#hypothermia

Pittsburgh ought to be a postcard-worthy picture of snowy winter delight by now. Instead it’s just cold and wet and miserable. The nights are drawing in earlier by the day, and long gone is the joy of seeing daylight before and after work; it’s still dark when Dennis and Robby arrive at PTMC and the sun has set by the time Jack arrives to take over in the evening. It’s their first time experiencing this cycle together - the older men have been through it all before several times throughout the duration of their marriage, but Dennis only became a part of the relationship in mid-spring. Since then, they’ve enjoyed the rare opportunity to get out in the sun when their days off line up (Jack is always willing to forego sleep to spend the time with his guys) or share relaxed dinner dates on Jack’s free evenings after the other two return from shift. It was a good time to start things, to navigate a style of relationship that was new to them all and find their feet under the gentle lightness of the soul that is provided by summer. Now, however, they’re learning how to keep upright through the lull, through the internal darkness that rears its head with the return of its exterior counterpart.

“What are we doing for the holidays this year?” Jack asks from the kitchen. Robby and Dennis have settled onto the couch, unwinding from another gruelling shift, while Jack - dutiful husband and boyfriend - takes advantage of his evening off to cook for them and is currently putting the finishing touches on the pot roast he’s been slowly braising all day.

Dennis, snuggled against Robby’s side, hums thoughtfully. “What do you usually do?”

“Suffer through the work’s Christmas party,” the man beside him grumbles.

The enticing waft of the roast accompanies Jack’s laugh. “Might not be so bad this year now we’ve got you, normally we end up dragged into some deathly boring conversation with management but you might be our excuse to stay drinking with everyone else.”

“I knew you had ulterior motives for asking me out,” the younger man laughs.

“Seriously, though,” Jack continues, “we should mark the occasion somehow. We always do a little something for Chanukah, and then if you have any Christmas traditions to work in we can do that too.”

The laughter dies in Dennis’ throat. Christmas traditions back home are several hours spent in church followed by more prayers over his mother’s overcooked roast turkey, and up until now his tradition since moving away has been a microwave chicken dinner for one and a slightly stale gingerbread from the nearest supermarket. Neither of those are suggestions he’d like to offer.

“You’re working Christmas Day, right?” Robby prompts with a nudge.

“Right, yeah.”

“Dinner when you get back then,” Jack says decisively as he summons them to the dining table and presents three plates, sitting down to remove his prosthesis for some relief while he eats. “And Boxing Day? We could go out somewhere.”

Suddenly, Dennis finds himself very invested in his food. He tells himself it’s just because it’s so delicious, as is all of Jack’s cooking, and that he’s imagining how much better the turkey will taste this year. It definitely has nothing to do with the text message that has been burning a hole in his pocket since he received it a little over a week ago.

“Sounds good to me,” Robby agrees after the silence stretches on a little too long. “Dennis? Anywhere you’d want to go?”

He swallows thickly, blaming the dryness in his mouth on the rich gravy. “Actually… My mom wants me home for Christmas this year. I told her I was working, so she said to be there for Boxing Day.”

Robby sees how the rest of this conversation will go before either of the other two say anything more. He can’t claim to relate to the Dennis’ need to appease his family even after all they’ve put him through (and he’s well aware of how little he knows of that, it’s a jumbled image pieced together from snippets of stories and offhand remarks), but he gets it. The kid’s always been one for validation, ever since he first set foot in PTMC, and if there’s even an inkling that he might get some this time then he’s bound to chase it. Jack, on the other hand, is famously unflinching in his belief that loyalty must be earned, and from the murmured conversations the older men have had whenever Dennis lets something particularly concerning slip about his upbringing, it’s clear he doesn’t think the family are owed anything. Quite the reverse, in fact. He watches that conviction manifest across his husband’s face in the tick of his stubbled jaw and the darkening of his hazel eyes.

“So you’re going?”

Dennis, despite being one of the most observant young doctors in the ED, misses the tightness with which the words are spoken, too busy staring shyly into his potatoes to see the glower that accompanies them. “Well, yeah. They want me there.”

Robby tries to salvage the situation. “Is that what you want?”

“I-” he starts. Stops. Finally meets the eyes of the two men watching him - one expectant, the other cautious. Drops his gaze again. “I don’t know. I’d like to celebrate with you both too, but… I’ve not been home in years and-”

“Does that not tell you something?” Jack interjects. Immediately, his face falls slightly like he didn’t mean to say it so harshly, perhaps not at all, but it’s too late.

Dennis rounds on him, cheeks burning. “What? That I’ve been too focused on my studies and neglected my family? That just because I kept saying no they’re not allowed to ask again?”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Each word is snapped out, dripping with a quiet rage that none of them have ever seen the younger man display. Normally, his emotions build in a slow, easily recognisable way: the creeping overwhelm, the twitches of happiness when he allows himself to relax, the sadness constructed moment by moment like a brick wall. This is not only new, it’s different. It appears out of nowhere. “And you’re wrong.”

Robby watches helplessly as the words pierce into Jack, who raises an eyebrow. Any regret from his first sarcastic question fizzles away. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Good. I’ll write you a card to take from us, then. Would your mother appreciate a hamper?”

“Don’t do that,” Dennis hisses.

“Do what?” Jack bites back. “I’m just saying since they’re clearly okay with you now, we should-”

“Don’t treat me like I don’t know what I’m doing!”

The atmosphere in the room has turned sour, any warmth lingering from the stove or the food ebbing away with the waves of frost rolling off Dennis, mirroring the air outside.

“Is that what you think this is?”

Both of them turn to their other partner for input, Dennis gesturing frustratedly like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “I think what Jack is trying to say,” Robby begins diplomatically, “is that we don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Dennis reels, a bitter scoff bursting from his lips. “They’re my family.”

“We know, but that’s kind of the point.”

Jack tries a new tactic, reverting to his softer state of authority, the one that usually calms even the most volatile patient. “We trust your judgement, you know the situation better than us, but from what you’ve said-”

“Yeah, I do know the situation better than you,” Dennis cuts him off, chair scraping across the floor with a piercing squeal as he rises hastily. “You’ve never even met them.”

“Do you think they’d want to meet us?” Robby tries for lightheartedness, undercut by the implication he knows they’re all thinking about. The disapproval, the scrutiny, had been mentioned long before the relationship was even on the cards.

“Jesus Christ. This has nothing to do with you!”

Jack stands now as well, crutches retrieved from where they rest against the wall. “It does when we’re part of the fallout.”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to have said. Dennis flushes a deeper shade of red and pales all at once, body shifting with the ripples of his anger like he’s torn between puffing out in defiance and folding in on himself. “Right. Of course. I’ll bear that in mind next time I’m going through shit.”

“Dennis, wait-” Robby joins them on their feet, all three moving disjointedly through the house. They’re so used to moving in an easy dance around each other’s space that this feels wrong, like none of them know where to stand except for the younger man who is marching determinedly towards the front door.

“No, don’t,” he almost snarls. “I’m going to get some air. Gives you both time to process whatever your problem is with this, and for me to get rid of the fallout.” He grabs his coat almost violently from the rack in the hall and bursts out into the darkness of the evening, slamming the door behind him with echoing finality.

Jack is halfway to the door when a hand, warm and firm, settles on his shoulder.

“Give him a minute,” Robby grumbles.

In spite of himself, he still lets his fingers drift towards the handle. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him.”

“He’s a grown man, he can handle it. Don’t tell me you weren’t like that at his age, because I know I was.”

This is true. He’s never not been headstrong, just got better at hiding it - or, rather, controlling it. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling tugging at his stomach like a snagged fishing lure, the one that whispers it’s a mistake not to go after the kid. Adult. Boy. Fucking hell.

Dennis realises his mistake the second the door thuds shut and he wriggles his arms into the long sleeves. He hasn’t grabbed his coat. There’s no fuzzy lining, no thick padding, no hood. He’s met with light cotton and a narrow collar. It’s the jacket he’s been meaning to put back into storage for weeks, the one Robby gave him in the spring when the weather was getting warmer and he’d made an offhand complaint about it being too warm for his coat but too cool to go without. He could have bought his own jacket, of course - there were perfectly decent ones at the thrift store that wouldn’t have eaten too much into his monthly budget, but the next day Robby had shown up and offered the soft navy corduroy with a forced casualness. He’s barely ever worn it, he’d said, hasn’t touched it in years so it probably wouldn’t fit even if he did want to try and it’s not Jack’s style, they figured it might as well go to someone who would get the use out of it. The garment was very clearly brand new. They’d gone on their first date, the three of them, a little over a week later.

He clings to that memory as the bitter sting of the wind lashes against his skin through the thin fabric. Really, he knows they have his best interests at heart, always have - he doesn’t need to have said much for them to have figured out just how utterly vitriolic his parents and brothers can be, and that’s not even getting into the more distant relatives who have no familial bonds to restrain their hateful outbursts - but he’s stubborn and riled up and he’ll be damned if he’s going to go back in there and let them have the win just because he’s been too busy to put away a fucking jacket. Besides, right now he’s scared that if he goes back he’ll say something worse, something that brings this whole perfect situation crumbling around him if he hasn’t done so already. It’s not worth the risk. It’s definitely worth the slight chill that will come from a quick walk around the block to cool off (both figuratively and, unfortunately, physically). Five minutes, ten tops.

One minute and seventeen seconds later, the heavens open.

By then, he’s already halfway down the street. Turning back now would not only admit defeat but also emphasise his foolishness even further. It’ll pass. He carries on.

His teeth are chattering by the time it stops, only a few moments later though it feels like half a lifetime. Such a brief downpour was enough to soak him to the bone, droplets running down from his sodden hair, carving their way across the furrowed lines of his brow, down his slender nose and into his parted lips. He spits. The action brings on another bout of tremors. He hugs his arms to his chest, trying in vain to hold onto any remaining warmth. He’s halfway around the block. Halfway home.

In the soft light of the house, Robby sits by the window and stews. The air around him feels less sharp than it did but no less heavy, still uncomfortably alien. He knows Dennis has every right to be angry, that his relationship with his family really is none of their business, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to be mad at him for storming off. Now he’s stuck with a very antsy husband flitting about the house like he can bring the young man back by wearing a hole in the flooring, the thud of his crutches shifting in pitch and volume as he moves from the carpeted living room to the wooden floorboards of the hallway and back.

“Will you give it a rest, Jack?” he sighs. “He’s only been gone ten minutes.”

Jack throws him a look that’s borderline disdainful, which he tells himself is merely the remnants of the heated energy boiling over. “You heard the rain! It’s not good for anyone to be out in that, never mind that it’s fucking freezing.”

“He took his coat.”

“Not the point.”

Robby relents, nodding to the space beside him on the couch. “Look, just give him some space to clear his head, half an hour or so, and if either of us are still worrying then we can do something about it. Drink?”

With a reluctant huff, Jack drops unceremoniously onto the couch and settles against the cushions. Robby returns with two glasses filled with generous measures of whisky. It’s no weather for chilled beers, and no mood for it either. If only their boyfriend were here to share it too.

Oh. Oh no.

The front door is in sight, the welcoming orange glow of the lamp in the front hall a beacon to guide the now violently shivering Dennis to the safety and sanctity of the warmth beyond. He’s clumsily extracted a hand from where it was thrust deep into the pocket of his jeans, to pull his house key from his jacket. All that meets his touch is soggy cotton. He tries the other pocket, already knowing the outcome. His keys aren’t there. They’re in the coat that remains on the rack. So is his phone.

When he was on the farm, there was a rule: if you were careless enough to leave home without your keys, you either found a way to make yourself useful until everyone was called in for dinner, or you waited on the porch so as not to disturb the more sensible people out doing the hard work. It’s been years since he’s lived under the enforcement of that rule, longer still since he found himself in a position to obey it, yet somehow it appears at the forefront of his mind, sharp and prominent enough that it pushes away the instinct to knock. It doesn’t take much of a push, to be fair. He’s dreading having to go back, tail between his legs. For one thing, he’ll have to admit the truth - that they’re absolutely right, that his family are cruel and judgemental and  that his motives for returning are not to experience the domestic ceasefire that he always hoped would appear around the holidays even though he was yet to see it happen, but to indulge in the purely selfish desire to stand before them as the living proof that he’s far happier being everything they tried to keep him from becoming. It’s more than that, though. He got so caught up in the fantasy of his own vindication that he let it come between him and the reason he’s seeking it in the first place - Robby and Jack. Neither of them deserve the anger, the misplaced hatred, that he hurled at them for the simple crime of caring about him. Naturally he’s worried that they’re still mad about the argument and his immature reaction, but he fears the prospect that storming off without any preparation will only have made them more mad. He can’t lose this. What he can do is just sit for a while until an opportunity presents itself for him to get back inside without too much scrutiny.

Maybe it’s just the raindrops still clinging to his lashes, but the world is a wash of speckled light, the rich blue of the night peppered with bursts of gold from the houses around him and the streetlights overhead. Making himself useful doesn’t feel like an option to pass the time right now: he can’t see straight; his arms are too heavy to even swipe the mess from his vision, let alone tend to the garden or lift hay bales; his legs are shaking far too much to carry him around the cowshed or control the pedals of the tractor. His only option is to wait until one of his brothers comes back, or his mother summons them for whatever pot pie or casserole she’s preparing. With unsteady steps, he fumbles his way up onto the porch and collapses onto the swing bench.

“This is insane,” Jack practically growls around his second whisky. “I’m just going to text him.”

He’s gone through a rollercoaster of emotions in the past half an hour (or slightly less, he knows, thanks to his agreement with Robby) - worry about overstepping, frustration about the conversation getting out of hand and Dennis’ reaction, back to worry about the kid, and now at frustration once again. This time it’s aimed at both of them. All three of them. Dennis shouldn’t be staying out in this weather just to prove a point; Robby shouldn’t be as calm about this just because he thinks he knows the man better for having worked with him longer; Jack himself shouldn’t be waiting a goddamn half hour to check on someone he cares about just because he’s told it’s what he’s supposed to do. He fires off a quick text.

Hey Den, you okay?

It’s delivered almost immediately, so at least his phone isn’t off and he’s still somewhere with signal. But where could he have wandered to on a night like this? It’s been too long for a simple walk around the block. Shit, it’s been too long.

I’m really sorry, he types frantically, I shouldn’t have said what I did or acted like it wasn’t something you could handle. Can we talk about it?

Delivered. Five minutes pass, taking them well past the half hour mark. Five more.

Please, Dennis. I’m worried about you. We don’t even have to talk yet if you’re not ready, but at least come home before you catch your death. Four more minutes. Or if you’ve gone somewhere, just let me know. Are you with Santos?

The steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece is deafening, and jarringly out of rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The hands look wrong. It can’t possibly have been that long. “Mike…” he starts, low and warning. Sharp. Jagged. As wrong as the late hour.

“Yeah.” His husband’s voice cracks on the word, his own anxiety betrayed by the sound. “I know.”

Robby tastes the acrid tang of regret in the back of his throat as he lifts his phone from where it's charging on the coffee table. He's maintained since the offset that it's important for Dennis to have his independence within the relationship, that it will help to reinforce the sense of maturity that he'd worried would be a barrier to him feeling like an equal partner alongside the two older, more established men. It seems this time he's taken it a step too far: it's been nearly an hour, and the fear of seeing Jack spiral at the realisation is the only thing keeping him from letting his panic fully show. Nevertheless, his fingers fly over the keyboard.

Worried out our minds here, Den. Please will you come home, or tell me where you are and I'll come get you. He pauses. Love you.

When he looks back up, Jack is fitting his prosthesis. No words pass between them; long gone are the days where that was necessary. Robby watches his text flicker from ‘sending’ to ‘delivered’, stares at it for far too long, willing it to transition to ‘seen’, tries not to let the dread settle too heavy in his stomach when it doesn’t. Before he can let either of them slip even further into the abyss, he clicks the phone icon. Two numbers sit, as always, at the top of his ‘recently contacted’ list - Jack’s and Dennis’. Pretending his thumb isn’t shaking, he hits the latter.

The lack of shivering, Dennis thinks, isn’t supposed to be a good sign. A tiny voice at the back of his mind is screaming that it’s definitely not good, but it’s muffled by layers of frost-coated cotton wool and the comforting dullness that comes after the incessant rattle of his teeth reverberating around his skull. He’d been shivering more because he was getting colder, so it stands to reason that if he’s no longer shivering so much then he’s no longer so cold. He can see the signs of it, sure: the tiny wisps of dragon smoke curling from his lips with every shallow breath, lingering in the porch light just long enough for him to watch them drift away into the night before he takes his next slow inhale; the glint of the puddles left behind on the tarmac, already freezing over into something dark and lethal. It’s dangerous to be out on the roads on a night like this. Thank goodness he’s not out there; he’s here, not shivering, waiting in the glow of the farmhouse for one of his brothers to come back and make a fresh flask of coffee to take to the fields. No, that’s not what he’s waiting for, is it? He’s sitting here until the shame subsides or an apology arrives. But what is it he’s ashamed about? What does he need an apology for? Or is it that he needs to give one? The sleeves of his jacket are damp against his arms, hair clinging in messy curls to his forehead, but they’ll dry off in moments once he’s by the stove in the kitchen. Maybe his mother will light the fire in the living room while he curls up in the armchair. There’s a comfy armchair inside, the one Jack sits in when he pretends he’s not still listening to the police scanner. Jack. That’s who the apology is meant to be from, or for. They hurt each other, over… something. If only he could make it to the door, envelope himself in the man’s broad arms and let the embrace ease heat back into his weary muscles. They’re all so heavy, even the ones fighting to keep his eyelids up. Surely there’s no harm in letting them rest, just for a moment…

Relief washes over Jack so hard it nearly takes his weight from under him. Between his frantic gasps and the rustle of fabric as he pulled back his trousers to refit his foot, he must have missed the sound of the front door. Or perhaps Dennis crept back in quietly, anxious and ashamed. The thought tugs at his chest. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Robby is standing on the other side of the coffee table, phone pressed to his ear, and an unmistakable ringtone is chirping back at him from the hall. They exchange a look, a silent “easy, let’s not startle him”. The moment Robby hangs up, Jack takes his husband’s hand and leads them both out of the room.

The hand in Robby’s tightens as suddenly and forcefully as his own lungs at the sight of the front door. They shouldn’t be able to see all of it like that. There should be a figure, bashful or defiant but almost definitely slightly soggy, blocking the way. For one horrid second, he wonders if he imagined the ringtone, conjured it over the incessant dial tone that was practically mocking him as it looped down his ear. But no, Jack heard it too. Or did he just want to hear it? He retrieves his phone from his pocket and clicks the name that now sits at the top of the list. This time, he doesn’t bother bringing the device to his ear. He listens. There it is. Clear as day. Coming from the coat rack.

Jack reacts first, diving towards the mess of garments with desperate, clawing hands. He identifies the origin of the sound almost immediately, holding up a navy coat with a deep hood and padded body like it might burn him. Nausea bubbles through his throat. By the look on Robby’s face, he’s experiencing the same.

“He didn’t take his phone,” he states. It’s blindingly obvious, but it’s all he can think to say.

Robby’s jaw twitches beneath his beard. “Or his coat.”

Jack teeters. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck, Michael, he’s- fucking-” He never uses that name. It’s always Robby or Mike or a sweet yet practical pet name. Never Michael.

The other man notices immediately. “Let’s go.”

For the second time that evening, Jack’s hand is halfway to the handle when he’s stopped. “Come on!” he urges. Every second that passes is another second that Dennis might be-

“Coat.” It’s not often Robby brings out his authoritative tone at home, but it does the job. Jack relents for the eight seconds it takes him to yank his own thick coat from the hook and wrestle into it. He barely even looks as he scoops up the boy’s coat with one hand and the keys to his truck with the other before barrelling into the night, Robby hot on his heels.

Outside, the icy air sucker punches him, knocking the air from his lungs with both the fierceness of it and the knowledge that Dennis is out there somewhere in this. That thought alone almost makes him crumble, but he draws in a breath and draws on every scrap of training he’s ever received. Assess, look for any signs that might indicate where the younger man has gone, any evidence that will let him feel like he’s searching with purpose instead of driving the neighbourhood in fruitless circles, even just a tiny hint of-

There is a figure sitting on their swing bench.

It takes a moment for Robby to convince himself his heart hasn’t just stopped. The boy on the bench is barely recognisable as Dennis. His Dennis. Their Dennis. In place of unruly sandy curls are dark strands hanging limply. The near-permanent blush is long gone. All life and colour has been leeched from those blue-green eyes, leaving them almost grey. The blue of them is beginning to tint the thin, trembling lips below. The two men stand over the figure, both as frozen as the remnants of rain that now lie slick across the wooden decking.

“We need to get him inside,” Robby hears himself say, though the words taste wrong in his mouth.

“Are you out of your mind? We need to get him to the Pitt!” Jack snaps.

Reality rushes back in. Doctor mode switches on. The other man is right… sort of. “He won’t ma-” He can’t say that, can’t risk speaking it into existence. “The roads are too dangerous to get him there in the time he needs, and if we jostle him in this state we risk triggering cardiac arrest. We’ve gotta warm him. Now.”

Jack is already springing into action, crouching down in front of their partner. “Den? Dennis, it’s Jack.”

Glassy eyes try to meet his, steady but unseeing. A name slips, mumbled, from Dennis’ mouth. It’s neither Jack’s nor Robby’s, nor anyone they know, but it sounds familiar. The memory of a story about his brothers swims to the surface, and Jack balks. “Waiting f’ you,” Dennis slurs out. “No key… ‘s the rule.”

The men exchange worried glances. He’s not quite talking nonsense, but he’s far from lucid. Waiting… Nausea ripples through Jack again, higher than before, at the realisation that he’s been out here the whole time.

“Okay, Dennis,” Robby murmurs soothingly, dropping down at his other side. “We’re here. You ready to go inside?”

The nod that gets is slow, laboured. “Dinner? …Mom?”

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Another nod, this one more understanding, spurred on by what Robby has had the sense to realise must be the sacred rule of washing the filth of the day away before being allowed at the farmhouse table. The familiarity of it brings Dennis just enough comfort that he makes no protest when the older man scoops him up, clutching him to the warmth of his chest.

Once again, no words need to be exchanged for Jack to rush ahead, gathering blankets and makeshift warm compresses. He returns to find the other two in the bedroom, Robby gently yet hurriedly peeling their boyfriend out of his damp clothes. The moment he’s stripped down, Jack takes over with a whole armful of soft blankets, draping them around him while Robby steps away to fetch a thermometer from the bathroom cabinet. Jack works carefully, torn between the instinct to smother the boy and the knowledge that he has to be slow and methodical to avoid inducing arrhythmia. The one thing he does know is that the whole time he’s muttering soft words of encouragement, as much for his own benefit as the other man’s. Moments later, Robby returns with the thermometer and swears under his breath at the reading.

“How bad?” Jack asks quietly.

Robby won’t meet his eyes. “Eighty-four.” He swallows thickly and steps back to crank up the radiator.

Fear, guilt, anger, determination… they all twist in Jack’s stomach like potent toxins. How cruel that his own cure lies in providing someone else’s. How fitting, when he holds himself accountable for it. “Not for long,” he mutters. “Den, baby, I’m gonna lay you back and give you some packs to warm you up, okay?”

“M’kay.” Under the cosiness and weight of the blankets, the boy has become pliant, soft, lethargic. Jack can’t focus enough to remember whether that’s a good thing. When he peels back the fabric, Dennis shivers. That is a good thing. “‘S cold.”

“I know, baby, I know. We've got you.” The compresses slip between the layers: two on his chest, one at the back of his neck, one tenderly applied over his groin. “You’re okay now, you’re gonna be fine.” He wills himself to believe it.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack recoils as if he’s been shot; actually, somehow, this is worse. Here he is, wracked with guilt over his part in this nightmare, desperately trying to weave his own apology into his actions like fixing this will make it all okay when he knows it’s far from that, and yet it’s from Dennis’ chill-chapped lips that the words fall. The need to see him be okay is almost drowned by the despair of knowing that the ‘okay’ of this situation is about so much more than Jack is currently providing. His hands tremble as much as the chest they hover above.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Robby assures him softly, stepping into the space with a steaming mug. Jack hadn’t even noticed him leave, but now he sinks down beside him followed by the alluring scent of spiced apples as he lifts the warm juice to the boy’s lips. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Did. F’rgot my key.”

Oh god. Jack lets out a small strangled sound, hand flying to cover his mouth. He will spend the rest of the winter regretting this; shit, he’ll apologise until summer if he has to and it still won’t be enough. “That’s not a problem, Dennis,” he chokes out. “You could have knocked. We were worried about you.” Still are, he leaves unsaid. “We didn’t know you were there.”

86. Better. “Not going anywhere now.”

“Good.”

“Correction,” Robby interjects, keeping his tone light, praying the others hear the amusement he’s trying to add for all their sakes, “you’re going to the Pitt to get checked over.”

“Work?” Dennis murmurs, shocked.

“To work, yes, not for work. They’re gonna look after you.” 87. That’ll do. He turns to Jack. “Can you get the truck open?”

Five minutes later, Dennis is snuggled into Jack’s side in the middle of the truck bench. He’s barely awake, still wrapped in blankets and shivering uncontrollably, but the shivers are a positive compared to how he was. Robby’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and they both know it’s only partly to do with the tension of driving across black ice in the dark. There is no conversation, no music playing, just their racing pulses and the jagged breaths of the young man in between them.

Have the fluorescents always been this annoyingly bright? This is the first thought that crosses Dennis’ mind as he slowly blinks awake in one of the rooms of the Pitt. Really, they’re almost giving him a headache. Or maybe that was already there. The dull discomfort behind his eyes continues down his body, growing sharp around his chest, then evening out into a deadweight in his limbs. Beneath his twitching fingertips, the sheets are clinically crisp but warm.

He remembers snippets. The porch, the chill, the worrying absence of chill. A figure kneeling before him, one that his brain had been so certain was his brother come to let him back into the house despite it bearing Jack’s face. Robby’s chest. Blankets. More shivers. The smell of Jack’s truck. Noise. Chaos. Warmth. Sleep.

They had the decency to give him a room with a proper door instead of a curtain. It’s one of the bigger rooms too, with enough space for the second bed that has been wheeled in and is currently occupied by a tangle of limbs. He blinks the exhaustion from his mind, rearranges the jigsaw puzzle before him into two distinct bodies: Robby, laid on his back, eyes closed where his head is turned awkwardly towards the other bed; Jack, looking the smallest Dennis has ever seen him, hand fisted in the fabric of Robby’s fleece where he curls against his husband’s chest. The sight of the two of them makes his entire being ache more than it already does. He blinks back tears with a quiet sniffle. Not quiet enough, it seems.

Robby’s eyes snap open at the sound of a small sniff against the low background hum of the hospital’s usual ambience. He hadn’t wanted to fall asleep after all of it, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but Jack needed the rest and he knew he wouldn’t go down alone. He didn’t at the best of times, and especially not tonight. So he’d laid down on the bed that Lena had brought in, and made sure he was facing the other one so that he could keep an imaginary eye on Dennis. Now, the pale face of their boyfriend is the first thing he sees, weary but alive.

“Hey,” he whispers, cautiously extracting himself from the body pressed against his chest and slipping to Dennis’ bedside. “How you holding up?”

“Could be worse,” he croaks.

In spite of himself, Robby huffs out a low laugh. “You’re telling me.”

Dennis twists his hands into the bedsheets. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.” He settles on the edge of the bed, pressing a kiss to the younger man’s temple. “It’s okay, you weren’t to know. These things happen.”

“What, um… what did happen?” He won’t quite meet Robby’s eyes, whether out of embarrassment or something else.

“You were hypothermic. They gave you a heated IV and airway rewarming.”

“And before that?”

Oh. “We found you sitting out on the porch. You’d been gone for close to an hour.”

Their gazes meet then, and he finds Dennis’ full of remorse, anguish… terror. “I’m so sorry, Robby, I’m so- I’m really sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He’s said it before, but if the kid doesn’t remember then it bears saying again, or even if he does then it’s still worth repeating. “You were confused, it’s a common symptom.” A thought flickers to life. “Is that something you used to do a lot, sit out and wait? You said it was the rule.”

The boy nods. “On the farm. You forget your keys, you wait for someone to let you in.”

A little of the tension eases from Robby’s shoulders. “And that’s why you didn’t knock?” The small hands in front of him wring further into the fabric; the gaze drops again, this time undeniably in shame. “Dennis?”

“I thought you’d be angry. I was being childish, and then I was an idiot for not taking my phone or my keys. Didn’t want you both to-” he cuts himself off sharply.

Robby can think of any number of ways to finish that sentence, and all of them make his chest hurt. “We’re not going to… whatever you think. Look, I know things got out of hand, but I promise there is nothing you can do that will make us mad enough to outweigh how much we care about you. Ever.”

“Okay,” he replies, quiet, unconvinced.

“I’m serious. When we saw you out there, I was so fucking worried. So was Jack. I think he nearly passed out.” That, to his relief, earns him a tiny laugh. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“First off, let’s never do this again. No matter what happens, you can always come to us, or tell us to back off. Whatever you need.”

Dennis nods solemnly. “And second?”

“Not a word to Jack of the real reason you were sitting out there for so long.”

A more vigorous nod. He completely understands, of course he does. His own part in the argument had been gnawing at his insides the whole evening and he knows he’s the one who took it as far as it went; if Jack, who didn’t deserve the reaction he got, invariably felt guilty about things getting out of hand, then the idea of him being responsible for Dennis’ condition would eat him alive. He can’t do that to him. He’d rather get hypothermia again than put him through that.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the other man stirs, slowly at first, then faster when he remembers where he is and why he’s there. He’s out of the bed before he’s even fully awake. It takes two strides for him to cross the space and grip Dennis’ hands as though he needs to feel the proof of the blood flow warming them.

“Thank fuck you’re okay,” he sighs, not stopping to consider whether the force with which he kisses their boyfriend will have an impact on his oxygen levels. It isn’t until he feels a soft, breathy giggle against his lips that he pulls away. “Sorry, I just… fucking hell, Den.”

Robby places a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder, seizing the opportunity to deliver each of them a brief kiss of his own. “Don’t worry, I’ve already read him the riot act.”

“Oh no,” Jack tuts, “I’m not angry. I’m just so glad you’re alright. You scared the shit out of us.”

Dennis pales again, but Robby gives him a triumphant wink. “See? Told you we weren’t mad.”

The two of them watch as the younger man sags with relief, suddenly looking very small against the crisp white sheets. He whispers something, too soft and faltering for them to make out. They wait. He tries again, a little firmer. “You were right.”

“Well, yeah,” Robby chuckles, “I’m always right.”

“No.” Dennis’ eyes meet Jack’s, watery but firm. “You were right.”

Their hands are still linked; Jack squeezes reassuringly. “It’s okay, we don’t have to do this right now.”

Dennis shuffles further up the bed. “I want to. Please.”

Before he can get any further, a light yet insistent knock sounds on the door, followed shortly after by the appearance of Shen. “All still with us, then?” he grins.

Jack rolls his eyes. “Touch and go, bud. I don’t think my heart could have taken much more.”

“Come off it, you’re gonna outlive me at the rate you’re going.” The room erupts in amused mutters, something about death by iced coffee. “Alright, lay off. Glad you’re doing okay, Whitaker, just buzz if you need anything. I don’t know if there’s room for a third bed in here but I can try.” He lingers on the way out. “Oh, and Robby, tomorrow’s my night off, so if you want me to cover your shift just say the word.” Then he’s gone with a cheery ‘see you later’ and a peace sign thrown over his shoulder.

A few more visitors poke their heads in once news of Dennis’ return to consciousness spreads. Cups of tea and fresh blankets delivered by Lena; Toomarian, asking if he was okay or needed anything; a supportive fist bump from Henderson, who had quickly become a friend during the rotation he spent on nights (never again, a somewhat jealous Robby had said, much to Jack’s outrage). Soon, though, the flow settles, giving way to the stillness of the early hours. Robby drops the handrails on the beds and wheels them together, creating a rough semblance of a narrow double bed. It’s not nearly big enough to hold three people, especially not three grown men, but none of them complain when they slot themselves together in the tiny space. They can pretend to be clinging to each other as a way to keep them all in place. Pretend it has nothing to do with the all-consuming need to feel their partners’ breaths fanning across their skin and measure the temperature of the skin beneath their palms.

After a while, when their pulses are beating close to unison and they teeter on the edge of sleep, Dennis speaks again. “Thank you. For staying.”

“Of course,” Jack replies softly. “Didn’t think we’d leave you on your own, did you?” Silence. Stillness. The lack of response yanks on something in his chest, an insecurity he hadn’t noticed he’d dislodged in himself until he watched it shake loose in his partner. “We’re not going to leave, Dennis. Not over this, or anything. If you want to go home after Christmas, we’ll support you, I promise. As long as you’re okay.”

At last, an acknowledgement of sorts. “They don’t actually want me there.”

“Oh, Den.” His heart breaks a little more. “I’m sure they do. I didn’t mean to get in your head, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They invited me, but they don’t want me. There’s a difference.” Dennis sighs, burrowing further into the cavity between the men’s chests. “I think my mom is hoping I’ll show up and still be the person I was before I left, and the only reason I wanted to go back was to prove that I’m not.”

Fingers wind into his curls, and he melts into the sensation of Robby stroking across his scalp as he responds. “You’re definitely not. You’ve already outgrown the person you were when we met you, and that’s only half the time you’ve been away.”

Dennis nods against him, and Robby both feels and hears him drawing in a breath to steady himself and absorb the comforting scent. The air, now lighter, moves freely through his lungs. There’s so much he wants to tell them both: how sorry he is again for arguing in the first place and for making them feel like he didn’t care how much his outburst or the aftermath of him enduring a trip home would affect them; how much the relationship means to him and more so now he’s experienced the fear of losing it; how glad he is they went looking for him. Now, however, nestled half-asleep in the pocket of body heat between them, the right words escape him. He could voice them exactly as he thinks, but they don’t seem significant enough to bear the full weight of his emotions. Instead, he tugs Jack a little closer where he’s hanging off the edge of the bed and smiles as the man curls into him. “So, Boxing Day…”

“Mhm?” The reply is thick with drowsiness, Jack’s already low voice even more hoarse. Something about the sound reaffirms everything he’s been holding back.

“I was thinking, maybe we don’t go out?”

“You wanna stay here?” he frowns. On the other side of the bed, Robby - the most awake of the trio - tightens his arm where it’s draped across them both and presses another kiss into Dennis’ hair.

“Not in the hospital, no, but-”

“‘S not what I-”

“I know what you meant,” Dennis insists softly, entirely at odds with how he’d said those exact words a few short hours ago. This time, there’s no misplaced insinuations, just pure synchronicity. “Just… here.” He waves a hand vaguely between the two of them, gesture loose and uncoordinated as his exhausted mind tries to remember how to control his limbs. “If that’s okay?”

“Course it is,” Jack hums, the comfort of returning to a state of mutual understanding finally lulling him over the brink.

“We’re here for as long as you’ll have us,” Robby confirms, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.

“You have a shift in four hours,” Dennis points out, voice deadpan but humorous.

Robby doesn’t look up. “Shen can cover. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do.”