm smile.
The Sentry
A soft, blindingly handsome smile instantly takes over his face. He loves when you’re sleepy because it means you trust him completely. He’ll scoop you up in his arms before you can even protest, holding you like you’re the most precious, fragile thing in the universe.
Sentry acts as a literal human space heater. If you’re cold, he will emit a very low, gentle golden aura that warms you right up to the perfect temperature. He’ll also use his cape as the ultimate weighted blanket, wrapping you up in the heavy, soft blue fabric.
He will carry you to bed, not by walking, but by gently levitating a few inches off the ground so you don't feel a single bump or jagged step. He’ll hold you close against his chest, letting you fall asleep to the steady, powerful, and deeply grounding beat of his heart.
His ambient glow is great until he gets too happy or relaxed and accidentally increases the brightness. You’ll be trying to sleep, only to open your eyes to what looks like a 500watt solar flare sitting next to you
Sentry finds it absolutely adorable if you start mumbling. He will just chuckle softly, his chest rumbling against your cheek. If you start arguing in your sleep, he will playfully play along, using his grand, heroic voice to match your sleepy energy.
Despite what Sentry says about not being able to steal blankets from a god, you can, and you will, but deep down Sentry doesn't care. He doesn't get cold. In fact, if you steal all the blankets, he’ll just smile, slide closer to you, and wrap his massive arms around your cocoon. He becomes your secondary, super heated blanket. You’ll wake up feeling like you slept inside a toaster.
Sentry is a morning person to an almost annoying degree. He wakes up energized, literally glowing with the power of a million exploding suns. He’ll gently levitate above you, looking down with a huge, blinding grin, and press a flurry of soft kisses all over your face until you start giggling and push him away. He loves bringing you breakfast in bed, complete with a perfectly arranged flower from the garden.
The Void
He doesn't say much, but the room instantly grows colder and much darker. Shadows will rise from the corners of the room, creeping over the windows to block out any annoying sunlight. He wants absolute peace for you, and he will enforce it.
He eliminates all sensory annoyances. If the neighbor is mowing the lawn or a dog is barking outside, the Void will stretch his shadow tendrils out the window to... intimidate the source of the noise into absolute silence. Not wanting another harsh talk with the rest of the team.
He won't sit next to you for a while instead he'll sit on the floor, watching the corners, making sure nothing gets close to you to disturb your peace, and because he doesn't feel adequate enough to be beside you, no matter what you say. Instead, cool, wispy shadow tendrils will gently stroke your hair or wrap around your waist, cooling you down if you get too hot under the hundreds of blankets you insist on having. He finds a strange sense of peace in how calm your heartbeat gets when you're asleep near to something so inherently dangerous.
The Void has absolutely zero chill when it comes to protecting your sleep cycle. If your phone buzzes with a notification, he'll raise his hand and phase it into another dimension until morning. If a fly dares to buzz in the bedroom, it’s not getting swatted, it’s getting obliterated by a micro tendril of dark matter. You’ll wake up to a perfectly silent room, totally unaware of the shadow war he just fought against a single mosquito
The Void finds your sleeptalking fascinating. If you mumble something weird, the shadow tendrils around the room will literally perk up and twist in curiosity. If you happen to mumble a complaint about someone who annoyed you during the day, most likely Walker, the Void’s eyes will glow in anger. You have to quickly mumble "kidding" to save his life.
If you yank the blanket away from him, he'll grab the other end of the blanket and yank it back. This quickly turns into a silent, sleepy tug-of-war while you are still half-asleep. If you let out a sleepy, frustrated whine, he will immediately let go, grumbling in a whisper, and instead just wrap his actual, chilly shadow body around you to keep you anchored.
The Void hates the morning. He hates the sun, and he hates the fact that the day is starting because it means you have to leave bed. He will actively try to keep you asleep. If he hears your alarm go off, he'll make it dissappear, but knowing he does this, you keep a few hidden around the room, causing him to groan in frustration.
Hucklerabbot in the future, Robby and Jack are retired because decades of working in ED has left them physically and mentally completely unwell
First realisation they are really old comes when Jack loses his balance once and falls to the ground and is unable to get back up, and Robby in effort to help him up, throws his back out and they end up having to call an ambulance
Dennis was worried sick, not just for their physical health, two of his most important people were old and not doing well, but he knew very well just how badly mentally they'll take all of this
Soon enough it's not just Jack and his balance issue but Robby too. The man begins to forget things, small and unimportant at first. 'Where are my glasses?' while they sit atop of his head. But then he starts forgetting dates and important anniversaries, something he's never forgotten before.
And then he gets hit with the Alzheimer's diagnosis and is devastated and so is Jack and Dennis.
Dennis would never admit to anyone out loud that he's terrified of losing them both, and that it'll happen sooner than he'd like, and that he's crying himself to sleep almost daily, staying awake long after the two of them fall asleep, trying to get as much time with them as possible.
But strangely enough, they make it all work in their own bubble, their own way. Robby is helping Jack with his balance and Jack is helping Robby with his memory.
Casual walks outside, Robby pushing Jack in his wheelchair while the man is pointing out places they've been to.
"Remember when we..."
"No, not really."
"Well I do and you loved every second of it."
And although Robby doesn't remember it, he knows it's true because he knows Jack.
Until one day he doesn't know him, doesn't recognise him. Doesn't recognise Dennis either. Who are these two men and why are they at his place?
And then he begins to roam the place in middle of the night, rearranging things because they were not right and he didn't leave it that way. And it escalates, he begins to roam outside their house, and then forgets how to get home. Police brings him back and when he does remember who he is and where he lives and who his two boyfriends are, he's crying because these memory lapses are horrible and he'd rather be dead.
Eventually Robby starts to wander further, finding his place back to the PTMC and nothing is the way it used to be, nobody knows him, they see this old confused man roaming the hallways, until Dennis, the current attending, informs everyone Robby used to work there before the new generation took over and he's struggling to keep away even in his condition.
But he causes no harm and actually being back at the Pitt is great excercise for his brain because he's helping the med students with hard diagnosis.
It's slow, agonising watch but when it's time to go, it's time to go and Robby passes away at home, in his own bed, snuggled up to his boys and Jack follows him year later, leaving Dennis all alone and heartbroken but grateful for all the amazing memories they shared together during their lives.
And he'll always have something to remember them by, tattoo of Robby's Memento Mori and Jack's dogtags number.
