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The emergency department breathes down Dennis’s neck in hot, rattling bursts.
It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. Shouldn’t have him sweating through his third pair of scrubs, shouldn’t have his head aching so fiercely. He’s used to it, after all. The urgency with which everyone works, the sorrow that clings to the ceiling tiles, the hospital soaking up grief in greedy pulls like a sponge absorbing water. And it never seems to leave— that grief. Just retreats to the background as white noise. As static.
Like something alive, something predatory, the PTMC watches with sharp eyes as its inhabitants hurry around each floor. The squeak of wheels on linoleum, the hum of the air vents, the buzz of fluorescent lights that are brighter than they have any right to be. The press of his binder against his ribs, suffocating, squeezing. Shouts are coming from the ambulance bay, where a stroke patient is being rushed in.
Dennis doesn’t hear it, not really. Or, perhaps more accurately, he hears too much of it. Every noise filters through at a volume that shouldn’t even be possible, a cacophony of stress and heartache that makes Dennis want to curl up and cry. It’s all jumbled, layers upon layers of sound — one on top of the other, on top of the other, on top of the other — that crash together at a nauseating, chaotic frequency.
His fingers curl into his palms, hard enough to leave little crescents in the skin, to have his fingernails aching from the pressure. He doesn’t really know where he’s going. Just knows he needs out, needs privacy, so he weaves through the halls, dodges around gurneys, and then he’s in the stairwell. It’s quieter in here, though not by much, and as he climbs the stairs, he feels almost sick with agitation.
He’s pretty sure he is sick with it. It’s not as if meltdowns are uncommon for him, but having one at work, when there are so, so many patients who need his help — so many patients who might witness it — could be terrible.
As a kid, he didn’t quite understand why his brain worked this way. Why he needed things to be in a particular order, why he could only eat certain foods without wanting to gag around every mouthful. Why he needed more quiet than most kids, why he found himself spending time alone, more often than not.
What he needed, at its core, was for the world to be gentler. Softer. Treat him with the care he begged for, with the compassion he longed for. So what if he was different from other kids? So what if he talked weird, if he had trouble speaking sometimes? He thinks that maybe, if the adults in his life had been just a little kinder, a little more understanding, he would’ve grown to feel comfortable with himself at a much earlier age.
His autism diagnosis didn’t exactly come as a surprise. But it did come with teeth, rows upon rows of them. His parents liked to watch as they sank into the flesh of his belly, tearing until he was nauseous with it. Growing up as a little girl, it was difficult for Dennis to get a proper evaluation. Most of his behaviors were filed under the OCD category, and he was sent home with exercises to help break compulsions, with a bottle of medication that didn’t really work.
But then, at eleven years old, he was diagnosed. Properly. Your daughter has something called Asperger’s Syndrome, the doctor had said, clipboard in hand, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. Of course, at the time, Dennis didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know that the term they used for it wasn’t even correct. A little girl, invalidated by both her parents and her doctor. High-functioning, they had called it. High-masking, he learned later.
But, to his parents, it was just another item added to the list of reasons why their daughter wasn’t quite right. In his father’s mind, it meant he was unclean. Meant that God was punishing him for something. His mother never said it outright, but she spent a lot of time crying after that doctor’s visit.
On nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would wander the house and imagine it was haunted. That he was the only person who could see the ghosts and help them move past the purgatory in which they were trapped. If he listened hard enough when he passed by his parents’ room, he could hear his mother praying. Begging god to cast this disorder out of their child, pleading with the bedroom ceiling like maybe it could fix Dennis if she wished hard enough. If she had enough faith.
Now, as he bursts through the door to the roof, as the late afternoon wind nips at his face, he thinks maybe that house was haunted. Just not in the traditional sense. No, the only ghosts in that house were the ones that followed him into adulthood. The ones that left scars he tries not to look at for too long.
Out here, at the very top of the PTMC, he paces. Brings a hand up to the side of his head, palm open, striking against his ear. Does it again. And again. Imagines that his brain collides with his skull on every hit.
His breathing isn’t so good, he realizes. Hitching with every inhale, shaking out of his ribcage with every exhale. His face is wet with tears, mouth twisted in that way it gets when he’s not sure whether to cry or scream. He’s sobbing, he thinks, but his throat buzzes, too, like he’s humming.
Everything is too much and not enough.
And he is helpless to do anything but let himself fall apart.
—
Robby sees Dennis beeline for the stairwell, and his stomach drops out of his body and through the floor. The urgency with which he was moving, the tremble in the line of his shoulders, the tension in the arch of his back— it has alarm bells going off in Robby’s head, loud and terrifying.
No, he thinks, mouth going dry. Not already. Not you, too.
Dennis is so young. He’s been a resident for less than six months, and already he’s going to the rooftop, rushing to see what waits for him over the ledge? The man is brilliant. Bright-eyed and eager to learn, growing more confident in his skills, in his own skin, the longer he trains under Robby and Jack. If Dennis jumps, Robby will never forgive himself.
He’s moving before his brain catches up with his body. Jogs to the stairwell, takes two at a time, white-knuckles the railing as his heart beats faster and faster. The fresh air that greets him when he gets to the roof would be a welcome relief if he weren’t beside himself with worry.
As he steps forward, the door shutting behind him, he hesitates. Because this is not what he was expecting. Because Dennis isn’t on the other side of the railing, peering over the ledge, inching so close his shoes start to tip over the edge. He’s standing a ways away, but he’s on the right side of the guardrail, the safe side. And he’s hitting himself, sharp knocks to his head, shoulders shaking, feet rocking up and down, up, down. Forward, to the balls of his feet, and back, to his heel. It looks painful, heels striking the concrete as if with the intention of breaking through his shoes, of splitting the skin open.
Robby rushes over. Opens his mouth to speak, pauses, faltering. Dennis is crying. It’s a pitiful thing, tears interrupting a broken hum, distressed, garbled. His breaths come in quick, aching bursts, wet and loud, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
“Whitaker?” he says, hoping the fear doesn’t bleed into his voice. “Hey, can you take a deep breath for me?”
He doesn’t respond. Just rocks on his heels harder, thumps his palms against his head at a faster, more forceful pace.
“Hey, kid, can you hear me? It’s Doctor Robby.” Robby’s gut churns with uncertainty. “Just you and me here.” Still, no response. Dennis really can’t hear him. Won’t even stop what he’s doing to acknowledge him. Shit, okay. Okay. Robby takes another step forward, facing Dennis. Ignores the spark of doubt in his belly. “Okay, kid, I’m stepping in here,” he murmurs, taking Dennis’s arms and pressing down, down, until they’re flush against his sides. Dennis yelps, a sob untangling from his throat and climbing free. And still, he doesn’t talk. Just wriggles in Robby’s grasp, crying quietly. It makes Robby’s heart ache.
He’s so small in Robby’s arms, so easy to move, to guide, to manhandle. Robby stomps the thought to the ground, grinds it to dust under the sole of his boot. At least, with Robby so close, so much bigger than Dennis, he’s not able to hurt himself anymore. Robby snakes one arm around his waist, pulls him closer, makes sure his hands are still held down at his sides.
With some difficulty, Robby fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials Jack’s number. Sends a prayer up to the heavens, muttering Hebrew under his breath as he rocks Dennis back and forth, hugging as tight as he’s able without hurting the kid.
Jack picks up on the fourth ring, voice clear over the speaker. “Mike?”
Robby deflates, relief pouring into him like water from a fountain. “Yeah, hey, Jack. Listen, are you able to come in? I know it’s your day off. It’s just… I, uh, I have a situation with Whitaker, could use your help.”
“Whitaker? What’s going on?”
Already, Robby hears Jack moving around on the other end, the sound of a zipper, of something clanking in the background. “I’m not exactly sure,” he says, tries to keep his voice calm, bites into the skin of his bottom lip. “Some sort of meltdown. Maybe a panic attack. Can you meet us on the roof?” Dennis’s breathing hasn’t improved at all; it’s still too fast, too agitated. Robby tilts the phone away from his mouth, voice low and rumbling when he speaks, “Hey, breathe for me, honey. Can you listen to me? Listen to my breathing?”
“The roof? Jesus Christ.”
Robby closes his eyes, exhales long and slow through pursed lips. Dennis still won’t acknowledge him. Can’t acknowledge him— crying in his arms, hiccuping around every other shallow breath. “I know. I know. We’re both safe, we’re okay. I just don’t think I’m gonna be able to move him right now.”
“Shit, okay. Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you,” says Robby. Tells Jack he loves him, pockets his phone as soon as he hangs up. He looks down at Dennis, hums gently. “Okay, Whit, Jack’s on his way. You’re gonna be okay.”
Robby has only felt truly helpless a handful of times. Adamson, Pittfest. Sitting by his Bubbe’s hospital bed, seeing her slowly waste away. And now, as he watches Dennis lock up in his arms, completely shut down, he feels it again. Stands in sands that fall away under his feet, waves of powerlessness lapping up against his shins, soaking through his pants, chilling him to the bone.
Time drags on. Crawling by like it doesn’t care how long they stay there, how long Robby tries to keep Dennis together, to hold him up. “You’re okay, just breathe with me, honey. Just breathe,” he whispers, lips to Dennis’s ear. He has one of Dennis’s hands in his, pressing it to his chest, right over his heart. It is far too intimate for what is appropriate between attending and resident. “Just like this, see?” He takes a deep breath in, holds it for a moment. Lets it out in one long exhale. Makes the rise and fall of his chest bigger than it needs to be, so Dennis can follow along.
The roof entrance thuds open. Dennis’s breathing is starting to calm down. Footsteps, quick and heavy, and then Jack is stepping in front of Robby, eyes wide with worry.
“Has he said anything to you?” asks Jack, gaze falling to where Dennis is tucked close to his husband.
Robby shakes his head, hushes Dennis when he whines softly. “Nothing. I don’t think he’s able to; he’s still pretty out of it.”
Jack nods, reaches out to touch, thinks better of it. “Any idea what triggered this?”
“Not a clue.” Robby’s hands rub gentle circles into Dennis’s back. He’s so defenseless. Curled in Robby’s embrace, eyes hazy, not fully present. Robby dips his head down, speaks quietly, careful not to overwhelm him. “You need to go home,” he starts, so, so soft. There’s no way they’re leaving him alone when he’s unresponsive like this. “Do you wanna go with Santos? Or do you wanna go with Jack?”
Something subtle shifts in Dennis’s eyes. He blinks, fingers twitching where they rest against Robby’s chest. Then, he turns in Robby’s arms and grabs Jack’s hand.
Robby laughs softly, the knot behind his sternum loosening. Something sweet blooms across his tongue, tinged with bitterness, with the sting of worry. “Okay, sweetheart. Jack will take you home.”
—
Dennis’s words have escaped him. Tucked away in a pocket in his throat, sealed shut until they decide to return to him again. As he sits in Jack’s shotgun seat, gazing out the window, he thinks about Trinity.
He hasn’t told her about his diagnosis. Hasn’t told her that his autism sometimes makes it impossible to talk, to properly interact with people. He probably should’ve. Should’ve let her know why he acts the way he does the moment she offered him her guest room. And now that he’s here, stuck in verbal shutdown, he doesn’t have the words to explain it to her. So, going with Jack is just… easier.
The drive to the house isn’t long. Jack keeps the radio off, lets the silence settle over them in layers of warmth. He and Robby live nearby, in a beautiful townhome that Dennis knows probably costs at least half his tuition.
Jack helps Dennis out of the car, leads him inside. He doesn’t turn on any lights when they step through the front door. Leaves all the lamps off, only stopping to flick the fairy lights on in their living room, keeping it at the dimmest setting.
He wanders into the kitchen, pours Dennis a glass of water, thrusts it into his hands. “Drink,” he instructs, and there is something so achingly gentle in the way his fingers brush against Dennis’s where they hover over the cup. So careful, knowing, like he understands what is needed of him, right now. Understands that he needs to be sensitive, to be quiet.
Dennis brings the glass to his lips, drinks until it’s empty, until Jack is giving him a satisfied nod. Sets it on the counter when he’s done, follows Jack into the bedroom.
Jack shuffles over to a large dresser against one of the side walls, pulls the bottom drawer open. Rows of clothes are rolled up neatly and color-coded, lined up one next to the other. He digs around for a minute, then grunts triumphantly, holding up a navy blue shirt. Across the front of it, Oingo Boingo: Live at Radio City Music Hall, is printed in faded letters. They’re almost too hard to make out because of the wear.
Jack crosses the room, hands the shirt to Dennis. It’s so soft. Clearly, it’s been well-loved, worn so many times that Dennis wonders vaguely how old it must be. And then, as he turns it over in his hands, fingers smoothing over thinning cotton, he sees it. In small lettering on the back, right above the setlist: September 20th, ‘94.
Ah. This shirt is older than him. Dennis files that away for later and starts tugging his scrubs off. He kicks them to the side, piling them on the floor. It is only after he’s standing in his binder and a pair of boxers that he freezes up. Realizes Jack is still in the room. He’s closing another drawer, a pair of sleep shorts in hand, and pauses when he sees Dennis. Dennis just blinks at him, gut churning with anxiety.
But Jack — sweet, kind Jack — doesn’t bat an eye, just hands him the shorts and turns around to face the wall, to give him some privacy. “You should take the binder off, too,” he says. “Can’t be comfortable wearing that all day.” He doesn’t mention anything about the health risks of wearing it for twelve-hours at a time, doesn’t go into all the ways he can fuck up his ribs, and Dennis is thankful for it. He’s already gotten that lecture from Trinity. Numerous times.
Dennis watches him for a second, scans the span of his shoulders, notes how broad they are. Trails his gaze down the line of his back. When Jack still doesn’t move, Dennis is quick to yank his binder off, slipping the shirt over his head, the shorts up his legs. He lifts the collar of the shirt to his nose, takes a deep breath. God, it smells so good. Safe and warm and calm. Clean, like it’s just been washed recently.
Another moment goes by, and he just stands there, eyes falling closed, inhaling the scent of their detergent, of their lingering cologne.
Jack turns back around, smiles softly at him, guides him into the bed and under the covers. His hands are gentle as he smooths Dennis’s curls back, as he tucks the blanket around him. “Sleep, sweetheart. We can talk later.”
And Dennis is so relaxed in their home, so flushed from the attention, that sleep wraps around him in a soothing, easy embrace.
Distantly, just before he drifts off, he wonders if he might be dreaming.
—
The first thing Dennis notices when he wakes up is how dark everything is. There’s no light shining through closed blinds, no sun rays spilling into the room, across carpeted flooring. It’s after sunset. He’s at his boss’s house, lying in their bed, after dark. Shit.
He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the mattress. Shuffles into the hallway. From the living room, Robby and Jack’s voices rumble, deep, soothing, and the smell of food simmering on the stove wafts through the house like a welcome guest.
He digs his knuckles into his eyes, rubs the sleep away, follows the sound of their conversation. They quiet down when he enters the room. He yawns, stretches, face going pink when he catches them staring at him. “Um. Hi,” he fumbles over his words a little, unsure.
“Hi,” Jack parrots, amused. “How are you feeling?”
Dennis clears his throat, tries not blush harder when he remembers he’s wearing their clothes. “Better. Less… overwhelmed.”
Robby nods from where he sits on the couch, eyes keen, attentive like he might be able to pick Dennis apart, dissect him, figure out what’s going through his head. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt, and he looks so cozy that Dennis almost gives in to the instinct to hug him. Almost.
“You, uh. You guys probably deserve an explanation, huh?” He rubs at his neck, nervous, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and chewing on it.
Jack, who’s standing by the kitchen archway, looks like he wants to tell him to stop. Instead, he leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. Tilts his head like he knows. Like he understands how it feels to be overwhelmed, every sensation an exposed nerve, scraped raw and oozing blood. Dennis wonders if he does understand. “You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to, sweetheart. We’re just glad you’re okay.”
Fuck, they’re not making this any easier for him. He clears his throat, shifts his weight where he stands. Fidgets with his fingernails. “I’m not used to people being present when I melt down,” he says, and it comes out so casually that he almost convinces himself they’re not the first people he’s told about this. It’s never been something that he thought he would have to tell anyone. “My autism makes it hard for me to… do certain things, sometimes. Makes it easy to get overstimulated.” He drops his arms, lets them swing loosely at his sides. “I’m sorry you had to see it; I don’t want you to think I’m incapable. It’s not your burden to bear.”
Robby makes a noise in the back of his throat, upset, and Jack steps forward. “It’s not a burden to care for you.” The words are quiet, but they carry across the room clearly, rich with the kind of conviction that makes Dennis’s heart stutter. He shakes his head. “Like I said, we’re just glad you’re okay.”
Dennis soaks that in, looks between them. Robby is halfway off the couch, like he wants to get closer, to touch, maybe. Or maybe, that’s just wishful thinking. Dennis swings his arms a little harder, swallows loudly. “Thank you. For helping. It means more than you know.”
Jack visibly softens. Robby stands up, pads over to him. It’s almost laughable, the situation Dennis has found himself in. Wearing his boss’s clothes and standing in their living room, watching them like they might kick him out for being here, when they brought him in.
“We’re here whenever you need us,” Robby murmurs, hesitant, hovering. His hands twitch, reaching out, pausing, pulling back. And Dennis, the fool that he is, decides to take the risk for them both. Steps forward, wraps his arms around Robby’s belly, presses his face into his chest. For a stunned moment, Robby falters. Then, he’s hugging Dennis fiercely, dropping his head to nuzzle against his hair. “You’re okay, honey. You’re okay,” he whispers, an echo of the moment they shared up on the roof. Dennis thinks that the words are meant to soothe Robby as much as they are to soothe him.
Jack clears his throat, eyes shining with a tenderness Dennis has only seen him direct at his husband. He’s got one foot in the kitchen, one in the living room, watching from the archway. “Come on, you two. I made soup.”
Dennis pulls out of Robby’s embrace, crosses the room, burrows into Jack. Squeezes his torso, affectionate, grateful. “Thank you,” he hums, cheek pressed to Jack’s shoulder. “Both of you.”
Jack melts. Gathers Dennis close and rocks them back and forth. “Always, sweetheart. Always.”
Within his chest, Dennis feels his ribcage shiver. Feels the tissue of his chest wall quake. He’s wading through uncharted territory. Shaky. Unsure. He doesn’t know what this means for them. Doesn’t know what it means for him.
But Jack’s arms around him are steady. And Robby’s touch lingers, comforting, pleasant.
There is uncertainty in the indulgence of feelings that have been so long ignored. Old affection, allowed to blossom sweetly between the three of them, tender as a bruise.
If there is one thing Dennis is sure of, it is that these men — these two wonderful men — hold his heart, however damaged it may be.
And if there is one thing that Dennis knows, without a doubt, it is that they will be gentle with it.