Archive of Our Own

The first giveaway that Dennis is ill is the fact that he is freezing but can also feel sweat pooling in his armpits.

He keeps shoving off his Columbia fleece in frustration, only to snatch it back half an hour later and zipping it to his throat.

He also doesn’t appreciate the way the room spins when he stands up too quickly from his charting.

It’s whatever. When he worked on the farm, he was never allowed a “sick day”. No one else could do certain tasks like he could. He was smaller as a kid, tinier and lankier than any of his brothers, and could simply do things faster and more efficiently.

His dad would have smacked him upside the head if he even mentioned something of feeling ill.

And in medical school, he really couldn’t afford to be sick. Exams and clinicals still carried on. He couldn’t afford to miss a day of valuable learning. He once went to class, threw up in the bathroom, and went back to his lecture like nothing happened.

So no, he doesn’t really consider taking a sick day from the Pitt when he wakes up with a searing migraine and body aches from hell. Robby had peered at him over coffee that morning. Asked if he was okay. Dennis lied and said he twisted his back wrong when he was lifting a patient the day prior. The wincing and grimacing and the act of popping Tylenol like it was skittles made his lie believable, or at least he hoped.

Robby wasn’t a stupid man, no. But Dennis was very good at hiding his feelings.

“What the fuck is wrong with your face?” Is the verbal love note from Santos at 11:46 in the morning. She leans against the computer on wheels, where Dennis is trying to type up his discharge note.

“Hi, thanks, Trin,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, and resumes charting, trying to ignore the way the computer screen is making his eyeballs feel like they are internally bleeding.

“Shut up. I’m serious. You’re pale. Like, paler than usual. Like -“

“Okay,” he cuts her off. “I’m pale. It’s January.” He states factually.

“Yeah, no shit. I’m saying more than usual. And you’re sweating. Like all up in here,” She gestures annoyingly and pokes to his hair line. He swats her hand away.

“Okay, Trinity.” He sighs. “I’m pale and sweaty. Glad we could have this talk.” He rolls his shoulders back, trying to relieve some of the tension and aches living there. It doesn’t work. He is now, however, aware of the fact that he is very sweaty, as he feels a drop of salt trickle down the back of his neck.

“I can’t believe Robby let you actually leave the house like that. Is he getting dementia? You’re a mandated reporter, you know.”

And Dennis doesn’t have to look from the computer screen to know she is fighting off the biggest and most annoying smirk.

“Okay, that’s for child and elder abuse. And no, he doesn’t have dementia. And I must look better than you think then,” He shoots back, typing away. He ignores how his hands feel shaky along the keys.

She puts her hands up in defense, claiming her innocence. “Okay, well, if I see him dragging you off the floor later today, you owe me pizza on the next Love is Blind night.”

And then she tries to dab more sweat off of his forehead with her under scrub sleeve, pulled over her palm. It would be sweet if it wasn’t annoying. He swats her again. She walks away, laughing to herself.

By six o’clock, Dennis is praying to Gods everywhere to free him from his shift. His eyes feel full of pressure, he’s felt faint all afternoon, and the body aches have only gotten worse. He’s sure he’s spiked a fever, maybe 101 or 102, if he had to guess. He also thinks Dana is giving him easy cases on purpose, based on the concerning maternal looks she keeps shooting him. But still, he somehow presses on. Today has been relatively busy. Robby had to sneak away for a meeting with Gloria, which probably saved Dennis from further interrogation from his boyfriend.

At 6:44, he can’t take it anymore. He has managed all day long, and he finds that sufficient. He steals a break in the locker room. He figures he can ride out these last fifteen minutes in here before shift change and he can go home and face plant into the king size bed that awaits him. He sits on one of the locker benches, simply breathing with his eyes closed. He lets his body thump gently against the lockers behind his back. The cool metal feels good, even through the fabric of his scrub top.

He swears he only rests his eyes, that it’s only been a minute. Then, he’s being shaken gently, feels a thumb brush across his heated cheekbone. He winces at the very concept of now being conscious.

“Den, hey, what happened? Are you okay?” Robby murmurs, trying not to sound frantic. “How long have you been sitting here?” He questions, taking a seat next to Dennis, knees knocking together.

“What time is it?” Dennis croaks, eyes bleary and back aching. He tries to roll his shoulders back again. He’s suddenly overcome by the fact that he is freezing, goose bumps now scattering his forearms. Robby is already unzipping his own black fleece and yanking it off his own shoulders. He drapes it over Dennis, who has apparently begun to tremble slightly from feeling cold.

“7:20. I was looking for you during shift change. What’s going on?”

Robby continues to ask many questions: how long have you been sitting here, what’s going on, before letting the back of his hand graze Dennis’ clammy forehead.

“Jesus Christ, Dennis,” he scolds. “You’re burning up. Have you been feeling this way all day?” He can’t help the edge in his voice.

He tries to calm down, so the next thing out of his mouth doesn’t come out, as Dennis lovingly will put it sometimes: “asshole-ish”.

And Dennis, well, Dennis is still disoriented from waking up from an almost forty minute nap against stiff lockers. He whimpers when he moves his neck and it twinges in sharp pain. “I - No. I felt okay this morning. And in the afternoon. I just came here before shift change to wait for you.”

He rubs a hand into his neck, trying to massage out the discomfort. Robby presses the back of his hand to Dennis’ forehead again, his cheek, his jaw.

“You’re fucking scorching . What the fuck is wrong with you? Why didn’t you get me?” Robby asks, exasperated and irritated but even Dennis can still pick up the fondness in his questioning. Dennis is also aware now of how badly his head is pounding.

“Okay, okay, my head hurts, just say things quietly.”

“Dennis.” He scolds again.

“I don’t know,” he almost whines. “I felt okay. Trinity said I looked pale and sweaty but I felt fine.”

“You are pale. And very sweaty.”

“You like it.”

Dennis doesn’t remember when he shut his eyes again. The room is too bright for his liking. He feels Robby press sweat-damp curls off his forehead. Then he feels a hand at the back of his neck, where his mullet lives, and grimaces as Robby grazes the soaked curls at his nape.

“Okay, tough guy. You’re done. Is all your stuff in your locker?” Robby asks. Dennis nods, and his head feels full of concrete. With eyes closed, he hears Robby rummaging through his locker. If Dennis was in a better state of mind, he might’ve found himself getting anxious at the thought of Robby in his disorganized locker. He knows he has half an old sandwich in there that nobody needs to talk about.

Robby manhandles Dennis into the fleece, maneuvering his arms through the sleeves. Dennis feels like a puppet. He thinks he laughs.

“This isn’t funny, Dennis. Jesus Christ. Work with me here, honey,” Robby huffs, struggling to get Dennis’ right arm in the sleeve all the way. Dennis manages to not be totally useless and shove the rest of his arm in the sleeve. He is immediately filled with the scent of Robby Robby Robby — pine, something dusty, and coffee.

Santos then decides she needs to barge into the locker room.

“Oh, I fucking knew it,” She grins, evil and happy. Robby shoots a glare in her direction, pulling Dennis all the way to his wobbly feet.

“You knew he was like this? And didn’t say shit?” Robby snaps at her. Santos is not shaken by Robby’s irritation. She shrugs.

“I know you might not believe me, because of all the fruit roll ups he eats, but Huckleberry is a grown man who can vocalize his own needs.” She gives a shrug and a look as if to say what can ya do.

Dennis frowns. He doesn’t eat that many fruit roll ups.

Santos is rewarded with getting to carry Whitaker’s backpack.

“Impossible. The both of you,” Robby mumbles under his breath, hugging Denis to his side, jostling him in doing so.

“Can you at least walk to the car? Jesus, Den,” Robby huffs. He can’t help himself, another hand pushing back unruly curls off of his forehead, just wanting to touch touch touch.  Dennis’ gait is questionable but doable.

“Yes, sir,” Dennis flirts.

“Shush.” Santos barks out a laugh.

Robby does manage to get Dennis buckled into his truck without much complication. Dennis tries to buckle his own seatbelt at first, and fails two times, before Robby is snatching the clip from Dennis’ hand and buckling it himself.

“I could do that.” Dennis mumbles after.

“Shh. You’re fine, honey,” Robby reassures, fiddling with the seat belt strap, just so he can stare at Dennis’ a beat longer. Trinity makes a gagging noise, and Robby unlocks the car doors for her to give her something to do. Santos tosses his backpack into the backseat. She leans against the open window of the passenger side, where Dennis is half-asleep. He feels hot again, a line of sweat dripping between his scapula. He grimaces at the feeling. Robby hops into the drivers side and caresses one of Dennis’ thighs absentmindedly while he starts the car.

“You made it til the end, I gotta give you that, Huck,” Santos says, and she smiles.

“Mmmm. I don’t owe you pizza then. Ha.” Dennis murmurs, eyes flickering.

“Okay,” She agrees softly. She gives the top of the truck two firm pats with her hand.

“Get him home safely, Dr. Robby,” She sing-songs to him.

Robby gives her a wave, despite his lingering irritation. “Goodnight, Dr. Santos,”

And he begins the drive back to his townhome with a drowsy Dennis beside him.

“Are you hungry?” Robby asks after a few moments of silence. The radio is playing Noah Kahan, Dennis’ favorite, though he probably is somewhat unaware of it at the moment.

“No,” Dennis shakes his head. “Just tired,”

“Yeah. No shit,” Robby lectures. He knows he shouldn’t. Dennis is clearly defeated. He worked twelve hours, and he must have been fairly convincing, because Robby himself didn’t notice much off with the younger man.

He will beat himself up for that at a later time.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis whispers, quietly into the darkness of the truck after another beat of silence.

Dennis has done and seen a lot of difficult things. He came out to a very conservative family. He was homeless during med school. He was punched in the face and had his collarbone broken by his second older brother after said coming out. He has helped various farm animals give birth. He once saw Trinity and Garcia making out, and he thinks he saw someone’s nipple.

But working twelve hours absolutely disoriented and feverish, while disappointing his boyfriend slash mentor in the process, and then stuttering out this weak apology feels extremely difficult for reasons he cannot explain.

He feels silly and small and tired and his own back sweat is truly about to become everyone’s problem. He rubs his eyes before the prickling sensation starts. He feels that ugly tight knot in his throat right before he starts to cry. He tries to swallow it back down but it gets stuck in a ball, making everything feel tight.

Robby must hear the click of the attempted swallow, the sound of teeth gritting together and a jaw locking to try to stop the upcoming water works.

“Hey,” Robby says. He flicks his gaze to Dennis for just a moment, then back to the road. He tries to sneak another glance and sees Dennis shaking his head frantically.

“Hey.” Robby says again, squeezing Dennis’ thigh. He risks one more glance at Dennis besides him, and pushes more curls off the side of his face. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart. Come on. Don’t cry. I was just frustrated that you felt that bad and felt like you had to keep going. That you couldn’t tell me. I’m mad at myself for not noticing and I’m taking it out on you. Dennis?” He steals another glance, and Dennis is curled in on himself. He’s still shaking his head, like he’s willing the tears to stay at bay. He sniffles once, but Robby sees that his cheeks are still dry.

Robby takes his right hand, his left still on the steering wheel, and grips Dennis’ hands in his own, where they are fused together in his lap. “I just want you to come to me next time you feel this way, okay? I know you wanna do everything on your own. I get it. I do. But I need you to let me know these things – especially when you are about to face plant in my ER.” Robby says gently.

“Wasn’t gonna pass out,” Dennis defends weakly, trying to pick at the cuticle on his thumb.

“Dennis.” Robby insists. “Do you hear what I'm saying?” He gives Dennis’ hands another squeeze.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just – I had it handled.” Dennis defends again, shrugging helplessly. He lets his head fall back against the window. The cold sensation feels mesmerizing on his flushed cheek.

“Let me handle it next time,” Robby says sternly, but strokes Dennis’ knuckles so he knows everything is okay.

Dennis nods shakily. “I don’t feel good,” He can’t help but whine. He wants to be horizontal immediately. Robby sighs.

“I know. We’re gonna be home in two seconds. I’ll take care of you, Den.” He murmurs.

They get into the house without incidents. Dennis is uncoordinated but able to walk by himself to the bedroom. Robby, again, manhandles him to sit on the bed and shimmies him out of his damp scrubs.

“Jesus, Dennis, these are soaked.” Robby mumbles, perplexed at how one man can create so much sweat.

Dennis just hums in response, like Robby was telling him the weather. He fiddles with Dennis’ overstuffed drawers in their dresser and finds a faded t-shirt that used to belong to Robby. He grabs boxer shorts and turns back to where Dennis is seated on the edge of the bed.

Dennis upper body is muscular – all strong shoulders and biceps and forearms. He’s lean, but no prominent abs, and he’s got the cutest farmer’s tan where his t-shirt sleeves tend to end. But right now, he is clammy and pale, collar bones jutting out, due to Dennis’ posture, turned in on himself. His sternum has a sheen of sweat coating it.

“Arms up,” Robby orders gently. Dennis listens, helping to guide his own arms into the t-shirt sleeves. When Dennis is dressed, Robby helps him lean back against the pillows, covering his lower body with the comforter. He goes to find their thermometer.

“Open,” Robby says when he is back at the bedside. Dennis’ eyes are glazed, but they still contain a glint of mischief. He tries to raise his eyebrows at Robby.

“Oh yeah?” He purrs back, and it would have been flirty, until the second he started coughing up one of his lungs at that moment.

“Jesus. You’re ridiculous,” Robby retorts back, amused, when Dennis’ coughing fit subsides.

“Now put this under your tongue,” Robby instructs again. Dennis obeys, opening his mouth and letting the thermometer fall under his tongue, holding it in place by shutting his mouth shut. His eyes fall closed again, and he feels himself getting colder now that the sweat has started to dry on his skin, and he’s no longer wearing actual pants. He maneuvers himself deeper under the thick comforter.

The device beeps, loudly, Dennis thinks, offended.

“102. What the fuck, Dennis?” Robby cringes.

But Dennis assumes this is not actually a question, so he hums again and scooches deeper into all the pillows. He hears footsteps retreat, and then come back, insistent. Robby’s holding out two white capsules, and a glass of water.

“Take these, now,” He demands, trying to aim for a gentler tone of voice.

Dennis winces as he sits up, pushing himself onto his elbows. Robby helps support his back, as he holds him up as Dennis takes the acetaminophen. Robby is also feeling particularly kind, as he holds the glass up to Dennis’ mouth to help him drink.

Dennis remembers once, when he was far too young to be helping much on the farm, small and sick, his mother had sung hymns to him when he was under the weather. He was curled on their ratty couch, knees tucked up to his chin on his side, ginger ale coating his stomach. She was brushing his hair away from his forehead, in a similar way Robby had been doing all day. She spoke gently to him and called him “Denny” and rubbed his back until he dozed off. His brother’s antics eventually woke him up on that couch, his mom long gone, the ginger ale leaving a stale taste on the roof of his mouth.

He feels something sharp twist in his chest. Something prickling in the corners of his eyes.

Robby helps him settle back down against the pillows, arms strong around his torso, and pulls the comforter up to his chin, as Dennis is now visibly shaking from his chills.

“If this fever doesn’t go down tonight, I’m taking you back to the Pitt,” Robby tries for a threatening tone, but it just comes out tender and scared and sickeningly sweet.

“Mhm,” Dennis mumbles back, feeling the weight of sleep grabbing him, his fever already coating his brain in something fuzzy.

He feels Robby’s hand stroking down his bicep, his arm, over the fabric of their comforter. And then he’s asleep.

Robby has no chill, and that’s why he is awake in the bed next to Dennis, attempting to read a novel he has been putting off for awhile. It’s barely 10 PM, and Dennis grows restless next to him. It starts innocently, quiet, just tiny kicks from his feet and warm huffs of breath from his lips. Then, the kicking grows more insistent. He starts murmuring to himself, fever taking over. He shoves the comforter off of his shoulders, where it then pools at his waist, twisting around his sweaty body.

Robby nearly throws the book to the nightstand next to him. He snatches the infrared thermometer this time, hovering it right above Dennis’ drenched forehead, curls completely matted to his skin.

103.6, the thermometer blinks very rudely at Robby.

“Den,” Robby says, softly, but anxiously. “Den, honey,”

He gives Dennis’ left shoulders a tiny squeeze.

“No, no,” Dennis groans. “Dn’t wanna - i’m sorry,” He grits out, appearing to be in serious pain or distress. He flexes and tenses in the bed, fingernails scratching against the sheets underneath him. Robby watches, almost horrified, as sweat trickles down his temples. He continues to mumble and groan almost incoherently.

He says “sorry” and “please stop”, over and over, among other things, though Robby is no longer touching him.

“Dennis”, He tries, pleading, not wanting to spook him awake. “Dennis, you’re at home, you’re with me, it’s safe, you’re okay,” He nearly begs. Dennis lets out a panged cry, a groan. He twists more in the bed, thrashing somewhat.

“Please,” Dennis whines again, eyes clamped shut, curls unruly and sweat-drenched.

Well, fuck it. Robby decides.

He places a hand to each of Dennis’ shoulders. He tries a soft shake, pleading sweet nothings into Dennis’ ear. “Sweetheart, wake up, you’re home, you’re safe. You’re sick right now, but you’re okay. It’s okay, Dennis.”

He shakes again, but Dennis continues with his nightmare. He gives another sound, like a pained animal.

“Fuuuuck,” Robby groans. He shoots up. He goes for a couple washcloths. He soaks them in cold water, wringing them out quickly after. He rushes back to the bed, placing one by Dennis’ axilla, trying to cool him down. The other, he uses to gently wipe away the salty dampness all along Dennis’ forehead, his cheeks, his neck and collarbones.

Dennis thrashes once, twice, before gasping, eyes shooting open. He moans in pain and displeasure at the overall discomfort of the coolness to his flushed skin.

”Stop,” Dennis gasps out, “‘S so cold.” He stutters, weakly trying to swat Robby’s hand away where he is wiping Dennis’ brow.

“I gotta get you cooled down, Den, you’re fuckin’ burning. You’re 103.” Robby tries to explain, half holding Dennis down, one hand splayed across his chest, so he can drag the wet cloth down his jaw and neckline.

Dennis, now more awake, is actually very strong, despite his illness. He gives Robby’s arm a firm shove, trying to get the cold sensation off of him as soon as possible. His teeth chatter and he pulls his legs up, knees curling up to his chest, trembling. Dennis whimpers again as Robby sighs, placing one of the wet cloths back to one of Dennis’ armpits. Dennis flinches once, but allows it this time.

The t-shirt that used to be Robby’s is now drenched from both Dennis’ sweat and the sopping rag’s moisture. Robby uses his other hand to push back more soaked curls from Dennis’ forehead. He lets his hand trace down the side of his face, fingers grazing the shell of his ear.

Dennis grimaces. “It’s freezing,” He complains, and tries to grab the comforter to pull up around himself, but Robby aborts the motion. Dennis flops back helplessly, groaning in frustration, hands scrabbling for nothing.

“Please,” He whines, head lolling over to look at Robby.

His eyes are glazed over, cheeks coated in a sickly shine. He’s flushed and looks downright uncomfortable and Robby’s chest pangs with something terrible. He feels entirely guilty, depriving Dennis of something as simple as a blanket. He knows Dennis probably does feel freezing, but Robby knows his fever needs to come down as soon as possible, before they’re making another trek to their place of employment.

“Your fever is insane, Den, no, I’m sorry. We have to cool you down -” Dennis is whining before Robby even finishes the sentence. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, sweetheart” Robby chants, truly feeling apologetic as Dennis quivers on the mattress, arms wrapping around himself, trying to seek warmth on his own accord. Dennis blindly reaches out, eyes pressed shut, and fists his hands into Robby’s hoodie, twisting and pulling with no specific coordination.

Robby lets a hand trail from Dennis’ damp shoulder, lets it run down his arm, to his elbow, and then back up again in what he prays is a soothing motion. Robby reaches over and shakes two more acetaminophen tablets into the palm of his hand. He scooches so close to Dennis he’s practically on top of him. He reaches across Dennis to his nightstand where a lukewarm glass of water has been left. He grabs that too. Dennis makes no attempt to sit up. His eyes are shut, though Robby sees the eyelids fluttering slightly.

“Den,” He says, somewhat firmer. “Come on. Just for a minute, honey,” He tries again, rubbing his knuckle only gently against Dennis’ warm sternum. Dennis’ eyes flicker open slightly, squinting. “Nngh,” He groans, staring at Robby with a faded expression. He looks feverish and confused and absolutely exhausted, his normal blue-hued bags under his eyes even more prominent. “Come on,” Robby insists again, this time, slithering his hands underneath Dennis’ flank. He jostles him a moment, before heaving him up against his own chest. Dennis whines the entire process.

“It’s dizzy,” Dennis croaks.

“You’re probably dehydrated as fuck. Come on, two pills, huh?” Robby tries to coo.

But to be honest, he’s kind of freaked out of this Sick Version of Dennis. He doesn’t want to have to go the Pitt, but he will do what he has to if the fever doesn’t drop.

Robby’s knuckle to his index finger rubs Dennis’ bottom lip. “Open, come on, Dennis.” He instructs.

Thankfully, Dennis lets his jaw drop slightly and his tongue slides out half an inch out of his mouth for the first tablet. Robby holds the glass up to Dennis’ dry lips, gestures for him to drink. Robby uses his hand that isn’t holding the glass of water to push Dennis’ chin upward, helping him shut his mouth and swallow. Dennis grimaces as the first pill lodges its way into his throat.

“Another,” Robby murmurs, already holding the tablet in front of Dennis’ lips.

“No,” Dennis says, no, cries almost  

“My throat hurts.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“When did that start?” Robby asks, softly but still exacerbated in his tone.

“I don’t know,” Dennis sniffs. “I’ve been asleep. It just feels like glass now. I can’t even swallow my saliva it hurts so bad,” He drops his head onto his Robby’s closest shoulder and moans in pain. Robby lets a hand go to cradle the back of Dennis’ head, stroking the crown down to where his mullet is currently plastered to his neck in sticky, warm perspiration.

“I’ll get you cough drops. And make you tea. Whatever you want,” Robby says into Dennis’ hair. “But take this Tylenol for your fever,” He says around Dennis’ objections. “Then you don’t need to take anything else for another four hours.” He tries to plead. “Come on, one more,” Robby says, going back to his firmer voice.

He pulls Dennis off of him, pressing gently against both of his shoulders, and then grabs the neglected singular tablet again. Dennis makes a face, almost to say, fuck you, die, before he accepts the pill. He swallows with a pained noise, one of his own hands wrapping around his throat, as if he can externally soothe the swollen flesh.

”Okay, okay, all done,” Robby soothes. 

“It hurts,”   

Dennis insists again, like if he pleads to Robby enough, he will be cured from his ailments. Says it with conviction, like Robby personally owes him a favor.  

“I know, honey,” Robby says, rubbing soothing circles onto Dennis’ back, t-shirt sticking to him unforgivingly. 

Dennis goes to pout or perhaps whine, but Robby is already bundling him up into his arms and pulling him downwards against the damp mattress. He tucks Dennis, safe and secure, against his own chest, feeling the top of his damp curls against Robby’s neck. He holds in a shiver, adjusting Dennis against him so he’s comfortable and not totally pressing his entire body weight on Robby’s bladder.

Dennis snuggles into his chest, like he’s a rodent trying to bury himself into an enclosure. He wiggles against Robby for what is an annoying amount of time, trying to get comfortable, jabbing his elbow once into Robby’s ribs. Finally, he settles, gripping the fabric of Robby’s hoodie with one fist. His other hand becomes tucked and curled into his own chin, warm and sick breath coming out in uncomfortable gasps due to his sore throat. He snuggles once more into Robby.

”Good?” Robby asks finally, amused somewhat.

“Hurts. But okay.” Dennis rasps.

Robby smooths more curls back. They tickle his chin where Dennis’ head rests. 

“You just sleep, honey. I’m here if you need me.” 

Dennis’ warm breath floats into Robby’s space.  The sick man is a radiator, sweat already soaking onto Robby’s neck from his curls and flushed face. And Robby knows he’s going to have to pee in about an hour from how Dennis is lying on him. 

But when Dennis doesn’t reply, snores already falling out of him, Robby decides it’s worth it.