Chapter Text
It happens like this:
Two weeks before the Stanley Cup Finals, the power in Jack Zimmermann’s apartment building goes out. It’s not that big of a deal for Jack, who lives with Bitty and therefore owns plenty of scented candles. Their apartment is both softly lit and smelling of apple cinnamon and maple sugar. It’s slightly more inconvenient, though, for Lucy Breen next door, who has two frightened toddlers and a mountain of paperwork to do. As such, it’s only polite to offer up all their flashlights to her, since they don’t plan on using them anyways.
With all the hullabaloo surrounding hockey at the moment, they forget that they ever lent Lucy the flashlights at all, meaning that it never even occurs to Jack and Bitty to ask for them back. Thinking about flashlights is wasted brain power that could be used for thinking about hockey. Thus, they let it slip to the back of their minds.
It happens like this:
One week before the Stanley Cup Finals, Chris Chow, who has spent the past two months planning a punishingly intricate proposal night, set to take place in August (featuring a flash mob, horse-drawn carriages, and hide-and-go-seek), takes one look at Caitlin Farmer, with her messy bedhead and sleep-soft face, and drops down on one knee.
She says yes.
It happens like this:
Two days before the Stanley Cup Finals, Holster take a frisbee to the face and breaks his glasses.
“Well fuck,” he mutters, attempting to reattach the handle of his glasses back to where it’s broken off from the hinges. The kids across the street look apologetic, but he can’t really tell for sure because he can’t fucking see.
Later that night, Ransom helps him to MacGyver the bastards into a crude facsimile of actual working glasses. They sit on his face way too loosely, but at least he’ll be able to see until his new pair arrives in a week. It really makes him miss his hockey days, back when he would keep a supply of contact lenses on hand so that he wouldn’t need his glasses when he was out on the ice. Unfortunately, he hadn’t worn contacts in quite a few years now, so for the moment he was shit out of luck.
Oh well. It wasn’t ideal, but he would manage.
It happens like this:
The morning of the Stanley Cup finals, Meg Sherwin-Seiler, soon to be Meg Quisenberry, announces her engagement via Facebook.
The thing is, Dex and Meg broke up over two years ago, and it was a pretty amicable breakup all things considered, so Dex isn’t bitter about it per se. It’s more that seeing Meg and her fiancée’s smiling faces on his newsfeed reminds him of the fact that he hasn’t even been on a date since the two of them broke up.
Dex has grown a lot since he was a teenager, both physically and emotionally. He likes to think that his worldview is a lot less toxic than it used to be, and he knows, logically, that neither he nor anyone else needs romantic love in their life in order to be a complete, worthwhile person and live a fulfilling life. At the moment though, he doesn’t really care. He’s resentful and a little bit sad and, you know what, he’s put in so much overtime at his job this month that he’s having dreams about conditionals and data structures, so he deserves to be able to throw himself his very own pity party, thank you very much.
He unlocks his phone and schedules a Lyft to come and pick him up at 3 am, because sober Dex knows what drunk Dex is like (very confused and very grumpy), and regardless of whether the Falconers win or lose the Cup tonight, Dex intends to get fucking plastered. It’s better to just go ahead and schedule the ride now so he doesn’t have to worry about it later. He gives himself a mental pat on the back; this is such a good plan.
From what they piece together the morning after, it happens like this:
On the night of the Stanley Cup Finals, Jack triumphantly scores the winning goal seconds before the game goes into overtime, and all the friends and neighbors crowded inside of Jack’s apartment lose their goddamned minds.
Jack had made plans for him and Bitty to drive from Boston to Providence the second the game ended, and even though the two of them won’t be home until around 1 a.m., the party most definitely begins the second the final buzzer goes off. Bottles are popped, tears are shed, and Holster wastes no time in setting up the speakers to start blasting out Britney Spears. Everyone seems to be drunk within the next twenty minutes, which sadly isn’t even a record for them.
If everyone couldn’t see that Chowder and Farmer were in love before, they could most certainly see it now, as both their recent engagement and the numerous Jager bombs the two of them have downed have made them even more handsy than usual. They manage to last up until Caitlin snakes her hands down the back of Chowder’s jeans before Ford very politely suggests that they find themselves a room. And, well, a room does sound pretty s’wawsome right now, so they stumble their way down the hall until they find an open door and slip inside.
“Aw,” Caitlin pouts, flipping on the lights, “Even their laundry room is cute. Not fair.”
“When we get married, we can have two cute laundry rooms.” Chowder replies earnestly, which leads to another overly aggressive round of making out.
Without warning, Farmer lets out a pained cry, causing Chowder to jump back anxiously.
“Ow ow, shit, Chris, my ring is caught in my hair, help me, fuuuuck!”
Chowder frantically attempts to aid her, his currently poor coordination not exactly helping the matter. Finally, they manage to extract the ring from Farmer’s hair, only for Chowder to fumble it, dropping the ring onto the floor where it skids underneath of the washing machine.
The two of them stare at the washer in silent horror for a moment. It’s Chowder who reacts first, letting out a choked whisper. “We’re being punished having for premarital sex.”
Farmer scoffs in response. “If that’s what’s happening here, it’s a few dozen times too late. C’mon, Chris, we’ve got to get it out.”
Both make valiant attempts to fit their hands underneath the washer with little success, and their attempts to use a hangar to fish it out are equally fruitless. It’s just too dark underneath the washing machine to be able to puzzle out where the ring is located.
Farmer frowns. “We need a flashlight.”
“I know where Jack and Bitty keep their flashlights!” Chowder replies, grabbing Farmer’s hand.
The two of them make their way back to the kitchen where they run into Shitty and Lardo, who appear to have created their own two person drinking game involving dice and a hacky sack. They are, regrettably, seated directly in front of the cupboard where Jack and Bitty keep the flashlights.
“Lardo,” Chowder pleads, “I need you get up, please.”
Lardo blinks at him slowly. “… Nah.”
“Please, Lards. You’re in front of the flashlights and we need one to find Caitlin’s engagement ring.”
That manages to pique both Lardo and Shitty’s interest, and so Chowder and Farmer relay the whole debacle back to them. It takes a bit more begging on their part before Lardo is willing to get up, and once she’s moved, Farmer wastes no time in throwing open the cabinet doors, rifling through its various contents before coming up empty.
“Chris, there aren’t any flashlights in here!”
“Maybe Jack and Bits moved ‘em?” Shitty suggests. “Brah, I bet you they’re still in the kitchen, Lards and I can help you look.”
The four of them begin their search, rifling through the many drawers and cupboards in Jack and Bitty’s extravagantly large kitchen, only giving up when every door has been opened, their disappointingly non-flashlight contents strewn all over the floor. This is where Whiskey finds them a few minutes later, sitting dejectedly in the cluttered debris of their mistakes.
He simply stares at them all for a moment, as if judging whether the situation merits the use of his time or not. Whiskey is always guaranteed to be the soberest person at any party, due to a genetic condition that had damaged his liver in high school. Many people would have used said sobriety to help keep an eye on their very drunk friends, but Whiskey prefers to just let natural selection run its course.
Whiskey takes a sip of his Arizona, gesturing towards the wreckage. “Fun night?”
Lardo is the one who answers him. She’s laying directly on what appears to be a skillet, wholly unconcerned with how it’s digging into her back. Her eyes never leave the ceiling. “Farmer’s ring got lost under the washer. We were looking for a flashlight. We did not find one.”
“We found this sick laser pointer though!” Shitty exclaims, waving it in the air proudly.
Whiskey blinks at them. “Chowder, don’t you have a flashlight app on your phone?”
The kitchen is silent for a moment.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Caitlin exclaims. Chowder fumbles with his phone for a minute, and sure enough it begins to light up brightly in his hands.
Whiskey sighs and shakes his head. “Come on you two,” he says, nodding towards Chowder and Farmer, who begin scurrying to their feet. “I’ll help you two carousers get your ring out, so don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.” Despite all his posturing, like most of their group he has an undeniable soft spot for Christopher Chow.
The three of them make their way back to the laundry room, leaving Lardo, Shitty, and their new laser pointer to their own devices.
Shitty flicks it off and on a few times, watching how the little light dances along the ceiling.
“We should clean up.” Lardo says, only the slightest of slurs divulging her inebriated state. “It’d be rude to leave it for Jack and Bitty.”
Shitty hums agreeably, continuing to click the laser pointer and not making any moves to get up.
Lardo looks over at him, a small smirk beginning to form on her face. “Or we can see if anyone’s drunk enough to chase after the laser light?”
Shitty’s answering grin is dazzling. “Brah, that’s the best fucking idea you’ve had all night.”
The two of them crawl into the living room, giggling like schoolkids as they attempt to be sneaky. They hide behind the biggest of the couches, quickly locking onto Ransom and Holster as the easiest targets. The two of them are clearly three sheets to the wind and are currently occupied with loudly agreeing with each other about how much they miss Webkinz.
Lardo snickers as she flashes the laser light directly onto Holster’s forehead. Ransom’s words putter out as he stares at Holster, his face a picture of hilarious befuddlement. Without warning he reaches out and attempts to forcibly grab the red light off of Holster’s face. Holster curses as Ransom’s hand makes contact with his forehead, causing his broken glasses to slide off of his nose and onto the floor. He quickly drops to his knees, blindly searching around for them.
Poor Dex has the unfortunate luck of attempting to push his way into the living room at that very moment, balancing a cup of tub juice in one hand and a plate of Bitty’s leftover blueberry pie in the other. The current medically recommended amount of tub juice is none at all, and at this point Dex is a good five or six cups in. He isn’t nearly coherent enough to look where he’s going, and as such trips right over Holster’s crouched form.
Everything moves in slow motion for a second, everyone in close proximity watching in horror as Dex stumbles roughly, falling hard and smashing his head against the side of the coffee table.
Panic erupts as a room full of drunk idiots attempts to make sense of what’s just happened and try to figure out whether or not they need to call an ambulance. Dex, for what it’s worth, seems very irritated but otherwise okay, though he’s way to drunk for them to make a definitive call.
Nothing has gone right tonight, and it continues to go on not doing so as the door opens, Bitty and Jack choosing this exact moment to make their triumphant return to their home.
Jack and Bitty stand in the doorway in horrified awe as they take in the scene around them; Forty-odd hysterical drunks all pressed into their living room, their kitchen thoroughly desecrated (and Bitty does not tear up at that, he does not), and Dex sprawled out limp next to their coffee table while Shitty and Ransom touch him all over his face in what may be a misguided attempt at checking for injuries.
There’s pie and tub juice all over the floor. Someone appears to have tipped over one of the couches.
A loud screeching noise is heard from down the hall, followed by a softer hissing sound, and a moment later Farmer comes running out. “We found the ring!” She exclaimed jubilantly, “Although we may have also burst a pipe!” She startles, suddenly absorbing the scene around her. “What the fuck happened?”
Bitty sighs, shooting his now two-time Stanley Championship winning husband an apologetic look. “Rock Paper Scissors?”
In the end, Jack throws rock and is stuck staying home and protecting their laundry room while Bitty is left with the arguably easier task of escorting a very drunk and very prickly William Poindexter to the ER.
Dex glances at the clock on Bitty’s dashboard. 1:19 am.
He groans and curls up into a ball in the passenger’s seat, his brain feeling like it was trying to push its way out of his skull.
Bitty tsks disapprovingly. “Sorry, hon’, you can’t fall asleep until we’ve gotten you checked for a concussion.” Then Bitty, the absolute sadist, turns on the radio in what’s presumably an effort to keep Dex awake, and the agonizing sounds of Destiny’s Child fill up the car.
Dex presses his head against the window, the chill of the glass helping to soothe the throbbing ache where his head had made contact with the coffee table. He’s too drunk to really be concerned, which he’ll be grateful for later as it keeps his anxiety at bay for the night. Bitty is visibly worried though, and his nervous tapping on the steering wheel reverberates painfully through Dex’s skull. Bitty keeps looking away from the road to glance at him concernedly, so Dex gives him a quick thumbs up in an effort to assure him that he’s fine.
Once they reach the ER, Bitty quickly helps him to go through the motions of signing in, and the receptionist swiftly snaps a wrist band onto Dex’s arm before sending the two of them to sit in the waiting area.
An unfortunate side effect of injuring yourself in Providence on the same night that the Falconers have just won the Cup is that the ER is full of other drunk idiots as well, many of whom who are in much worse states than you are. It’s a good thirty minutes before they’re summoned to triage, where a clearly overworked medical assistant quickly begins the process of taking Dex’s vitals. Bitty stands behind him, his hand squeezing Dex’s shoulder reassuringly while the MA checks his temperature and blood pressure.
It’s all going smoothly until the MA starts asking him questions. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
Dex furrows his eyebrows. “Um… I dunno... A lot?”
“Could you try and give me an estimate?”
“I think I had… shit… five or maybe six cups of tub juice?” At her black look he continues, annoyance leaking into his voice at having to say so many words when all he wants is silence. “It’s like, ya’ know, jungle juice? Where ya’ just… mix a buncha’ stuff together. It tastes so bad, but so good.”
The MA hums in response. “So, it’s safe to assume there’s more than one standard drink in a cup of it?”
Bitty snorts. “That’s a very safe assumption, yeah.”
Dex finally finishes answering all of the MA’s questions, his words getting more and more slurred the more he talks, and the first traces of nausea start to curl up in his gut. The MA quickly leads him to an open room, assuring him that a nurse will be here shortly before leaving them alone.
Dex and Bitty wait for around fifteen minutes, sitting in a silence only occasionally broken by Bitty reading a particularly funny tweet out loud for Dex.
They’re startled by a loud knock, and a voice from behind the curtain asking if it’s alright to come in. Bitty calls out an affirmative, and a man pulls back the curtain before striding into the room.
“Hi there, I’m Derek. I’m going to be your nurse for the next few hours.” He glances down at his chart. “And you’re William Poindexter, right?”
Dex nods and Derek asks to see his wrist band, scanning it quickly. Dex is a bit grumpy that the nurse is almost absurdly handsome, at least six feet tall with a jawline that could launch ships, and hair that still manages to be artfully tousled even after what must have been a very long night. He has an expression that manages to be friendly and open while simultaneously conveying an air of unbothered serenity, ultimately causing him to exude a feeling of calming confidence which more than likely puts most patients at ease, but mostly just pisses Dex off.
The whole image is ruined, though, by the unfortunate scrubs he’s wearing, light blue and covered in pictures of rainbows, strawberries, and sunglasses emojis.
Derek jots down a couple of notes before taking a seat next to Dex.
“Alright, William, why don’t we start by having you walk me through what went down tonight?”
Dex does his best to relay the rather blurry events that proceeded his visit, with Bitty making helpful interjections every so often. He manages to mostly ignore the growing queasiness in his stomach, focusing instead on the way the nurse’s mouth moves while he talks.
“Well, it sounds like there’s a chance you’ve got a concussion, though if you’re lucky it’s nothing and you’re just really, really drunk. Your pupils don’t look dilated which is a good sign, but the doctor will be here in a bit to take a closer look at them. For now, we’ll just get you hooked up to an IV and get some fluids in you, and probably check your BAC as well.”
He pauses here, taking a few more notes, before turning back to Dex. “Have you experienced any vomiting at all?”
Dex shakes his head. “No.” He replies, before immediately leaning over the side of his bed and throwing up onto the floor.
Bitty startles and gets up out of his seat while Derek quickly moves out of the line of fire.
“Aw, what. Not chill, man.”
Derek helps Dex to sit back up in bed and gives him a bin to keep throwing up in, while Bitty gently rubs soothing circles on Dex’s back.
“Okay, we’ll put the IV on hold for a sec while I go and get you some new linens and find somebody to clean up the floor. Hang tight, deep breaths, my man.”
After Derek has left, Bitty checks in.
“You doin’ okay, Dex?”
Dex groans miserably, slouching back into the pillows.
“I’m dying, and I jus’ almos’ threw up on the most beau’ful man in the world.”
Bitty just laughs at him, the monster. “Aw, cheer up, sweetie. Far more beautiful people have seen you do far more embarrassing things, and I’m sure they’ll continue to do so for years to come.”
Dex is ashamed at himself for finding that comforting.
It’s around 3 a.m. by the time Derek and the cleaning staff member he returns with manage to once again get the room back in order. Derek is in the process of setting up Dex with an IV when Dex’s phone starts to ring.
“Could ya’ get it for me, Bits? It migh’ be my mom.” Dex asks, and Bitty nods, grabbing Dex’s phone before leaving the room to take the call.
Bitty is barely gone for a minute – a minute Dex spends looking anywhere other than where Derek is prepping the needle, since he hates needles and is choosing to be mad about it instead of nervous – before he’s poking his head in past the curtain.
“Dex, sweetie,” he starts, looking frazzled, “Did you happen to schedule a Lyft tonight to pick you up?”
And oh, Dex thinks, that does sound like him.
“Mayyybe?” Dex answers. “Probably.”
Derek lets out a little laugh at that and Dex swears it’s one of the nicest sounds he’s ever heard. Dex hates him.
Bitty sighs. “Alright hon’, sit tight and I’ll go take care of it.”
“You know,” Derek starts, “I’ve had more than my fair share of drunk patients, but you are definitely one of the unluckier ones, that’s for sure. Well, in terms of like, trivial stuff, I guess. You haven’t managed to like, get an action figure or anything stuck up your rectum, so good for you!”
Dex lets out an unattractive snort at that. Thankfully, his apparent unluckiness doesn’t seem to extend to his IV, and after taking a few vials of Dex’s blood, Derek manages to get it up and running as quickly and as close to painlessly as Dex figures you can get.
“Alright, hopefully this should help you start to feel at least a little better, so I’m going to go ahead and let Dr. Ellison know that you’re ready for him. In the meantime, I’ll go ahead and take your blood down to get tested. Do you want me to get you anything while I’m out?”
“Water?” Will asks, hopefully.
Derek shoots him finger guns on his way out. “Will do. Get it, Will do?”
Thankfully the nurse’s departure saved Dex from having to answer that.
It’s another few minutes before Bitty returns.
“Okay, so I worked it out with the Lyft driver and you’ll just have to pay a no-show fee. Don’t give me that look, I don’t know why you’d schedule a Lyft instead of just stayin’ the night.”
Dex huffed. He may not have to worry about money as much anymore, as his job in cybersecurity paid a salary that was nothing to sneeze at, but old habits died hard. He wasn’t sure if he’d every really break out of the mentality he’d grown up with, the constant fear of poverty and the anxiety he feels every time he has to make an unnecessary purchase. He can definitely afford the charge, but coupled with is incoming ER bills, it’s definitely going to eat at him for a few days.
When Dr. Ellison arrives and examines him, he gives Dex both some good news, and some bad. The good news is that Dex’s pupils, despite having delayed reaction times due to all the alcohol, don’t appear to be enlarged or sensitive to light, which is evidence in favor of him not having a concussion. Most of the concussion like symptoms he does exhibit, like his slurred speech and nausea, are more than likely alcohol related, so Dex is probably in the clear in both the concussion and the TBI front. The bad news though is that, since he’s intoxicated, it would be really unsafe to just send him home in case he does actually have a concussion, so he’ll have to stay under observation for at least the next few hours, after which they’ll decide if he’ll need an MRI or CT scan.
Dex is grateful that he requested the day off work in advance under the assumption that he’d be hungover for it.
Derek returns a little while later with Dex’s water in tow, only having a moment to cheerfully pour Dex a glass before a code HEART is called and he’s hustling back out of the room again, Dex sighing softly as he watches him leave.
It’s quiet after that, the only noise coming from the flurry of activity outside of the room, and Dex starts to feel the exhaustion from tonight finally weighing down onto him. He watches Bitty type out a tweet, the blond yawning tiredly every few minutes. Dex clears his throat to get Bitty’s attention.
"Sorry you're stuck with me in a hospital at 4 a.m.” Dex murmurs, fiddling with his blanket awkwardly. “I know this prob’ly wasn't how you wanted t’ spend your night."
He desperately needs something to do with his hands, so he reaches for the glass of water by his bed, taking a sip.
Bitty shrugs, continuing to scroll through twitter on his phone. "Admittedly I would have preferred to spend the evening at home riding my husband-"
Dex chokes, water dribbling down his chin.
Bitty looks up him, fondly. "But you'll never be a bother, Dex."
He stands up and hands Dex a tissue to wipe his face with, grabbing Dex’s free hand and squeezing it gently between both of his smaller ones. “I’m glad you’re alright, Will. You gave me quite a scare tonight and, based on the texts I’ve been getting from Shitty, I’m not the only one. Ya’ll will have to fill me in on what happened tomorrow, because, while I love that man dearly, Shitty isn’t exactly a coherent texter when he’s sober.”
Bitty shakes his head, unable to hide the look of fond exasperation on his face. “Honestly, we could probably all use a group recollection effort tomorrow. Lord knows tonight was a mess.”
Dex couldn’t agree more.
He attempts to convince Bitty to go home and get some sleep, but Bitty’s stubborn about staying with him. His logic is sound too, so Dex doesn’t really stand a shot of winning this arguement. Bitty is too tired to drive home, all their friends are either too tired or too drunk to come get him, and every ride service in Providence has massive surcharges right now due to the high demand. By the time Derek returns, Bitty has bundled himself up in his hoodie in the chair, and Dex is drifting in and out of wakefulness.
“How are you holding up?” Derek asks, taking note of Dex’s vitals on the machine next to him.
Dex just hums tiredly in reply, and Derek smiles sympathetically. “Go ahead and get some sleep, man. Rest is healing and all that.” He turns to Bitty, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “Want me to dim the lights?”
“That’d be great, thanks.” Bitty replies, and within moments the room is dulled into a comforting darkness, finally pulling him the rest of the way into unconsciousness.
Before he knows it, he’s blinking awake again, Dr. Ellison and an unfamiliar nurse greeting him as a bleary-eyed Bitty sips on a cup of coffee in the corner. The new nurse introduces herself as Jasnoor, and after Dex gets his bearings, Dr. Ellison starts to examine him again.
“Where’d the nurse from last night go?” Dex asks, as Jasnoor pours him a glass of water. He downs it gratefully.
“His shift ended about an hour ago, so I’ll be taking over for him until you’re discharged!” She replies.
Huh, that’s… disappointing. He’s kind of embarrassed to admit that he misses a dude that he only spoke to a couple of times, but the feeling is definitely there.
The doctor does end up ordering him an CT scan, just to be safe, and it’s almost noon by the time he’s finally cleared to go home. He’s sweaty, exhausted, and kind of wants to throw up again, but at least he’s concussion free. Neither he, nor anyone in his immediate group of friends, is usually that lucky.
Jack is waiting for them in the parking lot after Dex is discharged. He smiles when he sees them.
“How’s your head?” Jack asks, and from anyone else Dex would assume it was a chirp, but he knows that Jack’s blunt concern is genuine.
“I’m just normal, hungover levels of sore, thankfully.”
“Good to hear.” Jack opens up the rear door for him, and Dex murmurs appreciatively in thanks.
He curls up in the back seat, scrolling through Facebook as Jack and Bitty flirt softly in the front. After endless photos of dogs and brunch selfies, two pictures pop up on his newsfeed; the first featuring Meg and her fiancée wearing Bruins jerseys and pouting exaggeratedly for the camera, the second also of the two of them, although this time they’re laughing as they try to throw popcorn into each other’s mouths.
He bites his lip, thumb hovering over the like button. He thinks about missed opportunities and moving forward, about a relationship doomed from his own insecurities, and about an ER nurse with a bonfire smile, warming him up from the inside out.
Shaking his head, he keeps scrolling.