Work Text:
The Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center breathes in slow, uneven gasps through the HVAC vents, and Dennis breathes with it, his scrubs stiff from dried sweat and fluids that aren’t his own. He’s been on his feet for fifteen hours, maybe more — time’s lost its meaning at this point — and now, as he stands in the trauma bay charting his last patient, his eyelids feel like they’re lined with sandpaper.
He thinks about home — no, “housing,” the word that feels more honest than home — and how strange it still feels to have a key to a place that isn’t just a couch or a borrowed floor space. Trinity’s house smells like lavender laundry detergent and leather. Dennis can’t quite tell if they’re friends or just cohabitants. She’ll leave post-it notes about leftover curry, or a reminder to take his “brain meds” (her term, not his), and sometimes she’ll laugh at his jokes in the morning when both of them are half-asleep and trying to find clean socks. But then she’ll spend a whole evening with her door closed, phone screen glowing under the crack, and he’ll wonder if he’s just a tenant who’s overstayed a favor.
He swallows hard and focuses on his notebook. His handwriting jitters slightly — not from caffeine, though he’s had enough to float a ship, but from the faint, familiar tremor that sometimes trails him after a focal seizure. They’re small, mostly harmless; he’s had them since he was three. The aura comes first, like a whisper in the back of his skull, a tightening in his jaw, a flicker in the corner of his vision that no one else can see. Usually, he hides it. He leans against a wall, breathes slowly, waits for the static to pass. His meds help, when he can afford them. But this month, like last month, the math doesn’t work. Rent, gas, a few bags of groceries, the bus pass, the cheap protein bars that pass for lunch — all of it stacks higher than his stipend. So he skips a pill, sometimes two, stretching the supply. He tells himself he’s managing. He tells himself he can’t afford not to.
He tried to skimp on deodorant instead, but he can’t — not when he works with Robby. Tall, broad, shoulders like parentheses around the room. His salt-and-pepper beard trimmed close, eyes that crease when he smiles, which he doesn’t often, but when he does it feels like the air shifts in color. He’s fifty-four, married, brilliant, so far out of his league that Dennis might as well be an amoeba crushing on a daisy. Dennis can’t look at him without feeling the edges of his own heartbeat. When Robby leans over a tablet beside him, their sleeves almost touch, and Dennis feels electricity crawl across his skin like static off a wool sweater. Last time it happened, he made a meep noise and still hasn’t forgiven himself for it.
It doesn’t help that Robby’s husband, Jack, is equally as destructive to Dennis’ boxers. Jack is shorter, sturdy, his right leg ending just below the knee, his carbon-fiber prosthesis sleek and dark under his scrub pants. Gray curls halo his head, freckles scatter across his arms. He has a laugh like sunlight on a camping trip — rough and warm — and every time Dennis hears it echoing down the hallway, something in his chest tightens, equal parts longing and arousal.
They’re both too kind to him. That’s the biggest problem. Robby with his patient mentorship, unbeknownst to the fact that Dennis wants to hump him like a puppy, Jack with his easy banter in the cafeteria, and the pressing silent fact that Dennis wants Jack to use him as a napkin. They ask how he’s holding up, if he’s eating enough, if he’s getting rest — questions that make his throat ache because the real answers are too complicated and too close to “no.”
Now, fucking exhausted from his shift, he blinks, and for half a second the floor shivers under his feet, the edges of the world stuttering. Not now, he thinks, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles pale. The faint metallic taste of seizure aura ghosts across his tongue. He waits, tries to force his vision steady.
“Huckleberry, you okay?” Trinity’s voice, somewhere behind him.
He turns, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just tired.”
She studies him for a moment too long, like she’s searching his face for cracks, then nods and walks off to grab her stuff. The moment stretches thin, then dissolves and Dennis exhales. He follows her, feet dragging, heart pounding too fast.
Morning rounds bleed into noon, and noon dissolves into an afternoon of hospital light — gray sun filtered through dust-streaked windows in chairs, bouncing off the tile floors. Dennis is running on three hours of sleep and one half-eaten protein bar, but adrenaline makes a convincing substitute for nourishment. He’s trailing behind Dr. Robby and his attention is drawn to, as his auntie used to say, two pigs fighting over a single blanket.
Robby’s gait is measured, heavy. Dennis watches him grumble about his back, rubbing at the base of his spine, and feels something unreasonably tender stir inside him — admiration, attraction, whatever word fits between them. He tells himself it’s just a crush. He tells himself it’s perfectly rational, barely anything at all. But then Robby glances over his shoulder — just a flicker of attention, those beautiful brown eyes framed by laugh lines — and the logical ribcage of Dennis’ thoughts collapses into something warmer, messier, and humiliating.
They stop at a patient’s bedside: a middle-aged man recovering from a motorcycle crash, monitors chirping softly in sync with his heart. Robby leans over his keyboard, murmuring questions to the patient in his calm, soothing voice, and Dennis barely hears the words. He’s too busy watching the way Robby’s hands move — broad, steady, fingertips marked by faint calluses from years of procedure kits and surgical instruments. When they step away, Robby gives a nod of approval. “Good job catching that spleen laceration early, Whitaker. You’ve got good instincts.”
The praise lands on him like sunlight for a parched little plant. Dennis laughs. too quickly, too brightly, and says, “Guess I’m learning from the best.” It’s meant to sound light, teasing, maybe a touch bold. What actually comes out feels overeager, like a puppy tripping over its own paws.
Robby raises an eyebrow. “Flattery’s nice, but keep your focus. Instinct’s only useful if you’ve got evidence to back it up.”
Dennis grins, trying again, leaning into what he hopes is charm. “Guess I’ll have to keep shadowing you, then. You’re kind of the benchmark, right?”
There’s a pause, Robby doesn’t frown, but his gaze flicks over Dennis’ face, assessing, neutral, searching for the punchline after Peds. “Professional benchmarks are good,” He says evenly. “But remember to develop your own style. Medicine’s about collaboration, not imitation.”
A polite wall; smooth, firm, impenetrable. Dennis’ stomach twists with immediate, molten embarrassment. His ears burn. He laughs again, small and forced. “Right. Of course. Sorry, Dr. Robby, that came out… weird.”
Robby’s expression softens a little, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No harm done, Whitaker. You’re doing fine, just keep your head in the work.” Then he’s gone, striding down the hallway toward the next room, leaving Dennis standing in his wake, clipboard clutched against his chest like a shield.
Dennis exhales slowly, the sound almost a hiss. The lights flicker above him, cruel and omniscient. He feels foolish and raw, like he’s peeled open something delicate inside himself in full view of a man who didn’t even notice or care. He’s so stupid. He was so stupid to even try. He turns back toward the nurses’ station, pretending to check the notes on his tablet. The screen’s brightness reflects faintly in his eyes, enough to blur the edges of shame into a kind of dazed focus. His pulse still stutters, not from attraction now but from the faint, metallic aura that warns him another seizure might be circling nearby. He closes his eyes for half a heartbeat, breathes through it, and wills the static to fade. When he opens them again, the hallway is steady.
Professional benchmarks. Collaboration, not imitation. He repeats the words under his breath like sutures — tight, neat, necessary. Then he squares his shoulders and follows.
By the time Thursday night comes around, Dennis has made up his mind. Words, he decides, are too slippery. They fall out wrong, land with the wrong weight. But pie — pie is safe. Pie is what you do when you’re from Nebraska and you want to show someone something you can’t quite say aloud. So, after his shift, he hauls himself to the twenty-four-hour grocery store down the block. The aisles glow dimly under tired light, the kind that makes even the fruit look resigned. He buys what he can afford — bags of frozen cherries, a stick of margarine instead of butter, and a disposable foil tin. The cashier doesn’t even look up.
Back at the house, Trinity’s already asleep, her door closed, the faint sound of her cat thumping against a wall in the dark. Dennis works quietly in the kitchenette, the oven rattling like an old heater, the smell of pastry thickening the air. Cherry pie — sweet, tart, sticky at the edges, bubbling over slightly where he misjudged the filling. He wipes the counter twice, sets the finished pie on the stove, and stares at it.
It looks like a peace offering; at least, he hopes. The next morning, he wraps it in foil, writes a hasty note — For Dr. Robinavitch & Dr. Abbot, from Whitaker — and carries it in like a secret, balancing the pie tin carefully on one palm.
The nurses notice first, grinning as he slips it into the lounge. “What’s that, Whitaker? Bribery?” Jesse teases with a small smile.
Dennis laughs it off. “Midwestern hospitality.”
He leaves it on the counter, heart beating far too fast for something so small.
By noon, he’s passing the lounge again, pretending not to care, pretending to check a lab result on his phone. Inside, he catches a glimpse: Robby standing by the sink, arms folded, beard trimmed neat, reading the note. His expression is impossible to read — neutral, almost stiff. Jack’s there too, perched on a stool, legs angled under the counter. The foil’s been peeled back; a slice is already missing.
Robby says something — low, curt, inaudible. Jack laughs.
Dennis hesitates, then steps in, pretending to be casual. “Morning.”
Jack looks up, fork in hand, grin already spreading. “You make this, Whit?”
Dennis rubs the back of his neck, suddenly thirteen again, awkward in his own skin. “Yeah, uh, figured you guys could use something homemade. Long week and all.”
Robby doesn’t look at him. He’s rinsing his coffee mug, movements brisk. “Appreciated,” He says shortly, voice distant. “But we’re trying to cut down on sugar.”
Dennis blinks. “Oh. Uh — sure. Right. Sorry, I should have asked.”
Jack chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t mind him, he’s being an ass. He’s on another one of his health kicks. Last week it was ‘no dairy after noon.’ This week it’s ‘anti-inflammatory Mediterranean enlightenment’ or something.” He scoops another bite, eyes twinkling. “This is damn good pie, though. You got a grandma recipe or is this all you?”
Dennis’s laugh is nervous but real. “A bit of both. My grandma used to say butter solves everything, but… I’m on a student budget.”
Jack grins wider. “Margarine and love, huh?”
Dennis feels his face go scarlet.
Robby clears his throat. “We’re late.” He sets his mug down, barely glancing Dennis’ way, and strides out. The door hisses shut behind him. Jack shrugs. “Don’t take it personally. He gets moody when he’s cutting carbs. I think it’s a blood sugar thing.”
Dennis smiles faintly, unsure whether to feel relieved or ridiculous. “Guess I’ll keep the next one low-glycemic.”
Jack laughs, warm and bright. “You keep baking like this, you’ll have us both wrapped around your little finger.”
Dennis chuckles, but the sound is thin around the edges. His face feels hot, his stomach hollow. When he walks out, the hallway feels both too wide and too narrow at once. He tells himself he’ll stop trying. He’ll focus on medicine, focus on the work. But in the pocket of his scrubs, his fingers still smell faintly of cherries and margarine, and something in his chest aches like need.
It starts, as most of Dennis’ bad ideas do now, in the presence of Robby and Jack.
Robby’s just finished dictating a consult note, reading glasses perched low on his nose. Jack’s perched beside him, scrolling through something on his phone. The sight of them together — comfortable, seamless, familiar — does something tender and unsteady to Dennis’s insides. He’s been thinking for days; too much thinking, not enough sense. The pie had failed spectacularly to charm Robby, though Jack had eaten two slices and winked at him. Still, Dennis can’t quite let it go. So when there’s a lull — Robby’s note saved, Jack’s phone put away — Dennis clears his throat. “Hey, uh… I was wondering if you two might wanna… go out sometime? Like to get dinner? Maybe a movie?” He tries to sound casual. But fails completely. His voice cracks on movie like he’s fifteen again.
Robby doesn’t even look up from his screen. “That’s kind of you, Whitaker, but our evenings are usually booked solid. Administrative work, follow-ups. You know how it is.”
Jack, however, looks up with a slow, amused smile. “Dinner and a movie, huh? You asking us on a date, kid?”
Dennis flushes crimson. “No! I mean, not a date-date. Hanging out. I thought maybe you’d like to, but never mind. Bad timing.”
Jack laughs, the sound low and crackly, like dry leaves in autumn. “Relax, I’m just giving you hell. But really, why would you wanna hang out with two old men on a Friday night?”
Dennis tries to laugh with him, but it comes out strangled. “You’re not that old and honestly, most of my classmates just wanna get blackout drunk or talk about Step scores. I figured a calm night sounded… better.”
Robby finally glances up then — briefly, his expression softening just an inch. “Appreciate the thought, Whitaker. But you should spend your limited free time with people your own age. Trust me, you’ll miss those chances later.”
There’s nothing unkind in his tone. That’s what stings the most. It’s professional, measured, detached, another gentle boundary drawn in the air. Jack leans back, studying Dennis with that same teasing glint, though something almost sympathetic flickers underneath. “He’s right, you know. You don’t wanna end up like us — trading nightlife for chart reviews and arguments about cholesterol.”
Dennis shrugs, forcing a grin. “I dunno. You two seem happy.”
Jack’s smile softens, and he glances sideways at Robby. “We are,” He says simply. Then, to Dennis: “And that’s the trick. Find someone who puts up with your weirdness long enough that it starts to look like it’s on purpose.”
“Or,” Robby adds dryly, “Someone whose weirdness happens to complement yours.”
Jack chuckles. “That too.”
The two of them share a small, wordless smile that’s private but not secret, the kind of moment people build over decades. Dennis feels it hit him like gravity — beautiful and untouchable.
He swallows, nods. “Yeah, makes sense.”
Robby stands, stacking papers, already shifting gears. “Good initiative, though, Whitaker. You’re learning how to take care of your team. Keep that instinct, it’ll serve you well.”
Dennis nods again, gripping his paper coffee cup so hard it dents in slightly. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”
When they leave — Jack still chuckling under his breath — Dennis stays seated, the air cooling in their absence. His coffee’s gone cold, but he drinks it anyway. He tells himself he’ll stop this soon. The wanting. The awkward reaching. The pretending it doesn’t matter when it obviously does. But when he closes his eyes, all he can see is the quiet look Jack gave Robby — their shared, easy affection — and the hollow ache it leaves in him feels both familiar and bottomless.
Friday evening unfurls warmer than it has any right to. All day, Dennis drifts through his work half-dazed, his mind snagging on the memory of Jack’s teasing grin, Robby’s dry tone, the sense of a door politely closed. Then, just before shift change, Robby appears beside the nurses’ station with his hands in his pockets and a small, almost shy tilt to his voice. “Whitaker. Jack and I were thinking of grabbing dinner after work. You still up for it?”
For a heartbeat, Dennis thinks he’s misheard. “Me? Really?”
Jack, leaning against the doorway, laughs. “Yeah, you. We figured we owed you a proper meal after that pie.”
It’s ridiculous how happy that makes him. His chest feels like it’s been inflated with light.
Dinner happens at a neighborhood place near the river — casual, old brick walls, the smell of frying garlic and bread. Dennis can’t stop smiling. He talks too fast, waves his hands too much, knocks over a water glass, and apologizes a dozen times. Jack keeps chuckling, Robby rolling his eyes with the kind of fond patience that means he’s amused even if he won’t admit it. Somewhere between the entrée and dessert, the words tumble out before Dennis can stop them. “I should probably confess something. I’ve been, uh, flirting with you both for a month. Terribly, I think.” Jack nearly spits his drink. Robby blinks, mid-sip. Dennis laughs at his own nerves, cheeks pink. “Guess that’s weird to say out loud, huh?”
They don’t answer right away. Both men are staring at him, but not in shock — something else, something puzzled. Jack’s brows knit. “Whit, you feeling okay?”
Dennis tries to laugh again. “I — yeah, fine, I just—” He hears it then, what they’ve been hearing — his voice thickening, vowels dragging. The table edges seem to tilt. His fork slips from his hand. Oh no.
Robby’s voice drops, calm and firm. “Dennis, look at me.”
He tries, but the room feels slanted. One eye doesn’t quite obey. His heart lurches; realization flickers like static. “Oh,” He says softly, trying for humor that doesn’t come. “That’s, uh, really bad timing. I’m—” He wants to tell them not to panic, that it happens sometimes, that he just needs a minute. But the words won’t shape cleanly. He reaches for his collar where the medic-alert tag should be and finds only skin. The chain’s at home on the dresser, the tag so worn it barely reads anymore.
Jack is already out of his chair, steady hand on Dennis’ shoulder, voice gentle but urgent: “Hey, hey, stay with us, sweetheart.”
Robby signals for help — fast, practiced, phone already raised to his ear — but Dennis barely hears. The restaurant hum turns watery, indistinct. He tries to shake his head, to tell them he’s fine, please, no ambulance, and the rest of the world folds inward.
The world comes back in pieces — sound first, bright and jagged. Someone is talking fast and low over the thrum of an engine. There’s the bounce of tires on pavement, the rhythmic beep of a monitor. Cold air, metallic and antiseptic, drifts across his face. Dennis blinks, once, twice. The ceiling above him isn’t the restaurant’s plaster or the hospital’s flickering panels — it’s the ribbed, plastic-lit roof of an ambulance. Ah, he thinks dimly. Dang it. His tongue feels thick, the edges of his mouth coppery and strange. He tries to swallow and winces. Something’s taped to the crook of his elbow — an IV — and the faint chill of medication traces up his vein.
When he turns his head — slowly, like it weighs too much — he sees them both. Robby’s at his left side, hoodie thrown over Dennis’ lap, face pale under the beard. Jack’s on his right, gripping the edge of the gurney, knuckles bone-white. The fear in their eyes looks out of place, like it belongs to someone else, not to these men who usually seem so unshakable. Dennis tries to smile, to make a joke, something light like Guess I ruined dinner, huh? But his mouth won’t quite shape it right. The words come out slurred and muddy. “M’fine,” He manages instead, voice catching on the wrong syllables. “F’ne. Don’t ’mbulance.”
Jack leans closer, voice tight. “Easy, baby boy. Don’t try to talk. You’re okay, we’ve got you.”
Robby’s hand hovers near his shoulder, steady but careful, as if he’s afraid touching him might break something fragile. “You had a seizure,” He says softly, the clinical precision barely covering the tremor underneath. “You’re safe. We’re almost at the hospital.” Dennis blinks slowly, trying to focus. He wants to tell them he told them, that this happens sometimes, that he didn’t mean to scare them, that the tag was on his dresser because the chain broke. But his mouth won’t cooperate. The words sit thick and tangled in his throat.
Jack squeezes his wrist, careful of the IV. “Just breathe, sweetheart. Don’t worry about anything else right now. We’ll figure out what’s going on.”
Robby glances toward the paramedic, murmurs something Dennis can’t quite catch. The siren blurs around the edges of his hearing, softer now, like it’s far away. He wants to roll his eyes, to tell them he’s not fragile, that he’s embarrassed more than anything — but instead he just lies there, half-floating, half-fogged, the steady rhythm of the monitor matching the pulse in his ears. Jack’s face fades in and out of focus, the gray curls a halo under the harsh ambulance lights. Robby leans closer, eyes soft with a worry Dennis has never seen in them before. He closes his eyes, sighs through his nose. The words don’t make it out this time, but the shape of them is clear in his head: I’m fine. Please don’t look so scared.
By the time they wheel him into the bright chill of the ED, Dennis is more awake, but the world still fuzzes around the edges like a bad signal. Everything’s too bright, too loud — the beeping monitors, the hiss of oxygen, the shuffle of shoes against tile. His head hurts something fierce. Someone’s asking him questions. Another hand is checking his pupils. He tries to answer — tries so hard — but the words stumble out as half-sounds, thick with a swollen tongue and the heavy drag of post-seizure fog. “M’fine,” He mumbles. “No — n’n’t new. Jus’ — jus’ skipped — m’meds. Fine.”
Nobody seems to hear. Someone calls for labs. Someone else says “possible new onset seizure,” and Dennis wants to yell, no, that’s not it, but his voice collapses into a garbled mess.
Robby’s somewhere at his left, speaking in the low, steady tone of authority. Jack’s on his right again, hovering, still pale. Every time Dennis catches their eyes, he tries to reassure them with a look, a smile, something — anything — but his face doesn’t seem to cooperate either. He’s still fumbling for words when the curtain whips open, and Trinity storms in like a weather event — messy ponytail, hoodie half-zipped, slippers on her feet, the annoyed look of someone who’s been woken from the first decent sleep she’s had all week.
She glares at the entire room. “What the hell happened?”
Robby straightens. “He collapsed at dinner. We called EMS.”
Trinity cuts him off with a snort. “He’s epileptic and med non-compliant. He’s fine. Stupid, but probably fine.”
There’s a stunned pause, and Robby’s eyebrows shoot up. Jack’s mouth twitches. Dennis lets out a garbled, indignant noise. “’m not — st’pid.” The words tangle against his bitten tongue. His eyes go wide with frustration. He wants to explain: It’s not because I’m careless. I just couldn’t afford the refill yet. I’m managing. I swear I’m managing.
Trinity sighs, leaning over him, her expression softening just enough. “I know, Huck. But you scared half the team. Next time, maybe tell someone when you’re rationing meds, huh?”
He tries to pout, which only makes Jack grumble quietly. Robby exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing by degrees.
“Non-compliance, huh?” Robby says gently, voice somewhere between concern and teasing. “That’s a first for you.”
Dennis manages a groggy shrug, cheeks heating. “’s not… on purpose.”
Jack folds his arms. “Yeah, I figured. Student loans eating first?”
That earns him the faintest flicker of a grateful look from Dennis before the exhaustion rolls over again, pulling at the corners of his eyes as he nods. Trinity pats his shoulder. “Go back to sleep. You’ll get your public spanking later.”
He mumbles something half-coherent, a protest that dissolves into a sigh. The room goes softer, the lights less sharp, and the last thing he catches before sleep pulls him under is the sound of Robby saying quietly, to no one in particular, “He’s carrying too much.”
When Dennis drifts back toward consciousness, the first thing he notices is the sound of rain against glass. The bay lights are lower now, the chaos dulled to a low hum. His body feels heavy, limbs slow to answer, but the haze has thinned enough that thought starts to string itself together again. Then comes the voice, Jack’s, low, firm, but trembling around the edges. “Dennis, baby, you cannot keep rationing your meds.”
Dennis blinks, the words taking a second to settle. Jack is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, curls frizzed by humidity, expression somewhere between disbelief and fury. Robby sits in the corner, rubbing his temples, the picture of weary calm. Dennis tries to shrug, which only makes the IV tug at his arm. “Didn’t — skip all of it,” He murmurs, voice rough. “Just… stretchin’ it out. Rent’s high. Y’know how it is.”
That does it. Jack’s face goes red, then pale, then red again. “No, actually, I don’t know how it is, because if I needed a life-saving medication I wouldn’t just stop taking it! You can’t, God, sweetheart, you can’t do that!”
The words land like sharp knocks on wood. Dennis flinches, half-embarrassed, half-defensive. “Didn’t wanna bother anyone,” He mutters. “Not like—”
Jack cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “Not like what? Not like we’d care? You scared the hell out of us tonight!” His voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment all the anger drains out of it, leaving only fear.
Robby finally looks up, sighing through his nose. “Jack,” He says quietly. “Let him breathe.”
But Jack isn’t finished. “You don’t get it. You bit through your tongue. You seized in a restaurant. He—” He gestures toward Robby “—thought you’d stopped breathing. Now you’re lying here telling me you couldn’t afford your medication like it’s no big deal!”
Dennis winces, eyes stinging, but before he can try to explain again, Robby rises and lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Just let him yell, yekiri,” He says gently to Dennis. “He’s scared.”
That simple sentence seems to take the wind out of the storm. Jack’s jaw tightens; his eyes go glassy. He looks away, runs a hand over his curls. “Yeah. I am.”
The room goes quiet except for the steady beep of the monitor and the rain outside. Dennis swallows hard. “Didn’t mean to… scare anyone,” He mumbles softly. “I just… sometimes you gotta pick between meds and food, y’know?”
Jack exhales shakily, sinking into the chair beside him. “You should’ve told us.”
Robby gives Dennis a small, tired smile. “He’s right. You’re not alone here, Dennis.”
He nods, eyes closing as the meds make his thoughts slow again. The last thing he hears before sleep takes him is Jack muttering, half to himself, “We’ll figure it out. He’s not doing this alone anymore.”
When they finally let him leave, it’s already dusk again. The hospital’s fluorescent light gives way to the soft, gray-blue of Pittsburgh twilight. Dennis expects to be handed a cab voucher or pointed toward the bus stop. Instead, Robby jingles his car keys and says, in that calm attending voice that brooks no argument, “You’re coming with us. Trinity says she’ll feed the cat.”
Dennis tries to protest — half-heartedly, still sore from everything — but the look Jack gives him ends that idea fast. “Hospital policy,” Jack says dryly as he opens the passenger door. “Or, you know, my policy. Whichever scares you more.”
Their house sits tucked into a hilly street above the river, brick and ivy and soft yellow light spilling through the windows. It smells like rain and cinnamon and the faint metallic tang of disinfectant that follows medical workers home no matter how hard they try to scrub it off. Dennis steps inside, blinking. The living room looks normal — bookshelves, mismatched furniture, a couple of half-drunk mugs of tea — but then he notices the corners: thick foam padding on the coffee table, rubber bumpers on the edges of the kitchen counter, a folded blanket covering the stone hearth. He stops dead. “What did you—”
Jack crosses his arms, deadpan. “Safety upgrade. You’ve got a habit of falling hard for us, kid.”
Robby groans quietly at the pun, but there’s affection in it. “Yankl.”
Jack only shrugs, unrepentant. “What? If we’re kidnapping an epileptic, we’re doing it right.”
Dennis stares, torn between laughing and sinking into the floor. “You baby-proofed your house?”
“Seizure-proofed,” Jack corrects, which somehow makes it worse. “At least until you’re steady and have your meds sorted. You’re staying here for a few days.”
Dennis groans softly, pouting in the doorway. “You don’t have to do that. I can take care of myself.”
Robby gives him that steady look. “You’ve proven you can survive on your own, that’s not the same thing.”
Jack tosses him a blanket from the couch. “Couch folds out. Sheets are clean. Don’t fight me on this, baby; you’ll lose.”
Dennis hugs the blanket to his chest, cheeks warm, torn between gratitude and mortification. “You guys realize this is super embarrassing, right?”
Jack grins, tired but genuine. “Good. Maybe embarrassment’ll make you actually take your meds on time.”
Robby chuckles, shaking his head. “Ignore him. He means well.”
Dennis sinks onto the couch, still pouting a little, though he can’t quite suppress a small, shy smile. The padding on the tables looks ridiculous, but there’s a strange kind of comfort in it — a softness he’s not used to, the physical proof that someone’s thinking about him when he’s not around. Jack disappears into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You like soup? We’ve got the decent kind in the freezer, Robby’s Bubbe’s recipe, not the canned stuff you live on.”
Dennis smiles down at the blanket, voice quiet but full. “Yeah. Soup sounds good.”
Robby’s hand lands briefly on his shoulder, warm, grounding. “Get some rest, Dennis. You’re safe here.”
He doesn’t argue. He just nods, lets the sound of their voices drift around him. The soup is good — better than it has any right to be. Real vegetables, hearty matzah balls, a little salt, a little dill, thyme that smells like somebody’s garden. Dennis eats slowly, trying not to drip on the blanket that’s been tucked around his lap. The TV murmurs softly in the background; Jack is scrolling through something on his tablet while Robby reads an article on his phone, bifocals perched on the tip of his nose. The room feels safe in a way that makes Dennis’ shoulders loosen without him realizing it.
Then something flickers: a tiny shift in the air, a ripple under his skin. It’s nothing dramatic, nothing even visible if you don’t know what to look for. His spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, his gaze slides a little to the left, not quite focused. It lasts a few seconds — maybe ten. He breathes, slow and steady. He’s had these forever. They’re more nuisance than danger, just static on a line. But when he blinks and the world steadies again, both doctors are watching him.
Robby’s hand is halfway to his arm; Jack has already set the tablet aside.
“I’m fine,” Dennis hurries out, before they can even open their mouths. His voice is calm, practiced. “Just… one of the little ones.”
Jack frowns. “Little ones?”
“Focal aware seizure,” Robby answers quietly, eyes still on Dennis. “He stays conscious.” Then, to Dennis: “How often?”
Dennis sighs, lowering his spoon. “Not often. A couple of times a week if I’m tired. Sometimes none for months. I’m fine.”
Jack shakes his head, the lines around his eyes deepening. “You call that fine?”
Dennis gives a small, lopsided shrug. “It’s normal for me.”
There’s a long pause. The TV keeps murmuring, some talk show host laughing at a joke none of them hear. Robby leans back, studying him, his tone gentle but unyielding. “Normal doesn’t have to mean acceptable, yekiri.”
Dennis looks down at his soup. “Yeah. I guess.”
Jack exhales, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, baby let’s get you to bed.”
Dennis huffs a small laugh, mostly to cover the awkward warmth that floods his chest. “You don’t have to babysit me,” He stresses. “I’ll be fine.”
Robby just guides him down the hall. “We’ll get you a proper neuro follow-up and a script that doesn’t bankrupt you.”
Dennis opens his mouth to argue, but Jack points at him. “Don’t.” He pouts again, but the protest dies before it reaches his lips.
He tumbles into their bed instead.