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It’s well past midnight when Jack and Robby wake to the sound of something clattering in the kitchen.
A glass? A drawer? Some cutlery? It’s not clear.
Whatever it is, there’s someone in the kitchen.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing, given that they do have a third person living with them, but Jack’s still immediately halfway out of bed, snagging his crutches as he pushes himself upright, years of muscle memory and military training kicking in.
“Hmmmgh—? What was that?” Robby mumbles, pushing against the mattress as he sits up. Jack’s always been a light sleeper — not light, but easily rousable, he’ll sleep through Robby bustling about the house like he’s been sedated, but the second an unfamiliar noise happens anywhere (even out in the yard), he’s awake and alert. But Robby sleeps like the dead (or so he’s been told, many times, especially by Jack), so whatever’s made that noise was clearly loud enough to rouse him, which is concerning.
Jack doesn’t need to answer him though, the glowing screens of both of their phones in the dark is enough of a clue.
< Dennis: ↓↓, LOW >
Robby clicks on the notification, squinting at his phone as he fumbles for his glasses with his other hand.
They’ve clearly missed a series of notifications as Dennis’ blood sugar has dropped, but Robby scrolls down to the most recent.
< Dennis: CRITICAL LOW >
< Dennis: 54 mg/dL >
Shit.
He throws the duvet off of his legs, swinging them off of the mattress as he stands up.
“Go,” Jack says before Robby can ask, fumbling with his prosthetic in the dark.
By the time Robby makes it down the stairs and into the hallway, his heart’s in his throat. Dennis has had lows before, but none at night, none when there’s been a risk of no one noticing. That worries him, a lot.
Just like all of… this worries him, a lot.
He can see the kitchen light’s on, dim and yellow, illuminating the hall as he steps through the open door.
Dennis is there, leaning heavily against the countertop. He’s barefoot, one leg of his sweatpants rolled up to his knee, and seemingly somehow tangled in the too-long sleeves of one of Robby’s old shirts. He’s soaked in sweat, dirty blonde hair sticking up in every direction and he’s deathly pale, eyes glassy with confusion. There’s a juice box in his hand that he’s fumbling, hands shaking so badly he can’t get the straw in. He’s not even fully gotten it out of the plastic, and from the looks of the scattered bits, he’s bitten through the packaging.
Robby can see he’s low even without his monitor reading to back it up.
“Hey, hey, Mouse,” Robby says softly, crossing the room in a few steps. “Stop – stop, I’ve got you.”
Dennis blinks up at him, pupils wide, breath shallow as he swallows, then speaks. “I – I think something’s wrong,” he slurs. “I feel… I feel – floaty. I can’t –” he breaks off, and Robby can see how out of it he really is, barely able to focus on him.
“I know.” Robby steadies him with a hand to the back of his neck, gently pushing Dennis down into a chair. “You’re low, sweetheart. Sit down for me, okay?”
Jack appears a second later, rumpled with sleep in an old wrinkled t-shirt, but clearly wide awake. He takes the seat beside Dennis while Robby pushes the straw into the carton of juice and passes it to him.
“Christ, Whitaker,” Jack murmurs, brushing Dennis’ sweaty curls out of his eyes. “You scared the hell out of us. You drop something — or something? Sounded like someone was breaking in.”
Dennis gives a weak, apologetic laugh, but he’s shaking so badly that it’s not very convincing.
Jack smiles at him all the same
Dennis takes the juice as Robby offers it to him, and then immediately almost drops it, fingers not gripping on properly.
“It’s okay, I got it.” Robby steadies his hand, instead holding the carton up to his mouth for him. “Drink.”
Dennis is not very good at it, mouth not cooperating with his brain as he tries to suck through the straw. Some of the juice trickles down his chin, and he doesn’t even blink as Robby wipes it off.
He looks so small, so fragile, and if anything he looks even more vacant after he finally manages to gulp down the dregs of the carton.
They should wait and see if his sugars start climbing, but given that the last reading from his monitor was so low and they haven’t done a fingerprick to test and confirm he’s not actually even lower, and just the very fact that Dennis himself looks so obviously low… it feels like a mistake to wait.
Robby and Jack exchange a look, then Robby stands, grabbing a packet of fruit snacks from the basket they keep on the kitchen table. Dennis likes them more than the dextrose tablets (which he tolerates, not only just), and a whole lot more than the gel sachets (which he hates with a burning passion), so they stocked up. It’s handy, having them pre-portioned in packets, because they have snacks next to Dennis’ bed, in the kitchen, in the fridge, even a couple of emergency packets next to the front door for him to take if he needs it before going out, and the fruit snacks are very easy to grab and go without complaint.
He tears open the packet, pouring the candy into his palm. Dennis just blinks at him, so Robby gently puts one into his mouth. If Dennis is too out of it, they’ll have to get a gel, much to his inevitable displeasure, but if he’s low enough not to be able to eat…
Thankfully, he immediately bites the gummy, acting on instinct rather than consciously.
“C’mon sweetheart, chew this. Yeah, like that. Good job. Here’s another.”
Dennis chews obediently, too spaced out to really talk anymore. Jack rubs a hand up and down his back, grounding him as Robby continues feeding him. He takes each of the sweets as he’s told, until the packet is empty.
“That’s it, good job. You’re safe. You’re okay. Swallow now, Dennis.”
When the sugar finally starts to kick in, Dennis’ vacant expression begins to clear as the colour returns to his cheeks. The shaking in his hands eases, and he slumps against Jack.
For a moment they just sit there, both Jack and Robby both watching Dennis, Jack still rubbing his back, before his face suddenly crumples.
Dennis’ bottom lip trembles as the tears come, a few fat droplets rolling down his cheeks. Then, suddenly the first quiet sob shakes him, catching in his throat as he grabs at Jack’s arm.
“Oh, Mouse,” Jack coos, and Dennis loses it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I didn’t —-I didn’t mean to –”
“Hey, hey, no.”
Jack pulls Dennis into his arms, and in a heartbeat, Robby’s there too, pressed against Dennis’ back.
“None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dennis shakes his head, his breath hitching between sobs. “I just wanted water. I didn’t even realise —”
Jack shakes his head. “You did exactly what you were supposed to, you woke up, you got a juice, you did everything right.”
“I w-woke you–” Dennis whines, and Robby laughs softly.
“Mouse that’s okay. We want you to wake us when you’re low, we’re here to look after you.”
Sobs continue to wrack Dennis’ slender frame, and both Jack and Robby hold him a little tighter, keeping him pinned between the two of them.
He apologises more times than they can count, despite their reassurances that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to be apologising, that he’s got nothing to be sorry about, but it doesn’t get through.
So, they just sit there, comforting him and holding him until finally, finally Dennis’ tears ease, and he curls tiredly into Jack’s chest. He’s sniffly, clearly exhausted, and Robby’s gentle as he pulls away from the two.
“Have a snack Mouse, then back to bed, hmm?”
Dennis nods weakly, then turns and tucks his face into Jack’s chest.
Robby’s not even sure what he puts together (something with protein and carbs that’ll tide Dennis over until morning, which is all the matters), also suddenly exhausted now that the urgency of the situation has passed, but Dennis eats as he’s told, before he sniffs and shrinks down into himself.
“I’m sorry… I don’t — I hate this. I don’t want to be alone,” he mumbles. “I hate when it happens.”
Jack looks up at Robby over Dennis’ head, raising an eyebrow, and Robby nods. It’s good, how effortless communication is for them, they know what the other’s thinking all the time, especially when it comes to Dennis.
“Then you’re not gonna be, not tonight,” Robby says, brushing a hand through Dennis’s sweat-damp hair. “Come on, Mouse. Bed time .”
“I can’t—” Dennis starts, but Robby’s already helping him up, one arm around his waist.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Jack says softly. “You can crash with us tonight.”
Dennis is too tired to argue.
So he lets them guide him down the hall, then up the stairs, his whole body leaden with exhaustion.
In their bedroom, Robby coaxes Dennis to sit, the sheets still warm from where Robby and Jack had been sleeping earlier. The shirt Dennis is wearing is still damp with sweat, so after a moment’s hesitation, Jack gently curls his fingers around the hem of it, and lifts it up.
“Arms up.”
Dennis does what he’s told, and Jack pulls it up off of over his head, discarding it over in the corner.
“Can I have one of yours?” Dennis asks, peeking up at Jack, who just grins.
“Yeah, ‘course.” Across the room, Robby opens Jack’s drawer, digging out one of Jack’s softest tees before he tosses it over at the two.
Dennis manages to catch it, and shrugs it on, before he flops back onto the mattress.
It’s easy for the two to settle in around him, Dennis squarely in the middle. It feels surprisingly natural, like they’ve done this a thousand times, like Dennis belongs in their bed.
It’s something neither Robby nor Jack allow themselves to focus on.
They can talk about it in the morning, if they need to.
If.
Dennis lies still, curled up into himself as he stares at the wall over Robby’s shoulder. He can’t really make anything out in the dark, not that he really cares, too wrung out to speak. His head still feels fuzzy with the low and the lack of sleep, and his chest still feels tight from crying, but he’s warm and he’s safe and it doesn’t take long before he relaxes.
Robby reaches over, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re all right now. Just get some sleep”
Jack pulls the covers up around them all, and Denis feels the warmth of his hand settling on his hip. It’s very comforting, and he curls closer towards Robby with a contented sigh.
“Mmkay… ‘gnight.” He mumbles.
It really doesn’t take long before the warm embrace of sleep begins to drag him under, the fatigue catching up with him all at once.
The last thing he feels before sleep finally takes him is the gentle brush of Robby’s fingers in his hair and a murmured:
“Goodnight, Mouse.”
Dennis wakes up already on edge, feeling bizarrely like his skin doesn’t fit right. For a brief moment, he’s confused, and a little dazed, because he doesn’t actually recognise where he’s woken up.
He’s in a big room, airy and light, in bed that’s at least twice the size of his own. There’s art on the walls, and pictures — a little blurry, which is odd —, and an assortment of objects and possessions which decidedly don’t belong to him.
Including a pair of crutches?
It takes a few moments before he actually remembers, the delirium of his low last night, Jack and Robby gently ushering him into bed with them, falling asleep with his face mushed against Robby’s shoulder despite Robby’s best attempts to keep them separate.
For a moment, it’s sweet, and then, inexplicably, he’s annoyed.
Partly because he’s now alone in their ridiculously massive, ridiculously comfortable bed, and partly because everything just already feels too much and he’s only been awake a matter of seconds. It’s too loud with the hum of voices and the clattering of the kitchen downstairs, too bright with the light peeking in through the curtains, too hot where he’s wrapped up in a thick, fuzzy blanket, all just too much.
His mouth tastes off too, kind of like the nasty fuzziness of a hangover, and his head aches, a full pressure sort of pulsating behind his eyes, and there’s an overwhelming irritability buzzing through him that he can’t quite explain.
He’s not sure why he’s pissed off, but he is.
The thought of checking his blood sugar annoys him so much that he doesn’t bring himself to do it, after he drags himself instead pissing and then brushing his teeth for almost a full five minutes in a vain attempt to get the taste out of his mouth.
It doesn’t work.
He has to piss again once he’s finished brushing his teeth, which annoys him further, because he only just went.
He doesn’t bother changing, just tugs a random sweater over the shirt he’s wearing — not the one he fell asleep in, he notices vaguely — and a pair of sweatpants that he’s sort of convinced are his, but not completely.
By the time he drifts into the kitchen, he’s still irritated and also now sort of hungry.
It should be a very welcome sight, what Dennis walks in on, any other day and he’d be hesitating at the threshold, trying valiantly to compose himself.
Not today.
He should be admiring the way Jack is leaning over the stove, dressed in nothing but an impressively tight shirt and a pair of boxers, and Robby is sitting up at the counter with a mug of coffee, hair still damp from the shower, in the turquoise knit sweater Dennis likes so much. He looks good, they both look good, but Dennis can’t find it in himself to appreciate it.
The smell of fresh coffee and something cooking on the job makes his stomach churn, and something sharp and ugly twists sharp in his chest.
“Morning, Mouse,” Robby says gently, peeking over his glasses as he looks up from where he’s looking at his iPad — no doubt reading the news, as much as it never fails to piss him off.
Dennis doesn’t mean it, but his greeting comes out clipped. “Yeah. Morning.”
Jack glances over his shoulder. “Sleep okay? I know last night was rough.”
Dennis shrugs, and for some reason the question makes him bristle. He doesn’t want to think about his low, doesn’t want to think about how embarrassing it was being found by then, and taken to back to bed while he cried. “Fine.”
Robby raises an eyebrow, clearly a little surprised by his terseness. “Jack’s making pancakes. You want them, or eggs or—”
“I don’t care,” Dennis cuts in, harsher than he intends. “Whatever.”
The kitchen goes quiet.
Jack turns fully then, concern flickering across his face as he looks at Dennis. It’s that same searching expression that Dennis has been subject to so many times since his diagnosis, and he fucking hates it all of a sudden, and he looks away from the two.
Robby straightens, his easy warmth now replaced by something a little more cautious. Neither of them say anything right away, but Dennis feels the weight of their confusion at his sudden shift in attitude. It’s not fair to them, he knows it, but still the irritation won’t let go of him. It coils tighter in his chest, and it feels a little harder to breathe suddenly as it stabs in his chest. He feels full of it, like this unwanted anger has filled every crevice of his body, prickling at the tips of his fingers and his tongue.
Robby is the one who speaks first though, who breaks the suffocating sudden tension, voice gentle as he murmurs, “Okay Mouse, come sit for a second.”
Dennis bristles again. “I’m fine.”
“I know you are,” Robby says calmly. “Just humour me.”
Jack pulls a chair out, and the scrape of it against the kitchen tile makes Dennis grit his teeth. Something’s changed in his posture, he’s not angry, and there’s nothing forceful or reprimanding about the way he gestures for Dennis to sit, but Dennis feels like a scolded dog all of a sudden, his tail between his legs. The fight dies a little. Not much, not enough to make the anger fade, but enough that he doesn’t try and argue.
Still, he hesitates just for a moment, then slumps into the chair, arms folded tight across his chest.
Robby takes Dennis’ hand as Jack slides a lancet and an alcohol wipe towards him, deftly cleaning the side of his finger before pricking him.
Dennis opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, his eyes stinging unexpectedly.
There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow away, despite his best efforts.
He watches as Robby loads the testing strip, then as he holds it up to the bead of scarlet blood.
They watch the machine whir together, then as the reading flashes up on the screen.
247.
High.
It’s not catastrophic, almost definitely just a result of overcorrecting his low from last night, and not high enough to warrant much in the way of treatment, but it’s enough to explain the headache, the itching heat under his skin, the way everything feels wrong.
Jack exhales softly. “Alright. That explains a lot.”
Dennis’ throat tightens. He looks away, shame washing over him now that the cause of his irrationality has a name. “I didn’t mean to—”
“We know,” Robby interrupts gently.
Behind him, Dennis can hear the sound of the tap running, and the bubbling rush of a cup filling.
Only moments later, Jack appears, gently placing the glass before him. “Drink this. Then take a walk around the block. Get some air, move a little.”
“It’s cold out,” comes Dennis’ immediate retaliation, and Jack just nods, a warm hand settling on the nape of Dennis’ neck.
“Then put your coat on. I’ll come with you.”
Dennis wants to fight, but he swallows down the instinctive response and instead nods mutely and does as he’s told. He gulps down the water, which immediately alleviates some of the foul taste in his mouth, and he realises now that he’s actually had some water, how desperately thirsty he was, how desperately thirsty he still is.
He knows he ought to have some more, but the ideas of asking for it or getting up to get it himself are both so equally abhorrent that he refuses to do either, but when the glass is taken from him and returned full again, he doesn’t say thank you.
He can’t.
Still, he drinks the second glass.
Jack appears with their coats, holding Dennis’ out to him as he shrugs on his own. It’s not even Dennis’ coat, not really, it’s one they gave him, expensive and comfortable and genuinely warm and even the fact that Jack has picked that coat annoys him.
Yeah, he definitely needs this walk.
He pulls his coat on diligently, and is just about to follow Jack out the kitchen when Robby stops his husband.
“Uh — pants, please Yankl.” He says, giving Jack a look over his glasses.
Oh.
Yeah.
Jack looks down, surprised for a moment at his own lack of pants, before he groans. “I’m not going upstairs, give me yours.”
“What? No.”
“Please?”
The whole exchange is so ridiculous and so them that Dennis should find it endearing, but just like everything this morning it only serves to further his exasperation, and he rolls his eyes.
Robby doesn’t miss that.
Still, he pulls off his own shorts and hands them to his husband, grumbling about ‘the things you do for love’, before Jack — now with pants — is taking Dennis’ shoulder and leading him out towards the front door.
Dennis shakes him off as they exit the kitchen. “I can walk by myself.” He huffs, and has to fight the petulant urge to cross his arms across his chest.
Jack doesn’t respond though, just lets him pull on his shoes before the two of them step outside.
The cool air outside helps almost immediately, a welcome relief from how hot and itchy he feels in his own skin.
Dennis walks ahead of Jack, without much direction at first, until he finds a road he knows leads back towards the house.
They circle the block once, twice, Dennis staying out in front, Jack behind.
Dennis feels so stupid, so childish, and he keeps his head down as he walks, refusing to look at anything but the pavement beneath him. He could talk to Jack, but he doesn’t want to, and Jack makes no effort to talk to him.
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
(But also, it sort of doesn’t? It’s hot and confusing and weird, just like this brutal buzzing of emotion dancing around in his skin, an unpleasant compatriot to his anger. Dennis hates it.)
By the time they make it back to the house, the sharp edge of irritation has dulled, fading away with the water and the movement. And now, what’s left in its place is the mortifying clarity of his actions.
He shrugs off his coat, head low as he hangs it up and kicks off his shoes, doing everything in his power to fight the way his eyes are burning with hot tears before he follows Jack into the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurts, voice cracking as soon as he steps over the threshold, “I didn’t mean to snap at you two, I swear. I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to be rude, I just— I don’t know what came over me.”
Jack is across the room in two steps, arms opening without hesitation. Robby following just as quickly. Dennis barely has time to register it before he’s being pulled into Jack’s embrace, the man so warm and solid and safe. He presses his forehead into Jack’s shoulder, and he feels Robby’s hand settle firm and steady between his shoulder blades.
It’s reminiscent of the night before, which only makes Dennis’ chest burn worse.
“It’s okay, Mouse,” Jack murmurs. “Hey, don’t cry. It’s okay.”
Dennis hiccups, and he squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can, a few tears escaping him as they soak into Jack’s shirt.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. That wasn’t you. You weren’t rude on purpose.”
Dennis sniffles, humiliated and overwhelmed all at once. “I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be — to be rude you.”
“You weren’t,” Robby says immediately, “that’s why we made you check your sugars, hyperglycaemia does that to you, it’s not your fault.”
Jack squeezes him gently. “Besides, it’s nice to see that you’ve got a bit of brat in you. I’ve never seen you give anyone lip before.”
That makes Dennis laugh despite himself, a wet sort of sniffly thing, and he feels Jack’s own rumble of a chuckle through his chest.
“Yankl,” Robby says admonishingly, but Dennis can hear the smile in his voice.
Dennis stays there a few minutes longer than he probably should before he pulls away, wiping his face with his hand.
There’s a wet patch on Jack’s shirt, but before he can even open his mouth to apologise, Jack grins. “Cute.”
Dennis feels himself flush, and his cheeks only burn brighter as Robby gently turns him, one hand on his shoulder, the other coming up to wipe at the corner of Dennis’ eye with his thumb. “You okay?”
Dennis nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice if he tries to speak, and Robby smiles approvingly.
“Good,” Jack gestures back toward the table. “Come on, you know the drill.”
Dennis does.
The hand on his shoulder stays longer than it should.
Dennis doesn’t complain.