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If Dennis sat down and honestly thought about it, he’d probably come to the conclusion that this habit started when he was still a kid.
Admittedly, his memories of childhood were cloudy at best. At worst, he wasn’t sure if some things actually happened, or whether he made them up. Or had a dream about them and internalised it as real. That’s something people do sometimes, right? Especially since his parents couldn’t seem to remember them when he brought them up.
Regardless, it would still randomly come back to him. Sometimes.
He couldn’t be older than ten. Coming home from school to all of his belongings trashed all over his tiny bedroom’s floor; marbles scattered under the desk, crayons and school supplies out of the boxes, clothes hanging out of the closet, like they’d been pulled out and discarded mid-motion, mid-thought.
Upon witnessing it, Dennis would also turn into a mess; red faced and sobbing and stammering. (“Crying won’t save you”. He’d hear this a lot growing up. It never quite sat right with him.)
With Ma behind his back, telling him to not even think of coming downstairs until he’s done cleaning it up. He couldn’t recall her tone, but she had to have said something like that: that he brought this upon himself, that if he kept it clean in the first place, she wouldn’t have to have done this. Something along those lines had to be said, because otherwise… otherwise it was his fault. Otherwise, it didn’t make sense, that this kernel has stuck between his ribs for as long as it did.
When Ma was gone, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to stop the tears. He imagined this was how caged up wild animals must feel. Something vulnerable and wide eyed, curled up behind his sternum; ears flat, gnawing on his lungs and ribs, convinced Something was watching, even after the doors to his bedroom slammed shut behind him. Ready to run at any moment, even though there was nothing to run from… or to.
Dennis didn’t wait any longer for himself to stop crying. While the faucet still ran, he crouched down and started picking up broken crayons off the floor.
He had to fix it. Then she’ll forgive him.
Then she’ll love him again.
***
There were times when living with Robby and Jack felt a little too good to be true; in a way that often snuck up on Whitaker, so that he didn’t even realise how damn nice he felt until the moment passed.
He’d never expect to slot right in between their established routine with as much ease as he did; as if there was a space missing in their lives, and he took up just enough for a snug fit.
A space in bed between their bodies, perfect for him to snuggle into; sandwiched by warm arms and chests and stomachs without question. One of them would tug him in without looking, like it was an innate instinct already.
A space on the kitchen counter, between the wall and the chopping block. Ideal for him to perch on and watch them move around each other; the same way they would do at work, but without the weight of stress pulling on their shoulders. Sometimes (often) he’d reach out, catch one of them by the wrist or the collar and trap his hapless victim between his legs for a kiss while they grumbled half-heartedly about whatever was on the stove potentially burning. (Over seventy five percent of accidents occur at home, Den.)
A space that, once taken up by him, meant there was always somebody home, always filling it with something humming in the background; voices, movement, the quiet, steady sounds of life. A soothing balm after spending days and nights in the ED, which was perpetually filled with sounds of, well. Death.
A life filled with so much softness that Dennis couldn’t help but unconsciously brace himself for the impact of it collapsing under his feet.
There were days when he was sure he could hear cracks forming; when he felt like a dog perking up at the slightest sound, restless energy buzzing right underneath his skin. Some days that feeling was organic; clinging to his skin when he woke up. Today was not one of those days.
The kitchen was already occupied when he wandered in, still half-asleep, drawn in by the smell of coffee. Mornings when the attendings passed each other at home instead of at work weren’t exactly a rarity, but he still liked being there to witness them. They were both fully dressed; Robby ready to go, Jack ready to crash.
“Mornin’.” Dennis’ voice was a raspy hum, a rock thrown into a still lake.
Robby grunted something that came close to a coherent reply, and Jack seemed too preoccupied popping off his prosthetic to realise Dennis even walked in. Once his back straightened, Abbot shot the younger man a smile that poorly masked the pain as his fingers started working over the joint.
It wasn’t… anything. Nothing violently out of the ordinary. Just the air being a little off. It was fine.
Instead of sitting down, Dennis rested his hip on the door frame; trying not to hover as he observed Jack’s worn out hands massage the joint. He knew that on easier days, if you could call any day in the PTMC easier, the man didn’t even bother going through the whole routine. But there were also mornings like this, where he wouldn’t be able to collapse and sleep through the aches even if he really wanted to.
“D’you want-” Whitaker stepped closer, hand mid-raise.
Jack tensed. “Don’t.”
It came out faster, less gentle than he probably intended it to. He winced, as if he knew that as well. “Just- give me a moment, okay pup?”
Dennis nodded, even though no one was watching, took a step back as if he burnt his hand. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Yeah.”
He turned towards the counter instead, for something to do with his hands - something useful - but instead he very much uselessly caught his elbow on the sugar container placed precariously close to the edge. He gasped the way he always did seconds before a disaster struck as the dish hit the floor, with a surprisingly dull crack of ceramic against tiles.
“- for fuck’s sake.”
Robby’s voice wasn’t loud, it wasn’t even particularly upset. It was just drained, and the impression was further punctuated by a hand coming up to his face, pressing briefly against his eyes.
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitfuckshitfuck.
Dennis froze for a moment, staring at the mess beneath him.
It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. He thought about things Jack's therapist told him (at some point they should stop calling her that, given that literally all three of them were going to her... but that day was not today.)
If something was a big problem, they’d tell you. It’s not always about you.
Right.
“Just- watch yourself next time.” Robby said with an exhale.
Right.
He crouched on the ground, picking out what was left of the sugar dish. It split in three, almost equal chunks, with seemingly no other pieces hidden in the pile. Okay. He could put it back together later, surely.
Sugar clung to his skin and got under his nails in a way that made him want to bite them (even though he was supposed to be working on dropping that habit).
Above his head, Robby reached out for the coffee jar, putting it away to a cabinet - safe from any accidental elbows.
“I should get moving,” he said, stretching out. “Don’t set the house on fire while I’m gone.” It was meant to be humorous, but it sounded plainly exhausted, and that just made the buzz under Dennis’ surface louder, his nape covered in pinpricks when the older man gave it a squeeze as he passed by.
“Lock the door after me!” And then he was gone.
Once he left, Jack pat Whitaker on the head. “Hey.”
Still crouched, he turned to look up.
“All good?”
A nod, a tight lipped smile. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He got up from his seat and made his way towards the bedroom. “If anything, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah.”
***
What was left of the sugar made it into a tupperware container left on the dish rack. He scrubbed his hands and under his nails until he stopped feeling sticky. It wasn’t a big deal.
A slow exhale left his nose as he picked up the broken ceramic. The pieces came together easily enough; three clean breaks, if he pressed hard enough one wouldn’t be able to tell he ever broke it at all. Nothing unsalvageable. It wasn’t a big deal. Michael didn’t sound angry. Just tired. It’s fine. Not everything is about you.
He just needed some glue. Dennis moved to the drawers by the sink. The first one held cutlery, he wasn’t sure why he even bothered checking. Second - miscellaneous crap, batteries, a loose screwdriver, a roll of tape that barely had any stick, a clothes roller. No glue. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just bad timing. Jack had a long shift, he was already hurting, it wasn’t his fault. If something was a problem, they’d tell you.
He checked the cabinet above, stretching onto his toes to be greeted by condiments and jars. Nope. The next one. Cleaning supplies, half-empty bottles, vaguely chemical smell, sponges and paper towels. He could fix it before either of them had to think about it again.
Dennis hesitated with his hand still resting on the cabinet door. He could check the entrance chest of drawers. Or the bedroom… no. Jack was trying to sleep. No point in bugging him over something this small.
He could just go out and buy a tube. It wasn’t far. Ten minutes, maybe less if he hurried up. Just not yet, too early. The store was still closed.
It wasn’t a big deal. He could fix it later.
Raising his hand to once again chew on his cuticles, his eyes landed on the counter again. There was a faint dusting of sugar farther away, caught in the seam where the surface met the wall. He hadn't caught that earlier. He reached for the cloth again, folding it over. Once. Twice. Pressing it into the corner with surgical precision. Some of the grains dissolved under the damp fabric, leaving behind a thin, sticky residue that he removed with two more long, careful swipes. There. Clean.
A pause.
There were hard water stains on the sink. The faucet, the basin, the handles.
He should clean it up.
***
Jack passed by him twice as Dennis busied himself. He’s had a glorious three days off ahead, so he’d always take back more of his sleep whenever that happened. On his second pass, he pointed Dennis to where they kept superglue (tucked between a flashlight and a half empty pack of batteries in one of the bathroom cabinets… for some reason).
The dish came together almost as easily as it broke. If you weren’t looking super closely, you wouldn’t notice the seams.
No big deal.
***
The front door opened and shut with a click and a groan of unoiled hinges.
“Hey.” Robby’s voice called from the doorstep, with a bit of an unoiled creak of its own. Jack answered him from the living room, something that might’ve been a greeting. From just the cadence of his voice Robby could tell he was significantly more alive than he was in the morning.
He shrugged off his jacket and backpack with a long sigh. The air in the house was warm, clean-smelling but not antiseptic, the way it smelled in the ED.
Jack cranked his head back hearing his footsteps from where it was resting on the side of the couch. He didn’t bother putting his prosthetic back on, and the state of his hair suggested he just woke up from a nap. A low battery mode day. (“Lazy” suggests negative connotations. A low battery suggests you’re recovering. Language you use in your head matters, Robby. Thank you, Jack’s therapist.) Jack stretched and yawned, his head rolling to the side.
“Long day?”
“You know it.” They both knew it.
Robby all but crumpled on top of Jack, heavy, seeking out touch. Physical affection was both a language and a drug to him, loosening his limbs and cradling the heaviness that built up in his chest over the years, lifting it up. Abbot was well aware of it, and almost always responded to his husband’s need for it, even in the smallest of ways.
Jack tilted his head just to bump their temples together, like a contented, old tomcat.
“Welcome home.”
“Mmm.” Robby closed his eyes for a moment when Jack’s fingers reached his scalp, scratching gently. “Den’s studying?”
“I think so? Seemed a bit restless in the morning. Done a bunch of chores, though he didn’t have to. But I think he’s back in the books.” Another head tilt, this time to expose his good ear towards the rest of the house.
“Den?” No response.
They shared a look.
“I’ll go get him.”
***
Robby found him by the kitchen table. Flash cards in neat little piles, a printout of a textbook spilling from its binder. The room was unusually tidy.
“Hey pup.” Robby’s voice was softer now.
Dennis looked up quickly, like he’d been caught. “Oh- hi.”
Normally, that would’ve been all before Dennis would’ve gotten up already, crossing the room without thinking about it, slotting himself into Robby’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn’t move.
Just stayed where he was, eyes escaping back onto his studying materials. Nails of one hand scraping against a torn cuticle on the other.
Robby’s temple rested against the doorframe, where he remained. “You hiding in here?”
“Nah.” Too quick, a touch too loud. “Just, studying.” He elected to ignore Robby’s unconvinced uh huh. “How was it today?”
“Same as always.” Robby leaned a hip against the table, close enough now that it would’ve been easy - normal, even - to reach out, to pull him closer, to touch. “Seems like that guy with a collarbone fracture from yesterday will pull through without issues after all. He didn’t try to bite anyone today, either.”
His gaze wandered to the uncannily clean counter, and the ceramic dish drying on top of it, next to the window. “Oh, you put the sugar jar back together.” He moved to take a closer look, and on his way - nonchalantly, in passing - brushed his lips against the top of Dennis’ head.
He tensed for just a brief moment, before tilting back to look at Robby's face.
“I mean, yeah. I elbowed it, so I fixed it. It only makes sense.”
Robby hummed, turning the dish slightly in his hands, inspecting the seams where the cracks were. Setting it down, his eyes travelled to Whitaker’s shredded nails, taking note of them before they moved on to realise just how pristine the kitchen was.
“You’ve been busy today, huh?”
A shrug. “Just, had the time.”
“Mm.” The older man pushed himself off the table to stand straight. “C’mon,” he said, reaching a hand out to him, “Jack’s hogging the couch.”
Dennis looked at the offered hand for a moment, as if waiting for it to do something, before he took it.
***
When they made it back to the living room, Jack had pulled him down without any further questions, an arm slung around his waist as he adjusted him into something more comfortable, running hot against Whitaker’s side. Robby pressed in from the other side a moment later, hoodie discarded, knee nudging Dennis’. He was perpetually cold, always sliding hands under his partners’ clothes, heatseeking. Between them, it was easy to reach an almost perfect equilibrium.
Dennis went still for a moment, before forcing himself to relax. It was fine. Oh God, how stupid. It really wasn’t a big deal. They love him. It IS fine. He manually made his shoulders droop, like he was remembering how to be close to them instead of just… doing it.
“Hi there.” Jack’s voice was a purr of an old animal, a soothing vibration against the young man’s temple as he pulled himself close with the arm he had around him. Nosing against soft skin and leaving an open mouthed kiss on it. They were effectively all leaning on Robby, and subsequently, the corner of the couch. This was good.
The room was freshly aired out, some renovation show playing quietly on the TV. (Both of the attendings hated complete silence. He understood it without them ever really addressing it.) It was good.
“Hi.” Dennis echoed, letting his eyes slip close under the comforting weight of their attention on him. The scared little animal clutching onto his ribs relaxed its hold, sniffing the couple around him. Not entirely convinced yet.
On instinct, his thumb wandered to the torn cuticle on his index finger, worrying it in little repetitive scratches.
Robby didn’t let it slip this time. When the movement repeated one too many times to be nothing, his fingers laced with Dennis’ giving his hand a squeeze before it moved to take a hold of his wrist. A gesture with little to no force behind it.
“You’re just gonna make it worse.” He pointed out, and Dennis almost laughed at the effort Robby was putting in to not use his Doctor Voice. A thumb brushed over the reddened skin, gentle against the oversensitivity. Jack moved his head from where it was resting on his shoulder. His hair tickled Whitaker’s ear when he took a hold of his hand as well. They were similarly weathered, with Robby’s being the biggest. The back of Jack’s palm was sprinkled in freckles. (It’s like you were dipped in brown sugar. It’s endearing.)
Dennis felt an urge to squirm away. He felt perceived.
“You’ve been at those all day, puppy?” Abbot’s voice lilted at the petname.
Robby pulled them in just a little closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly against Dennis’. His free hand came up, settling at the back of his neck. A dog grabbed by a scruff. Except he doesn’t feel scolded.
“Kitchen’s spotless,” Robby said, almost idle.
“Yeah.”
“Like, really spotless.”
“… Yeah.” thinner, less convinced.
The steady pattern of Jack stroking Dennis’ palm didn’t change, but it did become firmer. Feeling rather than just touching.
Robby gave his nape one more squeeze before moving to catch his chin. “Den, look at me for a second.”
His head obediently followed the push, but he wasn’t able to fully look Michael in the eyes. Dark brown and kind. Kindly burrowing, seeing right through Whitaker’s avoidant nonsense. “What’s all this about, baby?”
After running through every other option in his mind, he finally settled on, “Nothing.” Unconvincing even to him. His fingers twitched in Jack’s hold, like he wanted to pull away.
“Mhm.” A sardonic hum vibrated against his shoulder.
“It’s stupid, it’s not a big deal.”
“Walk us through it anyway.” Robby remained patient, gently petting his cheek and jaw. A soothing, repetitive motion that kept him from folding in on himself entirely. Dennis huffed, small and frustrated, almost childish, his head tipping forward under Robby’s hand.
“It’s just- ugh.” His face scrunched, like the words were physically painful and too gross to get out. “In the morning. Jack said- not to touch.” His eyes found their intertwined hands again. “And then I. I knocked the sugar thing over.”
A soft sigh, without a shred of annoyance behind it.
“And I fixed it, you couldn’t even tell it broke. But - and yeah, now it’s not a problem anymore.”
“But?”
“I just - I felt like I made it worse.” He hated that he couldn’t stop his voice from wavering. “You two were already…” he gestured vaguely, “and then I added shit on top of it. Stress.”
“You didn’t.” Jack’s answer was immediate, quiet but soaked in so much conviction it was hard not to believe him.
“I know.” Logically, he knew.
“Do you, though?” Yes. Just not in the way that mattered.
He officially ran out of ways to avoid saying it. “I just wanted to… make up for it, I guess.” his voice was even smaller. “If I fix it, then it won’t have to be a thing.”
“Den.” he couldn’t quite read Robby’s tone. Exasperation? Devastation? “Baby, it wasn’t a thing to begin with.” Baby. The way he said it made him want to melt into both of them. Crawl into one of their chests and curl up there forever. Or just, be cuddled so closely it would feel like the same thing.
“... I know.” It wasn’t a big deal. Except it felt like it was.
“No one’s mad at you.”
“I know.”
“No, look at me.” Robby’s hand slid from his chin to cup his jaw more fully, thumb brushing once along the line of it before nudging him back up. Despite Robby’s cold hands, he was surrounded by so much warmth. It was hard for Dennis to maintain eye contact, still wanting to escape. “You don’t have to earn being here.”
“God knows we make more of a mess just by the virtue of being alive.” Jack huffed, pulling Whitaker close, folding him into his lap, back to chest, squeezing him like an oversized child with an equally oversized teddy bear. That got a laugh out of Dennis, made brighter by Jack nuzzling into his shoulder.
Michael sat up facing them, so close the youngest man was truly trapped in the middle. Held in a way that there wasn’t a single easy way out of it that didn’t involve actively pushing them away.
“Ha.” he rolled his eyes, landing on Jack before returning his attention to Whitaker. “You’re allowed to just… Live here. Even on bad mornings. Even when you knock shit over.”
Jack tightened his arms around Dennis from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. So close, he could feel the man nodding in agreement.
“...I love you. Both of you.” He needed to hear it back. It was stupid, maybe, probably, but he needed it. He reached out to them, both of them, grasping onto the hand around his waist and the one on his face.
There was something triumphant in Abbot’s voice as he replied, “Good. We love you too, pup.”
Robby didn’t hesitate either. “Damn right we do.”
“C’mere,” Jack murmured, even though Dennis was already very much there, and hauled both of them directly on top of his husband, who couldn’t do much more than let out a muffled oof, mixed with a breathless laugh.
“Jesus-” he made his voice sound more laboured than it was.
Dennis’ cheek pressed against Robby’s sternum, ear catching the solid rhythm of his heartbeat. Jack’s breath fanned warm against the back of his neck, and his hand snaked its way under Robby’s shirt, petting in soothing strokes. One of them was stroking circles down his back. Not letting him drift away with his mind.
A mess of limbs, a nest he had no intention of leaving anytime soon.
The creature behind his ribs was curled safe and calm, nestled behind his heart. With no need to be ready for an attack. It just wasn’t coming.
The space that was made for him between the two men wasn’t going to disappear if he stopped guarding it for a while.