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From the moment the sensor deploys, Dennis has a nasty feeling that something is wrong.
He’s had sensors fail on him before, but usually only after a couple of days, where they’ve fallen off or he’s knocked them or they’ve just decided to kick the bucket out of the blue. He’s been lucky with them so far, with all of them starting up at least with no issues.
He activates it once it’s secure, watching the app whir as the countdown begins.
It’s his first time trying this brand, given that his stupid insurance apparently has decided they’ll no longer cover the tax on the brand he’d gotten fucking used to. It’s not like it’s that big a price gap, given that Jack and Robby still insist on paying, but it’s enough that it frustrated Dennis enough that he refused to discuss it and had very pointedly decided to try the ones his insurance would cover.
He regrets that now.
It’s Robby’s day off, but he insists on driving Dennis in, kissing him in the car as he hands him his coffee.
“Text me if you need anything.”
Dennis rolls his eyes, but it’s nothing other than affectionate, and he ducks down to kiss Robby again.
“I won’t.”
He checks his monitoring app a couple of times, but the sensor takes an hour to adjust before he can see his readings, and the countdown just stares at him.
Whatever.
He gets through handover just fine, then in typical Pitt fashion is suddenly rushed so off of his feet he doesn’t get a second to check again.
He forgets about it, actually, until he’s midway through a secondary survey on a trauma patient, when suddenly his phone goes off.
It’s a sharp, unmistakable noise, and it makes his stomach drop before his brain can catch up.
Low.
He doesn’t actually feel low though, he feels fine, actually. He’s not shaking, he’s not dizzy, he’s not sweating, he feels astoundingly normal for once.
Still, he finishes assessing his patient and steps back, slipping his phone out of his pocket just enough to surreptitiously check his sugar levels.
52 mg/dL, trending down.
Really?
He doesn’t feel that low in the slightest.
Still, he’s more than aware of how quickly a low can sneak up on him, so as soon as he can he excuses himself and ducks into the staff room, snagging the testing machine that has taken up residence in the staff first aid cupboard. The fact that it’s there for him is nice, really nice, because it means everyone knows where it is when he needs it, but the very fact of having to do a finger prick is annoying.
The lancet bites, and he winces, squeezing out a droplet of blood and holding it up to the test strip.
The monitor whirs, then beeps.
He’s perfectly fine.
He knows that it can take a good forty eight hours for his sensor to settle sometimes, but he’s never really had it struggle to read for longer than twelve before. In fact, on his old brand, it never really took longer than three.
Whatever.
He wipes the blood on his scrubs, and heads back out.
Ten minutes later his phone alerts again.
Low.
He groans, closing his eyes for a moment as he tips his forehead towards, his skin making contact with the metal of the computer.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He checks his phone again. Same thing. Low. Arrows pointed down. His reading flashing red.
62, this time.
He doesn’t have time for this.
The Pitt is loud and busy and chaotic and they’re understaffed with Robby’s absence, and he can’t afford to keep disappearing because a piece of plastic has decided to lie to him.
He mutes the alert.
Ten minutes later it beeps again.
This time when he checks, it doesn’t even give him a reading, it just says ‘SENSOR ERROR’.
He clicks on the scan button and taps it against his arm, waiting until his phone buzzes.
‘GLUCOSE READINGS PAUSED’
Oh for god’s sake. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious there was an error, given the way it’s been making up his readings all day, but it’s still beyond aggravating to see it declaring it so boldly.
He scans the little warning message, then sighs. He can’t really afford to wait ten minutes to check again, he needs to have a sensor he can rely on.
Whatever.
He tucks his phone back into his pocket, and carries on with whatever he’s doing.
It’s a half hour before he gets the time to check again, and when he does, the same error message displays, and he has to fight the instinctive urge to throw his phone across the room.
He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh that earns him a look from Perlah.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he says automatically, waving a hand. “Just… technology fucking me up.”
She nods and turns back to her work.
Dennis checks his sugars again anyway, because he doesn’t trust himself not to.
It’s normal, again.
His fingertips sting, little pinprick bruises reminding him of his technology issues every time he touches fucking anything.
It pisses him off.
It’s not like anyone particularly likes finger pricks, but he just is so sick of it right now, all of his fingers bruised and painful and he doesn’t want to have to do it again if he can help it, but he knows he will.
His sensor reconnects again after a little while, just long enough to inform him of the fact his sugars are now apparently 44, before it just displays the error message again.
For fucks sake.
By hour three, he’s actually just annoyed, gritting his teeth every time his phone buzzes which is apparently every single fucking minute.
He keeps swiping the alerts away, keeps checking the app, hoping it might have magically sorted itself out.
It hasn’t.
He doesn’t have a spare sensor on him, he barely has fucking time to pee, let alone rip this one off and go through the hassle of setting a new one up.
And he’s not fucking low.
He knows he’s not.
But the constant alarms buzzing telling him he’s about to die are starting to get under his skin, setting his nerves on edge, because he knows he can’t trust his own instincts, he’s only been diabetic for a couple of months, he’s not got some sort of instinctive blood sugar monitor in his brain and he knows highs and lows can alter his thoughts in the wrong way.
But he knows he’s not low.
By the time he ducks into the staff room to do his sixth finger prick in four hours, his hands are shaking — not because he’s low, but because he’s so fucking annoyed.
“Stop,” he mutters at his monitor, as if it can hear him. “Just — stop.”
It throws another SENSOR ERROR at him in response.
He has to fist his scrubs to stop from ripping the damn thing off.
Then, something occurs to him.
It’s completely not the cause of his issues, not in any way, but he is wearing a new dressing to protect his monitor, and if there’s any way he can avoid having to change it and fill out the request form for a new one, he’ll do it.
He carefully tugs the dressing off, careful not to dislodge his treacherous sensor, and throws it at the bin.
It doesn’t help.
He checks ten minutes later, then again in twenty, then again an hour later, when he finally gets a fucking second to breathe after a nasty trauma call.
He slumps back against the counter as the patient is wheeled away to the morgue, the back of his eyes burning, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
He feels ridiculous for how upset he is, but the frustration is sharp and overwhelming. Diabetes is already so much work. So many decisions. So much constant vigilance.
And tonight, the one thing that’s supposed to make it easier is making everything so much harder.
He shoves his phone back into his pocket and straightens up, scrubbing at his face with the palm of his hand before he schools his expression back to something neutral before he goes back out.
He’ll deal with it later, he tells himself. He’ll fix it when the shift is over. He just has to get through.
But as soon as he steps back out onto the ER floor, back into the noise and the commotion and the chaos, his phone buzzes again.
Low. Sensor error. Low.
The thin rope inside of him frays further, he’s so tired and he’s so stretched thin and he’s so dangerously close to snapping. He takes a deep breath, and carries on.
He has to.
Robby notices, because of course he does.
He’s at home, reading the newspaper on the sofa with a coffee next to him, AirPods in to keep from disturbing Jack who’s still asleep before his Night Shift.
He’s fairly sure his coffee has gone cold, so unfamiliar with actually drinking it without chugging it that he’s forgotten how long it even stays warm for, when he checks his phone reflexively. He always checks Dennis’ sugar when he can, refreshing the app out of habit.
He frowns.
No data.
He refreshes it. Waits.
Still nothing — just an empty, greyed-out space where Dennis’ numbers should be.
SENSOR ERROR.
Robby’s chest tightens. He checks the time stamps. LOW. SENSOR ERROR. LOW. LOW. SENSOR ERROR.
He tries again.
Nothing.
He doesn’t even hesitate, pulling up Dennis’ contact as he calls him.
Dennis answers on the third ring, breathing a little faster than Robby would like, and he can hear the chaos of the Pitt humming around his partner.
“What?” Dennis snaps.
That’s not exactly the greeting he was expecting.
Robby blinks, momentarily wrong-footed.
“Hey — hi, Mouse. I just wanted to check in — your sensor’s not reading on my end. Are you okay?”
There’s a beat. Then Dennis exhales hard, a frustrated, brittle sound.
“No, actually,” he says. “It’s being a piece of shit.”
Robby softens instantly. “Okay. Talk to me sweetheart.”
“It keeps saying I’m low when I’m not,” Dennis says, words tumbling over each other now that he’s finally started, unloading his frustrations of the past six hours. “Then it errors out, then it screams at me again, and it’s wrong, it’s constantly fucking wrong. I’ve checked — like, ten times. My fingers hurt, Robby, and I don’t have time to keep doing this and it keeps buzzing and—”
His voice cracks just slightly on the last word.
Robby can see it too easily: Dennis standing somewhere cramped and loud, hiding away from the worst of the hubbub as he speaks, trying his best to keep his cool.
“Okay,” Robby says gently. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not,” Dennis snaps back, sharper now. “I know you’re trying to help but there’s literally nothing you can do and it’s hurting having to take a fingerprick all the fucking time and it won’t read and I can’t change it here and I just—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.
For a second, Robby says nothing. He lets the silence sit, there’s probably nothing he can say, in fact there definitely isn’t anything he can say. He’s not lived this life, he can only sympathise with him really.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”
Dennis swallows on the other end of the line. Robby can hear it.
“I didn’t mean to—” Dennis starts, then stops, clearly struggling to get his tone back under control. “I’m just… I’m really frustrated. I didn’t mean to shout at you.”
Robby can hear him moving, then a door closes behind him and it’s suddenly quieter around him.
“I know,” Robby says. “That’s fine, I know it sucks but you don’t have to be alright with it.”
Dennis laughs weakly, but he just sounds tired. “It keeps alerting me like I’m about to die, and I’m literally fine. It’s driving me insane.”
“Have you got your meter on you?” Robby asks.
“Yes,” Dennis says, immediately defensive. “I’ve been checking — I told you. I’m not ignoring it and actually going low.”
“I know,” Robby says again, tone a little firmer. “I trust you, Dennis. But I just need to know you’re safe, okay? If I can’t see your sugars or you then I worry, okay?”
There’s another pause. There’s a little bit of background noise, and Robby’s fairly sure Dennis has sat down before his voice comes back quieter, thinner, clearly worn down.
“I’m safe. I promise.”
Robby exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “Okay. Then here’s what we’ll do. You keep doing finger checks as needed to. It’s annoying as hell, I know, sweetheart, but when you get home, we’ll take that sensor off and replace it. Or throw it directly into the sun.”
That earns him a real laugh, soft and shaky.
“God, please.”
“And if your readings start actually matching your symptoms,” Robby adds, “you call me. Immediately.” He hesitates. Dennis is clearly frustrated, and Robby knows how he gets when he feels out of control, especially with his blood sugar. He tries something.
“And you keep your attitude a little sweeter please.”
It’s a gamble, telling Dennis what to do like this when his anger is entirely justified, but Robby’s fairly sure he’s read his partner’s mood right, and that his firm hand won’t be a further aggravator but, in fact, the reminder that he needs that his partners are here for him, and are more than willing to take control if needs.
He thinks he’s got it right… but also if Dennis snaps at him again then he does very much deserve it.
But he doesn’t. There’s a beat, then Dennis hums, suddenly a little sheepish. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I just… my phone won’t stop buzzing, I just… it was reflexive anger, not at you.”
Robby smiles despite himself. “I forgive you sweetheart, you’re okay. How are your sugars, you okay?”
He hears Dennis shrug. “Normal. Maybe a little high.”
“Good.”
There’s a moment of quiet between them.
“I’ll come check on you if you want later on,” Robby says finally. “And if not, Jack’s on later. You’re not doing this alone, okay?”
Dennis’ voice is softer now. “Please don’t come here. But yeah, okay.”
“Okay,” Robby echoes. “Hang in there, Mouse.”
He hangs up, and checks the app again — still nothing.
The rest of his shift just… sucks.
Every single damn time he checks his phone, it’s the same thing.
LOW.
SENSOR ERROR.
LOW.
CHECK SENSOR.
He’s checked his sugar more times than he can count, more times than he would even if he wasn’t wearing a sensor, his instinct to double check his sensor working against him.
Every single finger prick says he’s completely fine. Slightly high, even.
Completely unremarkable.
It’s clear everyone has picked up on how stressed he is, and they keep trying to be nice about it.
Princess tries first.
“It might just need time.” She soothes, rubbing his forearm reassuringly. “Have some water Whitaker, just relax.”
Dennis forces a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”
He does have some water, but it doesn’t really help. There’s nothing a sip of water can do to fix his faulty fucking monitor.
Dana tries, she offers him a snack from the little basket they keep in the drawer of the nursing station, but he turns them down. He’s already trending high, and he’s so stressed that he’s not hungry, and pushing himself higher isn’t exactly what he wants right now.
Mateo also tries to comfort him, but it’s clear he’s got no experience when it comes to diabetes and his good intentions are appreciated, if a little frustrating, because his attempt at reassuring him comes in the form of a new jokes and a slap on the back. Sweet, but unhelpful. A few of the others share their two cents, but none of it helps, because none of it fixes the irritation buzzing under his skin or the pit in his stomach every time he thinks about how much that sensor cost, or the fact that none of them understand diabetes and the emotional toil of it all.
He smiles and thanks them as best he can, but it doesn’t help.
It just doesn’t.
Jack comes in an hour early.
To anyone who asks, it’s because he just wants to get ahead of the night and prepare himself for the shit to come.
That’s not the truth though.
Robby told him everything as soon as he woke up, and as he walks into the Pitt floor it becomes immediately obvious that Dennis is having a day.
There’s a general wariness to everyone around him, and in the tension in his jaw, his clipped one-word answers that has everyone exchanging a look when he walks away.
Jack can see him from across the ER floor, absently pressing at the spot on his arm where his sensor sits, as if pushing it further into the interstitial space will make it finally decide to cooperate.
Obviously it doesn’t.
He clocks Dennis instantly though, and what looks like brittle frustration isn’t just that, but upset, and maybe a little hurt too. Jack can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his posture, the irritation practically rolling off of him as he absently touches his sensor.
“You alright, Mouse?” Jack asks quietly, catching Dennis between patients as he bustles about the Pitt, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. It stops him enough for his question to sink in, stops Dennis just outright ignoring him which Jack suspects he’d try if he could right now.
“I’m fine,” Dennis says, too fast. “Just busy.”
Jack doesn’t buy it for a second.
Five minutes later, Jack nudges open the door to a supply closet and catches his boyfriend by the waist, gently steering Dennis inside before he can object. The door clicks shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the Pitt.
As soon as he’s no longer rushing about, Dennis sags back against the wall and exhales wearily, so clearly exhausted.
“Okay, Mouse” Jack says calmly. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
Dennis runs a hand through his hair, then immediately drops it, frustrated. “My sensor’s fucked, and today has fucking sucked, and I hate having diabetes and I — sorry — I just — ” He stops, visibly reigning himself in. “It won’t read properly and it keeps telling me I’m low, then it just says error and sensor failure and I can’t fix it.” Dennis finishes, voice tight. “And I can’t change it until I get home, ‘cause I don’t have the supplies on me now, and I keep having to finger-prick which fucking hurts and—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “They’re just so stupidly expensive. I can’t just… waste one because it decided to shit itself as soon as I fucking put it on.”
Jack listens without interrupting, arms folded loosely, he obviously heard this all already from Robby, Dennis knows that, but he just needs to get it all out of his system.
“Okay,” Jack says finally, steady. “Yeah. I’d be pissed too, Mouse”
Dennis blinks, thrown off by the immediate validation. It’s not like he shouldn’t have expected it, but given Robby’s reaction earlier… honestly he’s not sure what he expected. He’s tired, and mad, and thinking isn’t going all that well for him right now.
“I snapped at Robby,” he admits, guilt creeping in now that the adrenaline has nowhere left to go. “He called to check on me earlier because he wasn’t getting readings and I just — I shouldn’t have. He was just worried and I was just… mad.”
Jack huffs a small, fond breath. “Well he’s not mad at you, so don’t be mad at yourself. We might be old and stupid but we do get it. Besides, he’s built to worry, my fault, I’ve stressed him out more than enough for one lifetime with my bullshit.”
That gets the faintest twitch of a smile out of Dennis.
Jack steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “You’re not doing anything wrong though, you know that right? Yeah it sucks that your sensor failed, and yeah it’s frustrating when you’ve learnt to rely on it, but one day you might go low without it working properly and you did everything you were supposed to, you told us, you checked your sugars manually, you paid attention to your body and you managed to work the whole way through. Think about it this way Mouse, would you a month ago have been able to do that?”
Dennis swallows. “It just feels like I’m bad at this, all the time. I know I’m better than I was but… this sucks, diabetes sucks, I just want to go about my day and not worry about almost dying. I know I work in an ER but what about when I’m not at work? What about when I’m not surrounded by people who know I’m diabetic? What do I do then?”
Jack’s posture shifts, and he sighs, reaching out to touch Dennis’ shoulder.
“Mouse. Look at me.”
Dennis does.
“You went from being pretty severely ill to managing a chronic illness in the middle of one of the most chaotic emergency departments in the city, without complaining or bitching or even remotely letting it get to you. You have coped so much better than anyone else would have, better than me or Robby or anyone in this stupid hospital, okay? You have worked so hard, and it’s okay to be frustrated when the kit you need to keep you alive fails on you. Don’t ever feel bad for getting upset, this sucks. All of this sucks, okay? I can’t lie to you about that. But we learn and we manage and we grow, okay? I’m glad you told me that you’re feeling like this.”
Dennis’ shoulders sag, tension bleeding out of him as Jack talks.
“I just hate that it’s so much effort,” Dennis says, softer. “And that I can feel myself failing. I’m so tired of constantly having to decide how to save my own life, and then when shit like this happens it feels — it feels like it’s my fault somehow. Like — did I put it on wrong? Did I fuck up somehow?”
Jack reaches out, pulling Dennis into his arms.
Dennis goes easily, collapsing into his embrace.
“Mouse, you know it isn’t. I don’t know how to make this easier for you, and I wish I did. I’m sorry there’s not more I can say.”
Dennis tucks his face into Jack’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes tight shut.
He’s dangerously close to tears all of a sudden, so exhausted and worn out from everything.
“Okay,” he says. “Sorry for being… a dick.”
Jack smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to the hair above Dennis’ ear. “Apology accepted sweetheart. But next time? Tell me sooner. Or Robby. Or literally anyone. You don’t have to fight against your sensor when we can bring you a new one. So what if it’s expensive? Robby and I will pay, we’ve made that clear. I’ll buy you a million fucking sensors if you want, okay? We can go back to the old brand, fuck your insurance, it literally does not matter.”
Dennis sighs. “I know. I know. Thank you..”
Jack squeezes him tightly before he releases him and steps back.
“Good. You need anything for the last hour? Water, food? A kiss?”
Dennis smiles at that, “if one more person tells me to drink some water I’ll kill them and myself… but I’ll take a kiss.”
Jack happily obliges, and when Dennis breaks away he looks so much calmer than before.
He checks his phone one more time before they return to the Pitt, just to make sure.
SENSOR FAILED. ‘This sensor has shut itself down for your safety, please apply a new sensor.’
Dennis sighs, dragging a hand across his face.
Jack tilts his head, and Dennis turns his phone screen around.
“Well. It’s fully broke, so what does it even matter anymore?”
Jack smiles sympathetically, then hooks Dennis’ sleeve up, inspecting the plastic device. “Can I take it off for you?”
Dennis considers it for a moment, then sighs, then nods, holding his arm up.
It doesn’t hurt too bad, but he still winces as Jack peels off the adhesive.
His partner holds it up to the light once it’s off, turning it over in his hand. “Ah, there we go. The cannula’s broken Mouse,” he says softly. “That’s why it wouldn’t read. Definitely not your fault.”
Dennis just groans though, snatching the stupid device out of Jack’s hand.
“I’m not even sure I care anymore. I’ll do the stupid return form later.”
The last hour passes with a surprising ease, and despite how naked Dennis feels with a monitor on, he feels like he can breathe a little easier without its incessant alarms. He’ll be fine until he gets home, and as soon as he does, his blood sugar is entirely in Robby’s hands.
He’s done for the day.