Work Text:
Just come be the man I need
Tell me you got something to give, I want it
I kinda like it when you call me wonderful
Whatever the type of talk it is, come on then
I gotta know you're meant to be the man I need
꥟
You grip your phone in your shaking hands, as you settle back against the tile of your bathroom floor and his number swims in front of your face.
Call me anytime.
Angry tears cut your eyes as you press your face against the floor, wishing like you had a million times before that you weren't sick.
You know he won't answer his phone, unless he's free, but guilt still settles in the pit of your stomach as you hit call.
It rings four times, and you're convinced it's going to go to voicemail when he finally picks up.
"Hello?"
You swallow against the bile that's crawling up your throat.
"Hello?" He repeats, as you heave what's left of the saltines you'd managed to eat into the toilet.
"Hi," you cough, wiping your hand against your mouth.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters and the din in the background dampens and you realize he must have stepped into the breakroom. "Babe?"
"Turns out, planting those perennials was a bad idea."
You'd been so careful - you wore your neck fan that Dennis always teased you about, made sure to stay hydrated and only worked in short, fifteen minute intervals, hiding under the massive umbrella Dennis had set up on your balcony.
"Shit," Dennis mutters, "I'm coming home."
"No -" you sob, "I'm o-okay, if you could just bring me some Gatorade -"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"You can't -" not for you, not because your body couldn't cooperate for once in your fucking life.
"I can and I will, my shifts over in fifteen minutes. I'll get Trinity to cover for me."
"I'm sorry," you whimper, pressing your face against the towel you'd pulled under your head.
"Don't be."
You dissolve into tears, as he tells you to 'sit tight', and he ends the call as you curl into yourself.
You manage to fall into a hazy sleep, only waking when you hear the front door open, and your face flushes - you know the state your apartment is in, the state it's always in, and the shame that unfurls in your chest has teeth.
He calls your name, before pushing open the bathroom door.
"Hey," he murmurs, carefully kneeling onto the floor beside you, and you blink open your eyes. "Look at me," you look up at him as he reaches out to touch your face, muttering something about diaphoretic clamminess.
Dennis carefully brushes your hair out of your face, "when's the last time you threw up?"
"On the phone with you."
"Do you think you got too much sun, yesterday?"
"I don't know," you whisper, as humiliated tears leak down your cheeks, "I was careful, I was done before noon, I drank hydralite - god," you whimper.
"Hey," his fingers tighten against your face, "this isn't your fault."
"I felt fine when I went to bed last night."
"How was your sleep?"
"Shit. But it's always bad, even if I'm not plummeting into a crash."
"I know, I'm sorry, that was a stupid question."
It's not, and that just makes you all the more frustrated.
"Was Dr. Robby upset?"
"I don't know, he was in the middle of a thoracostomy when I left."
"Dennis ..."
"It's fine, I'm sure I'll hear about it tomorrow -"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be, I just finished charting when you called."
"But -"
He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, "I told you to call me if it gets bad and I meant it. Jesus, you've called me twice in the past two and a half months -"
"I shouldn't have to call you at all."
"Who else are you going to call? Your parents? It's a pretty long drive from Lansing." He lets you go to grab a washcloth, wetting it under the sink before wiping your face.
"I know, I just ..." You take a deep breath, "you should be with someone who's -"
"Don't," Dennis shakes his head pulling you into his arms, and you cling to him as he runs a hand through your greasy hair, "it's not your fault that you're sick."
Fresh tears soak the collar of Dennis' scrubs, and you press your face against his chest, letting out a watery breath as he runs his hands along your back.
"Here," Dennis presses your water bottle against your arm, and it feels like a dumbbell in your hands as you take a sip, and his breath is warm against your face as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Can you stand up?"
"Yeah," you murmur, and Dennis lets you go, staying close as you carefully push yourself to your feet.
"Sit," he instructs and you drop onto the toilet as he grabs your toner, and a couple of cotton pads to clean your face, he then hands you a toothbrush, and you laugh.
"I love you," he murmurs and you flush.
"I love you too," you mutter around your toothbrush, legs trembling as you stand up to spit, smiling as his hands settle against the curve of your waist, and you turn so you're facing him, and he leans in, breath fanning against your face, and you lean in, to carefully slot your mouth over his.
"You're sure you're okay?" He pulls back, "your colour's better," he reaches up to press two fingers against your neck, "you're still tachy -"
You raise your eyebrows, "do you need to intubate?"
Dennis snorts, "a fast heart rate alone isn't a reason to intubate," he leans back, "unless you're hemodynamically unstable -"
"Always," you joke, "especially when I'm around you."
Dennis laughs out loud, "smooth," he pushes his hands into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he kisses you.
His mouth is soft, and you melt into it, feeling the tension drop from your shoulders as he links an arm around your waist, to pull you closer.
"Let's get you to bed," he murmurs, and you follow him into your bedroom, biting your lip at the mess of clothes and books all over your floor.
You were always careful not to leave any food or drinks out - but you're still embarrassed.
"Sorry, I meant to clean up -"
"You don't have to apologize," he sighs, "look ... Will you let me call someone? To help you clean up? Just like once a month -"
You sigh, "you know I can't afford it."
"I know, but I can pay for it -"
You shake your head, "you don't have to Dennis, I can get better at putting my stuff away -"
"Hey, hey," he interrupts, "You know I don't care about the mess, but I know you do." He grabs your hand pulling it into his lap, "It's okay to need help, babe. I'll reach out to a couple places but only if you want me to.”
You wait a beat before nodding, "okay."
Dennis' face lit up, and he bounces before leaning over to give you a kiss.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Letting me take care of you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.
"Did you want to order some Kimchi soup and watch Love is Blind?"
"Yes -"
"My treat," you quip.
"Deal," Dennis nods, "now come here, and tell me of your sternocleidomastoid is tense."
"My what?"
"The muscle in the side of you neck. Does it hurt?"
You give him a look, "Den, my whole body hurts."
He snorts setting his hands on your shoulders,
Gently pressing his thumbs against the base of your skull, and you let out a whimper, letting your eyes close.
"Sorry," Dennis mutters and you grin as you hear his accent slip out, it doesn't happen often, but when it does it's a treat.
"It feels good," you murmur, leaning into his touch, and Dennis hums as he works his fingers up the side of you neck, and you're practically sitting in his lap when he finds a particularly stubborn knot in your shoulder and you jump.
"Sorry," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the tender spot.
"It's okay," you sigh, reaching back for his hand, so you can pull it against your chest.
"O-oh."
"I'm not ..." you swallow, "it's a comfort thing."
He laughs against the side of your neck, holding you until you reach down for your phone.
"What're we thinking?" Dennis wonders, "Soju or Golden Pig?"
"Pig's," it's an easy choice - their portions were big enough to share and cheap.
Dennis presses a kiss against the side of your neck, as you quickly put it in your order.
"It'll be about thirty minutes."
Dennis lets go of you to grab your remote, turning on your TV.
"Okay, but do you think Devonta and Brittany are going to get married?"
"Oh, absolutely not ..."
꥟