daisy @prettydaisygirl - Tumblr Blog

Heyyy can you pls write something about reader getying an anxiety attack at work and then dennis comforts her or the other way around <3

hi, take both :) idk what happened but my brain saw this and ran with it! hope you enjoy <3 ps this is officially my longest fic to date so shout out to that!

five times you help dennis through a panic attack (+ one time he helps you) ✿ 6.9k words

cw: fem!dermatologist!reader, panic attacks of various degrees described in detail (obviously), inaccurate medical talk/descriptions, and lore probably, lots of crying, misunderstandings, descriptions of patient death, lawsuits, pregnancy, mentions of complicated labor and birth, c-section, insecurity, dennis is a crier and i love that for him

the pitt masterlist

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one

You hate how chaotic it is in the emergency department.

There’s far too much going on. People are crying, machines are beeping, staff is yelling instructions to each other, and you just want to go back upstairs and sit at your fluffy chair behind your desk and wait for your next patient. You did a short stint in emergency medicine during your med school internships and decided very quickly that it was not your intended path.

You’re waved over by Dr. Mohan, who smiles sweetly at you as you approach. She looks tired, and you know she’s likely been here since the early hours of the morning. You make a note to bring the ED staff coffee or something sometime.

“What do we got?” You ask, far too cheery for the Pitt, but Dr. Mohan matches your energy.

“Twenty one year old woman presenting with a rash covering her arms and legs, no sign of fever or infection, oxygen and heart rate are stable.” You nod as she speaks, sticking your hand under the sanitizer machine before opening the curtain to see your patient.

“Hi!” You greet, stepping up to the side of the bed. The woman looks up at you with some relief in her eyes. You look down at her arms and legs, her skin red and inflamed. “You look itchy.”

“It’s so itchy!” She confirms with a nod, her voice cracking a bit. “But it burns when I scratch it so I can’t do anything and it’s driving me nuts!”

“What’s your name?” You ask her, leaning down to get a better look at the rash. Dr. Mohan stands behind you, watching you with her arms crossed. No doubt she’ll want an in-depth explanation on your diagnosis later.

“Vicky.”

“Okay, Vicky,” You lift up her arms to check the undersides, then the same with her legs. “Have you been doing any hiking recently?”

She shakes her head no, but then pauses. “Well… not hiking but I was doing some yard work outside with my parents.”

You nod, raising your gaze to meet hers. “Have you ever come into contact with poison ivy before?”

Vicky thinks for a moment, lips pursed, and then shakes her head no again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s what this looks like to me.” You give her a pitying smile, before turning back to Dr. Mohan. “Give her a Medrol Dosepak and some prescription hydrocortisone and have her follow up with me in a week.”

Dr. Mohan nods, and quickly thanks you for the consult. You give her a wave and a smile, heading toward the stairs, leaving the ED as quickly as you can before you see something that would make your lunch come back up. You push the door open, the sound of the hinges and the ricochet of the handlebar echoing through the stairwell.

You begin to hum as you step inside, the door shutting behind you. It’s only then that you hear a sound, and pause.

It sounds like someone crying. And not soft, small whimpers, but what sounds like panicked, full-body sobs.

You move up the stairs slowly and quietly. He’s on the second floor landing, knees curled into his chest, his shoulders shaking with each sob that wracks his body. Your heart skips a beat in your chest.

“Dr. Whitaker?” You say his name as quietly as you think you can, though you still want him to hear you over the sound of his crying and hyperventilating. You say it again when he doesn’t respond, a bit louder. “Dr. Whitaker?”

He flinches, eyes raising to meet yours, nose red and face wet with tears and snot. He sniffles loudly, wiping at his cheeks with his hands. “Uh- Sorry. Did- Did you need something?” His voice sounds hoarse and your gaze traces over his face again, your heart clenching painfully.

“Are you alright?” Your question is soft, words intentionally quiet as you crouch and sit beside him. He looks unsure of you, mouth opening and closing as though he doesn’t know what to say, his body still shaking and tears still spilling from his eyes. You give him a half smile. “You don’t have to talk about it. You can keep crying.”

Something in his expression breaks at your words and his face pinches. He presses his forehead to his knee and lets the tears fall again, albeit silently this time. You sit by his side, taking long and slow breaths, and eventually you place a hand on his arm just to remind him that you’re there.

You give him all the time he needs. It can’t be more than a few minutes, but even you’re feeling better by the time he manages to steady his breathing and meet your eyes again. You give him another soft smile, and he tries to return it. It almost makes your heart ache worse.

“Thank you…” He whispers awkwardly, sniffling thickly and trying to wipe away the remnants of tears on his cheeks. “Sometimes the Pitt can get… well- it can be a lot.”

You nod, and give an understanding hum. “I don’t know how you all do it.” You tell him honestly, “Sometimes I get overwhelmed just walking through there.”

Dr. Whitaker stays quiet for a long time, lost in thought, but you get his attention again when your hand finds his arm in the same place it was before. The chaos from the ED is absent here, the stairway free from any broken bones or deep lacerations, and you find yourself glad you were called down for a consult.

Glad you found him here.

“When I am overwhelmed and anxious, all I really want is to know that someone has my back.” You say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “Just know, I have your back, Dr. Whitaker.”

Something in his expression shifts, his eyes moving over your features like he’s never seen you before. He blinks several times quickly, stuttering for a moment before saying, “Dennis.”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“Call me Dennis.” He repeats his name, holding out his hand for a handshake.

For a moment, you pause, and then you’re slipping your hand into his and telling him your name too.

two

Your stomach flutters as you walk down the steps to the ED. You suppose it’s better than the anxiety cramps you used to get at the thought of coming down here, though you can’t say you’ll ever get used to the sight of the guts and gore always present in this part of the hospital.

But now you have Dennis. And being around Dennis could make getting eaten alive by piranhas pleasant (not that you’re willing to try it).

You slip through the nurses and medical assistants darting across the ED floor, making sure to stay clear of their paths as you look around for your (almost) boyfriend.

Even calling him your boyfriend in your head makes you feel giddy, a smile blooming on your lips. He hasn’t technically asked you yet, but you know it’s practically inevitable at this point.

Dana notices you immediately, letting out a huffed laugh through her nose at your expression and rolling her eyes, smacking her gum. “Last I saw him, he was headed toward supplies.”

You hold up your hands toward her in a prayer motion, turning on your heel to go in the opposite direction. “Thank you, Dana! You’re the best.”

You hear her shouted, “Don’t mention it!” as you turn the corner, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, giddy energy taking over your body at the idea of being alone in a supply closet with Dennis.

The door to the closet is slightly ajar when you approach it, and you’re expecting to push it open and see Dennis’ frame collecting supplies into a bag. Maybe he’ll turn and look at you, blush feverishly from head to toe as you lock the door, and finally let you kiss him. Like really kiss him.

Only, that’s not what you find. Instead, you find him with his back to a shelf, blinking his pretty eyes up at Dr. Santos, who stands far too close to him for your comfort.

Dr. Santos who is Dennis’ roommate. Dr. Santos who is Dennis’ best friend. Dr. Santos who Dennis told you not to worry about.

Something fierce and cold settles low in your gut.

“Oh.” You say, stunned as you blink slowly at the two of them. They both jump, muscles flinching and two pairs of eyes dart to meet yours. The panic and guilt behind their irises makes you feel worse and you take a few steps back. “I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll just-“

You gesture vaguely in a random direction with your hand before dashing away. You aren’t sure where you’re going, you just want to get away from here, away from the two of them. You can hear Dennis’ footsteps running behind you, desperate shouts of your name echoing through the ED.

If others look up at the commotion, you don’t notice. You keep your head ducked until you end up in what might be the worst possible place for you to be.

The stairs.

You march up them as fast as you can, hand on the railing, pushing yourself two steps at a time, but it’s not enough. The door opens behind you and Dennis cries out your name in a broken enough tone that you stop in your tracks, but you don’t turn to him.

“Please,” He sounds desperate in a way you haven’t heard in a few months, not since the time you’d found him right here, just a few steps in front of you on the second floor landing. “Please just let me explain…“

You don’t want to. You want to march back up to your floor and shut yourself in your office and cry. But then you think about what he would look like if you turned around, the distressed look on his face, the downtrodden turn of his brows. The same expression that made you sit beside him and comfort him before. Your heart breaks a little at the memory.

So, you steel your shoulders and turn to look at him, and you find you were right. There’s even tears in his eyes, threatening to pour over onto his flushed cheeks.

You take a shaky breath, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly you feel a little silly, given the fact that Dennis isn’t even really your boyfriend, but you didn’t expect for him to… do whatever it is he was doing with Dr. Santos after he’s made his feelings for you so blatantly obvious.

“Explain.” You say, and you hate how weak your voice sounds. Dennis winces at your tone like you yelled at him anyway.

“It’s not what you think!” He steps closer, lifting his foot to place it on the bottom step but your raised brows stop him from going any further.

“Does it matter what I think?” There’s a hint of hurt in your tone that makes Dennis’ lip wobble, and you wish you hadn’t seen it. You double down anyway. “You aren’t my boyfriend.”

Dennis shakes his head, quick and short in desperation as he looks at you. “Trinity is just my friend, I’ve told you that. She-”

You believe him, or at least most of you does. But that little part, the one buried deep in your heart that believes you unworthy of something as special as what you thought was blossoming with him, stays in control. “Just stop, Dennis. If you like her, that’s fine!”

He’s up the steps before you can blink, his hand around your wrist. You gasp, leaning back against the railing, and he gently squeezes your skin beneath his fingers. His eyes are glassy, wide and frantic. His breathing is quick and shallow, the color drained from his face and leaving him pale and sickly green.

“It’s nothing! It was nothing, I swear, you can ask her! She- She thinks I’m annoying and stupid-” He continues to ramble on but his words become less and less understandable as he spirals. His breaths come even quicker, his grip on you tightening, and tears begin to fall from his eyes. “Please, you have to listen. You can’t leave.”

“Dennis?” Your voice is soft and your free hand raises to his face, wiping away one of his tears as your gaze darts back and forth between his eyes. He’s having another panic attack, you think.

“Please, you can’t leave me. You can’t. You can’t-” He’s trembling now, voice just as shaky as his body.

“Okay,” You gently guide him to sit on the stairs, a sense of deja vu washing over you that would probably have you laughing if you weren’t watching Dennis fall into the thralls of another panic attack. “I’m not going anywhere. You need to breathe, Dennis.”

“Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave.” He repeats it over and over, whispered under his breath, and you guide his face to your neck, wrapping him in a gentle hug with your arms around his shoulders. He quiets after a while, only whispering again when he says, “I finally found something good, you can’t go…”

“Dennis...” You gently nudge his head from your shoulder, instead moving to cup his cheeks between your palms. He looks raw, and wrecked, and you find the rest of your insecurities melting away. There’s nothing between him and Dr. Santos, you know that for sure now. “I’m sorry, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing tightly, forcing a few more tears to be squeezed out. They feel warm when they land on your skin. You crumble, placing your forehead against his as your own eyes begin to burn. You stay like that for a long time, letting him match his breathing to yours.

When he finally blinks his eyes open and looks at you, you find yourself a bit taken aback. He looks so pretty post-cry that part of you is glad you’re the only person here to witness him.

“You’re really not mad?” He asks, and the crack in his voice at the end of his question has the corner of your mouth lifting.

“No.” You tell him, shaking your head. “I‘m not mad. I was just… jealous.”

You’re worried he might laugh at you, or say your worries are ridiculous, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “She’s trying to help me with you.”

Your brows curl together, your lips parting a bit in confusion. “What?”

“Trinity. She’s not… I’m not her type. I go to her when I want advice about you.” The guilt you feel is immediate, and you find yourself cringing and leaning away from him. You accused him of lying to you, of being uninterested in you despite his obvious feelings otherwise.

“I’m sorry.” You say, but he’s quick to shake his head and take your hands in his.

“No, no! It’s- I don’t ever want you to think I don’t want you.”

Your heart does cartwheels in your chest and you find heat flushing across your cheeks. You purse your lips for a moment, then you find yourself leaning in. You watch his eyes widen, but they fall shut just before yours do, and your lips finally find his own.

It’s nothing at first, just the touching of your lips together, the same as every kiss you’ve shared so far. Then, you let your lips part, your tongue brushing across the chapped skin of his bottom lip and encouraging him to follow suit.

He tastes salty, like tears, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. It makes you giggle into the kiss and he pulls back, suddenly sheepish.

“Stop laughing at me…” He says as you try to lean forward and kiss him again. You press a kiss to his bottom lip before pulling back with a not-so-apologetic smile.

“I’m not laughing at you.” You assure him, and he leans forward to kiss you again, his hand finally moving to cup your jaw. It feels perfect, though you wish you were somewhere more comfortable and that you hadn’t almost ruined all of it with your assumptions.

You’re grateful to be here now, and you kiss him until he pulls away to breathe.

He smiles, cheeks flushed, and you brush the tip of your nose with his just to see him turn an even darker shade of red. You both take a moment to catch your breath, just relishing in each other’s presence.

Then, you remember where you are.

“Dennis?” You whisper his name softly and he doesn’t fully open his eyes to look at you, leaning in for another kiss. You let him do it, then your brain catches up again, and you’re murmuring against his lips, “Don’t you have patients?”

His lips continue to move with yours until he processes what you’re saying, and his entire body freezes. He jumps back, cursing loudly, and darts back down the stairs toward the ER. He stops with his hand on the door handle, and turns back to you with a saccharine smile.

“I really, really like you. Just so you know.”

And then he’s off.

three

Something changes while you’re in the shower.

And it has to be during your shower, because nothing was amiss before you’d dunked your head under slightly-too-hot water. You’d arrived home to your new apartment with Dennis, kissed him hello as you took off your shoes, asked about his day, and then you made your way to the bathroom.

It’s only after you get out from under the water, get dressed into your favorite comfortable outfit (that you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing outside), and finally return to the living room, that you realize something has gone array.

Dennis is crying. He’s got his forehead resting against the palm of his hand, trying to keep himself quiet with thick sniffles and quick, shaking breaths. And in front of him on the coffee table, is an open envelope and some papers.

“Dennis?” You keep your voice low as you approach him, trying to stay light on your feet. You take a seat next to him on the couch, guiding him into your grasp so you can hold him. It feels so natural now, being close to him like this. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head, his nose brushing against your collarbone as he does. His tears soak into the fabric of your shirt as they fall from his face, leaving small, dark circles. You hug him tighter, and you finally allow your eyes to wander to the papers scattered over the table.

Oh. You recognize the stamps on the front almost immediately.

Dennis is being sued.

“Dennis…” You say his name the way you would to soothe a child, and he curls even further into you in response, his fingers gripping your shirt. You run yours through his hair, gently rubbing the pads of your fingertips against his scalp. “Everyone gets sued.”

“I know.” Despite his words, his voice sounds pathetic, and your heart shatters even more than it already had. “I know, but what if I lose?”

“You won’t lose.” You try to assure him, but he shakes his head. You can feel each of his tremors and shakes against your sides and you turn to face him, hugging him with both arms.

“But what if I do?” His question is broken up at the end by a sob. You tilt your head to press a soft kiss to his temple. He breathes in shakily and continues, words coming out rough and chopped. “What if I lose my license? What would I do? I- I- I have rent, and I want to provide for you, and-” He coughs, “and I really don’t want to be a farmer…”

This makes you laugh, even though you know that is possibly the worst thing you could do at the moment. “You’re not going to end up being a farmer,” You tell him, one hand rubbing soothingly over his back. “And I can provide for myself, so don’t worry about that.”

His body shakes again, another small sob. “But-”

“You’re a fantastic doctor, Dennis.” You tell him sincerely, you truly mean it and you try to convey that to him through your words. Try to convince him to see himself the way you see him. “You care so, so deeply for your patients. And you work in emergency medicine, I mean- You’re literally making life or death decisions with seconds to spare, you can’t save everyone. You’re a doctor, but you’re not super-human.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that you open your mouth to speak again, when you feel his breath against your neck as he says, “I know.”

You nod slowly, grateful that his sobs seem to have subsided. “And you’re good with your charting. I know you’ll be able to defend every single decision that you made.”

His voice stays absent but you know your words have reached him when he places a soft kiss on your neck, at the juncture of your shoulder. You hum softly, and return the favor with a kiss to his forehead.

“Do you want to order dinner?” You ask.

His voice is still scratchy when he responds, “Please. I don’t feel like cooking.”

“Me either,” You agree, pulling out your phone to order. Dennis watches you the entire time, telling you what he wants but otherwise staying silent as his eyes linger over your frame.

“What?” You finally ask, turning your face toward him after you submit your dinner order.

“Nothing,” Dennis says, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss to your lips. “I just love you.”

You smile, a warm, bubbly feeling threatening to overflow in your chest, and you lean over to kiss him back.

“I love you too.”

four

There’s so much blood.

It’s too much blood. It won’t stop, and Dennis can’t find the source.

“Suction!” He shouts, and the nurses dart in with their suction hoses, but it’s still no use. The moment any of the blood gets sucked away, it’s replaced with another pool just as thick. He tries using his fingers, feeling around inside the cavity for the tear in the patient’s organ tissue, but he can’t locate it.

“I can’t find the bleed.” He says, shaking his head desperately, “More suction!”

Nothing works. He curses as the monitors begin beeping loudly, alarms signaling that the patient’s body is on the cusp of giving up. Dr. Ogilvie steps up across from him, gloved hands immediately following suit and helping Dennis search for the bleed. Everyone is moving frantically, every second seeming like eternities. It still doesn’t feel like enough time.

It’s at this moment that Dennis makes the mistake of looking at the patient’s face.

This wouldn’t normally be a problem. He sees the faces of hundreds of patients per day, and none of them have ever stopped him in his tracks.

This one, though… This one looks just like you.

It’s in the way her hair falls, her face shape, the way her eyelashes sit against her cheekbones. It’s you, it’s all you. Even though the lips are different, and her nose tilts up farther than yours, all he can see is you, bleeding out on the table, and he feels hopeless to do anything about it.

No one has noticed that Dennis has stopped moving until he says your name. Ogilvie raises his head, looking at him like he’s gone insane.

“What?”

Dennis says your name again, but no one gets the chance to ask any further questions as the patient begins to crash. Everything around Dennis becomes a blur of movement, of time moving too fast and yet too slow and his mind becomes a whirlwind of guilt, of fear, of complete and utter hopelessness.

“Clear!” Someone yells, but he doesn’t hear it, fingers stuck in an endless search for a tear that doesn’t seem to exist. “Clear!” They call again, but it isn’t until someone pushes him away from the table, yelling “Whitaker, clear!” That he finally registers the moment. His body knocks into a surgery tray, knocking it over, and the patient’s heart doesn’t respond to the shock.

Ogilvie shocks the patient again, and Dennis can do nothing but stand by and watch as you the patient dies on the table. It happens so fast, but every second of it is burned into his mind like a brand.

He’s out of the room before anyone calls time of death. He heads straight for the ambulance bay, choking in the fresh air desperately as the doors open for him. He leans against the wall, bent over at the waist, hands on his knees to try and catch his breath.

His fingers are dialing your number before he even realizes he has his phone in his hand. The tears make it difficult as they land on the screen. When he finally manages to type your number in, you answer before the third ring.

“Dennis?” You only sound a little bit worried. It’s late, the sun almost having fully set at this point, and you’re likely already at home preparing dinner for the two of you. You probably think he’s calling to tell you that he won’t make it home for dinner.

“Are you okay?” The question comes out as a quaking, desperate plea. You’re quiet for a moment, and he can hear you shuffling around on the other side before he hears your voice again, louder and clearer than before.

“Dennis, what’s going on?”

“I- I had this- this patient, and-” He can’t stop stumbling over his words, his brain jumbled and his mouth unable to articulate anything at all. “The patient- you- she- she looked just like you…”

“I’m okay,” You assure him quickly. He feels a vibration against his ear and when he pulls his phone away, he sees that you’re requesting Facetime. He clicks it immediately, and something shifts inside him when he sees your face.

You’re in the kitchen, smiling softly at him from the other side of the screen, completely safe and unharmed. The tears fall faster now, new ones of relief and gratitude.

“Thank you,” He manages to say, leaning his head back against the brick wall behind him as he catches his breath. You’re silent for a moment before you begin to list off everything that you’ve cooked for dinner, and even a dessert you made for tonight, though there’s no special occasion. He listens silently, grateful for the sound of your voice to remind him that you’re still alive.

“Dennis?” You say his name in that soft, sweet way that always manages to calm him down, even when he feels at the brink of falling apart. He opens one eye to look at you, and then both, and your smile is just as pretty as it was before, though less blurry now that the tears in his eyes have dried up.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you clock out and come home, baby? It’s getting late.”

Dennis looks around at the sky, at the setting sun and he knows the night shift has already arrived and taken over. With a heavy breath, he stands straight again, and gives you a small smile, the best he can muster.

“Okay,” He says, “You’re right. I’ll be home soon.”

five

Dennis is fucked.

As a trauma doctor, he is used to the notion that everything that can go wrong, absolutely and certainly will go wrong. He just hates that the idea seems to follow him out of the ED and into his real life, too.

His suit jacket doesn’t fit right. How could he have gone to three different fitting appointments, and it still doesn’t sit right against his body?

He struggles with the collar, delving two fingers between the fabric and his skin, pulling it away to allow him to take in a full breath. His chest constricts, his vision threatening to blur, a familiar burning behind his eyes.

And now he’s crying on his own wedding day.

“Shit,” He curses to himself under his breath, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the first several buttons of his shirt. He gulps in oxygen like the room might be running out, and he finds himself leaning against the wall and slowly sliding down it. His head falls against his knee and all he can think is:

He can’t do this to you.

He can’t go through with this. You deserve a man who knows how to wear a suit, who doesn’t wait until the night before your wedding to write his vows, who can stand tall and confident by your side. You deserve someone better than him.

The tears start falling now, thick and heavy like they always do when the idea of a future without you pops into his mind. But, he thinks to himself, if he’s doing it for your own good, maybe he can live with that.

You’d be much, much better off without him, and he’s so upset that he’s only realizing now how pathetic he must seem to everyone.

He doesn’t register the door to the groom’s quarters opening and closing, or the subsequent opening and closing of the door again after a small gasp and some hurried whispering. His mind swirls with the idea of you feeling trapped with him, of how much better you could do, about how he’s just not worthy of you.

“Dennis?” It’s your voice that cuts through his thoughts, and his sob gets cut off with a choke, sending him into a coughing fit. He manages to catch his breath, and it’s quiet for just a moment until he hears you again. “Dennis? Are you alright?”

He clears his throat, sitting up a bit. “Uh- Um, you can’t- you can’t be here!” He snags someone’s handkerchief from a nearby table and dabs at his eyes and the underside of his nose. “It’s bad luck.”

“I’m not in the room, Dennis, you can’t see me.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, because you’re right. The rule is that he can’t see you before you walk down the aisle.

Your voice cuts through the silence. “Why are you crying?” Dennis cringes at your question, using his hands to help him stand up again. His knees are shaky.

“I’m not!” His voice wobbles and makes it very obvious that he has, indeed, been crying. He clears his throat and tries again anyway. “I’m not crying, I’m just-” He squeezes his eyes shut. Now that you’re here, in front of him (on the other side of the door), he can’t imagine telling you to go find someone else. He doesn’t think he could survive the anger and anguish he knows would consume you if he tried to leave you on your wedding day.

And he doesn’t want to leave you, not really.

“I’m just nervous.” Is what he settles on, standing right in front of the door, imagining you on the other side. It does make him feel a bit better.

“I’m nervous, too.” You say, and he can’t imagine how someone as beautiful and wonderful as you could ever be nervous for something like this. He’ll probably cry when he sees you in your dress. In fact, you both know he will.

“Dennis?” You ask again as though he might’ve somehow left the room. He hums in response so you know he heard you. “Can I come in?”

“What?” He shakes his head at the door as though you really could see him through it. “You just said-”

“Keep your eyes closed then.” You don’t give him a chance to argue with you before you’re turning the handle. Dennis lets out a panicked shout and shuts his eyes, covering them with his hands. He hears you chuckle, and can hear the fabric of your dress shuffling as you step inside and close the door behind you.

You don’t say anything as you step in front of him. You just wrap your arms around him, resting your head against his shoulder. It’s a while before Dennis finds himself giving in, keeping his eyes shut as he lowers his hands and wraps his arms around your back, hugging you closer.

“I love you, you know?” You whisper, your cheek brushing against the stiff fabric of his suit jacket. Dennis just hopes your makeup doesn’t rub off on it. “You’re my person.”

He feels guilty for thinking you’d be better with someone else. If you make him happy, if you’re choosing him, he should trust you. He already trusts you more than anyone else.

“I love you more.” He whispers back, his hand sliding up to rest between your shoulder blades, his thumb tracing softly over the skin at the nape of your neck. “How did I get lucky enough to have you?”

He can practically feel your smile, and you lean even closer to him, the tip of your nose brushing the skin of his neck. “You really don’t see just how amazing you are, do you?”

He pulls back, and lowers his mouth to yours. You follow his lead, letting your lips move with his as his hands trace over the fabric of your dress. When he finally pulls back, he looks at you and his eyes burn. He can’t help the relief that floods through him when he sees your face.

“You are… the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.” He finds the same words he’d written over and over again last night spilling out of him, far earlier than they should, but he can’t help it. “You’ve gotten me through some of the most difficult moments of my life. I… I don’t think I’m really worthy of you, but uh- I- I want to work at it every day. And I want to make you happy…”

Your lip wobbles as you listen, which makes him trail off. He doesn’t want you to cry off your makeup, not when you look so stunningly beautiful and your ceremony starts in less than half an hour.

You’re tugging him down to kiss you again before he can register what’s happening. His hands find your waist on instinct, and he looks at you wide eyes when you pull away just as quickly.

“I don’t care that you saw me.” You say, and it takes Dennis’ mind a moment before it catches up and he realizes what you mean.

“Oh.” He blinks, and then his eyes naturally trail down to your dress. He hadn’t even thought about looking at it until now. Everyday, you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and today you look like a goddess. He can feel himself flush, his jaw going a bit slack.

“Oh, uh- me- me neither.” He manages to say, “I’m not superstitious.”

“Good.” You giggle, then kiss him again, and his eyes trail after you as you pull away and make a move for the door. “I’ll see you at the altar, then?”

“Yeah,” Dennis can’t stop the smile that blooms over his face. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

He cries when he sees you walking down the aisle.

( + one)

Pregnancy is not for the faint of heart.

Perhaps you’re just in the odd 1% who experiences horrible, continuously ongoing symptoms. Morning sickness well into the third trimester, emotional whiplash so bad you feel bad for your husband, and the worst, random fainting spells.

Which is how you ended up here.

“I’m fine,” You reassure your husband as he guides you gently into a wheelchair. Your hands find your swollen stomach as they tend to do, and Dennis steps behind you, pushing you through the doors and into the ED. “I mean it, Dennis. I didn’t hit my head or anything. It was a very soft landing!”

“You’re eight months pregnant.” He reminds you as though the watermelon-sized gut you’ve sprouted isn’t enough. “If you fall, we have to come get you checked out. I can check on you at home, but I don’t have any equipment to check on the baby.”

“He’s fine.” You assure your husband, though you can’t deny the trickling icy feeling at the base of your spine that has you wondering if your baby is okay. Wouldn’t you know if he wasn’t? You voice your thoughts out loud just as he pushes you over to central, and Dennis shakes his head.

“Either way, I think we should get you checked out. Just to make sure.”

“Hey, Huckleberry.” Trinity greets the two of you with a smile as she steps over toward you, “Mrs. Huckleberry, and soon-to-be baby Huckleberry. What are you doing in a wheelchair?”

“She fell.”

“I didn’t fall,” you correct Dennis, swatting your hand at him gently, then you return your eyes to Trinity in front of you. “I fainted. And then I sort of… well…”

“Fell?” Trinity finishes for you, the corner of her lips perking up. You feel your cheeks warm as you give her a half shrug. She leads you over to one of the open beds, quickly signaling for a nurse to get a bedside ultrasound.

“Your vitals seem stable.” Trinity tells you after hooking you up to the machines. Now that you’re a patient in a bed, being down here in the ED makes you just as nervous as it used to, all of the sights and sounds overwhelming and nauseating. Not that your nausea tolerance has been great over the last several months anyway. “We’ll give you some IV fluids while I check on the baby. I paged Dr. Myers also, she should be down soon.”

You thank her and lean your head back against the hospital pillow, trying to keep your breath steady. The longer you sit here, listening to machines beep and people cry and footsteps that run in every direction, you start to worry more and more about your baby.

What if he isn’t okay? What if something happened to him when you fainted? You weren’t even going to come to the hospital except Dennis forced you.

Trinity returns with the ultrasound quicker than you’d thought, though both of you working at the hospital certainly allows some strings to be pulled. You lift your shirt as you’ve done so many times already, the gel cold when it hits your abdomen. Dennis squeezes your hand, probably tighter than he should, but you appreciate his solid presence beside you.

“Is he okay?” You ask when Trinity’s brows furrow, and she looks up at Dennis. His eyes instantly find the screen and his face seems to pale. “What? What is it?”

“There appears to be signs of fetal distress.” Trinity explains, and even though you understand what that means, none of the words make sense in your mind. “You’re going to need a c-section.”

“But-” Your head begins to shake, and you tug on Dennis’ hand. “But I’m not ready, he- he isn’t ready yet. I’m only 35 weeks.” Your eyes are big and pleading when you turn to your husband again. “Dennis, there has to be something else, right? He can’t come out yet.”

Dennis looks at you like he doesn’t know what to say, and you know exactly what that means. There is no other option. The baby has to come out.

Your panicked hyperventilating starts immediately, and you’re begging and pleading for anything else. “He needs more time!” You cry out, “What if- What if something’s wrong with him?”

“He’s going to be fine!” Dennis tries to tell you. Trinity darts away to look for Dr. Myers, and you cling to Dennis like he’s a buoy and you’re lost at sea.

“What if he’s not?” Your hands shake as you tug him closer, the machines next to your bed beeping a bit louder as your panic increases. “How can- How can I be a good mom when I didn’t even know there was something wrong with him?”

“You’re going to be a fantastic mother, the best mother.” Dennis tries to reassure you, “He’s going to be okay, he’s just going to be here a little sooner than we thought.”

“How can you be so sure?” You ask your husband, tears streaming down your face. Your birth plan is out the window, you don’t have any of your things with you, and the nursery isn’t even fully finished. You aren’t ready. “How can you-”

“Dr. Myers is going to be your surgeon, and she’s the best we have.” He presses his lips to your cheekbone, kissing a tear away. “Nothing we’ve seen yet is indicating there’s a major problem. But we need to make sure he’s safe and that he’s getting enough oxygen to his brain.”

“Yeah…” You nod slowly in agreement, using one hand to wipe at your tears. “Yes, you’re right.”

“I have your back.” He tells you, and you remember all those years ago when you’d said those same words to him. “And his back too.”

You kiss him, the remnants of salty tears on your lips, and then you take his hand in yours.

“You’ll be with me the whole time?”

“Always.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

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