Chapter Text
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You meant to leave the house by nine, so you'd have tons of time to make it to Passionate Pages by around ten, so you could get in the inevitable queue for their hard launch - under a bubblegum pink awning that stretched half a city block.
Your body, however, had other plans.
You got up in time, blinking against the sunlight that streamed through your curtains - and you shift.
You're soaked in sweat, despite the AC and two standing fans you have in your bedroom, and you blink awake.
A shower is off the table, and you compromise by using almost an entire pack of wet wipes before washing your face. Makeup is minimal - the space buns you'd managed to wrangle your hair into hide the fact that you haven't brushed it in the past two days, and pretty, lilac clips and some hair gel hide how oily your scalp is.
You've come with electrolytes in your water bottle, an umbrella for the sun and snacks and ibuprofen in your bag.
What you're not ready for, is the person waiting at the end of the line, with a blonde curly mullet - that looks wet, wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and a t shirt with a black jacket and you spot a little gold heart on his backpack that says he/him, and you bite your lip, stepping behind him in line as he mutters.
"... definitely fucking with me."
"Sorry?"
The guy glances up, blue eyes widening as he realizes you heard him muttering to himself. "Shit, sorry. My roommate told me a new bookstore was opening, and I just realized she was fucking with me."
"Oh, Passionate Pages is a bookstore," you laugh, "but I take it ... smut's not really you're thing?"
"Oh, I'm not opposed to it as a concept," he laughs, "but I'm, uh, more of a sci-fi guy myself."
"Really?" You glance down at his Invaders of the Body Snatchers shirt, "I wouldn't have guessed."
He quirks his head, like maybe you're making fun of him and you flush.
"Your shirt -"
"Oh," colour flushes his cheeks, "right." You're standing beside each other now, and he glances at you -before blurting: "so, do you read a lot of smut?"
You bite your lip.
"Fuck, I meant books - do you read a lot of
books."
"Not as much as I used to," you shrug.
Honestly, sometimes holding a book made you so exhausted that the words swam on the pages in front of you. Audio books were great, but you loved the feeling of a solid book in your hand.
He glances behind you, and you can tell he wants to leave.
"I'm sure there's plenty of sci fi books to choose from," you offer and he looks at you.
"Oh yeah?"
You pull out your phone, "I know Ruby Dixon has a couple of books about space barbarians."
"Barbarians?" He squeaks.
"Those might be a bit too intense, do you read fantasy?"
"I'll read anything."
"There's always Fourth Wing, if you want to ease into something more spicy -"
You hear him choke on his iced coffee and your face flushes with colour.
"I - oh my god - that's not what I meant -"
"It's okay," he laughs wiping his mouth, "I'm Dennis."
"Oh," you tell him your name, grabbing his hand just as the line moves forward.
"You should take a picture," you nod, towards a photo-op of a large, pink sparkly book, complete with a red pink balloon arch.
Dennis glances as you, "will you take it?"
"Oh, yeah, of course."
"I, uh, meant with me?" He wonders, looking sorry for even suggesting it. "Trinity keeps saying I need to make friends outside of work."
"Sure," you follow the line, pausing in front of the glittery book, handing Dennis' phone to a pretty girl, with long, pink hair, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a t shirt with Passionate Pages emblazoned across the front.
"Get a little closer," she grins, and your swallow as Dennis wraps an arm around your waist. "Okay, say, good girl!"
You glance at Dennis before breaking into laughter, and when the associate hands Dennis back his phone, you're wiping tears from your eyes.
"I love when couples come and explore the shop together!"
"Oh -"
"We just met," Dennis mumbles as your carried over the threshold, and your mouth drops open as you take in Passionate Pages's interior - the high vaulted ceilings, the red walls, and the pink chandeliers - bookshelves full of novels from Contemporary to Queer.
You watch Dennis taking it all in, one of the few other masculine presenting people in the store, looking delighted as he took in the skillfully painted edges of full series and you watch Dennis' brows furrow as he stops in front of a wall of stickers.
"GOYKATTDLAGG?" He wonders, attempting to say it phonetically, "what does that mean?"
"Oh, um, it's an acronym."
"Hm?" He wonders glancing at you and you lean over, to whisper in his ear.
"Oh, god," he muttered, knocking over a metal tumbler, "shit, sorry." You both reach for the tumbler at the same time, and his fingers wrap around yours.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"Oh, uh, no."
You smile, "me neither," you laugh, "I grew up just outside of Chicago."
"Broken Bow, Nebraska," Dennis laughs, rubbing the back of his head. "I've been trying to keep my accent from slipping -"
"Me too."
"Clearly you're doing better than I am."
"Oh, I don't know," you swing your arms, spotting the book you'd been wanted a few bookshelves over. "I'm going to go grab a book -"
"Yeah, I'll just keep ... Perusing," Dennis mutters, wincing as you slip past him, and you hear him mumble, "who fucking says that?"
You duck your head, thankful to know that you're not the only one feeling nervous as you make your way over to the contemporary section, where Rosie Danan's Fan Service sits at the very bottom of the shelf, crammed in with the other monster erotica, and you frown, glancing back to see if Dennis is still looking at the stickers but you don't see him.
"Shit," you mutter, you've been off all morning, and bending down to grab the book you want shouldn't be a big deal, and what you'd hoped was an elevated heartrate from meeting a ridiculously pretty boy was the sign of something else, and your stomach drops as your chest tightens.
"Sorry," you murmur, to the person you'd just stumbled into.
"That's okay," they grin, giving you a concerned look, "hey, are you okay?"
"Yeah," you lie, gripping the edge of the bookshelf, "I just need to sit down?" A wave of dizziness hits and you sway forward.
"God," you whisper as tears cut your eyes.
"Oh my god!" Someone exclaims as the sweet angel who asked if you were okay crouches next to you.
"I know first aid," they assure you, scanning your face. "What's going on?"
"I have pots," you whimper.
"Okay, I don't know what that is? Are you dizzy?"
"Y-yes," you nod.
"Hey," they call, "I need some help!"
"No, no, no," you chant, taking a shaky breath as a harried associate rushes over.
"What's going on?"
"She's pale and said she looks dizzy, she fell -"
"I didn't fall," you assure them, "I - I'm chronically ill, I get tired sometimes -"
"I have a granola bar in my bag," someone says to your left.
"Shit," the employee curses, "look, you're going to be okay, I'm going to call an ambulance -"
"No, I don't need an ambulance, I swear, I just need to catch my breath -"
"God, they're sweating like crazy -"
"Please," you beg, "I'm telling you that I don't need an ambulance -"
"My hands are kind of tied here," the sales associate frets, and you glance down at their name tag.
"Riley? I - I have my water bottle, I just need -"
"Did someone say that they needed help?" Dennis' voice cuts through the chaos around you, "I'm a doctor."
"Oh thank fuck," Riley sighs, closing their eyes.
No.
This cannot be happening.
You've died and gone to hell.
"Hey," Dennis says, squeezing past Riley, "you're okay," he assures you, "can you look at me?"
You nod, forcing yourself to look up at him, and you're suddenly reminded of a sad little blueberry plush you'd seen at Barnes and Noble a few years ago.
"You're a doctor?" You murmur.
"Yes," Dennis nods, pulling out his phone, "can I check your pulse?"
"Y-yes."
He carefully presses two fingers against your neck, glancing down at his watch, "heartrate is elevated, but still normal." You watch him set his shoulders, "can you all give us a little space?" He looks at you, "you look pale, have you eaten today?"
"I don't have diabetes."
"That's good to know," he smiles, and he looks so earnest that it makes you ache.
"Oh! She said she has pots."
"Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome?"
"Yes," you nod, as helpless tears spill down your cheeks.
"Hey," Dennis touches your arm, "don't cry, you're okay, I've got you."
"I'm sorry -"
"Don't apologize," Riley interjects, "it's hot as fuck outside."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty four."
"Is there somewhere she could lie down?" Dennis wonders.
"Yeah, give me a minute," Riley turns, disappearing into the crowd, before returning with an older woman with long silver blond hair.
"Oh, honey," she sighs, "I'm Marie, the owner, are you alright?"
"She's having a flare up," Dennis calmly interrupts, "do you have a break room where she can lay down?"
"Of course."
"I can stand," you mutter, glancing at the girl who first offered her help, and she doesn't leave your side as you push yourself to your feet.
"Can I help you?" Dennis asks, and you nod, leaning against him as you follow the owner towards the back of the store.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper.
"Not at all," Marie shakes her head, pushing open the door, and Dennis leads you over to a velvet pink couch.
"It's not really practical," she frets.
"No, it's perfect," Dennis grins, glancing at you. "But I think it's a good idea that they call an ambulance."
You close your eyes as he helps you lay down.
"I work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center," he says, "they'll take good care of you."
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"Do you have any salty snacks?"
"I have chips in my locker," Riley hurries over, and you glance at the girl with first aid, who took your bag.
"You said you had a water bottle?"
"Yes," you nod, "with electrolytes?"
"Can I get it for you?"
"Please."
Dennis is speaking softly on the phone, as he crosses his legs, hitching your feet into his lap, so they're slightly elevated.
Riley brings over a bag of dill pickle chips as you take a sip of hydralite, grimacing at the taste as Riley opens the bag.
"I'm Wendy," the girl next to you grins.
"Thank you."
She flushes, "I just got certified for first aid ... I didn't think I'd actually ever use it."
"You did great," Dennis interjects.
"I'm going to nursing school in the fall, it just felt like the right thing to do."
"Let's give them some privacy," Marie says after a moment, "you and Florence Nightingale can watch for the ambulance," she winks at Wendy who flushes.
"So," Dennis wets his lips, hands on your shins, "when were you diagnosed with pots? Not, um, that it's any of my business, I just want to be able to give the EMTs as full of a picture as I can -"
"It's okay," you take a deep breath, "I was diagnosed in twenty fifteen."
"Shit. Just with POTS or?"
"I also have chronic pain, and myalgic encephalomyelitis -"
"Chronic Fatigue Syndrome," Dennis nods, "I took a class in chronic illnesses," he explains. "What about fibromyalgia?"
"No," and thank fuck for that, "there's no hyper mobility either -" which probably ruled out Ehlers-Danlos, but with your fucking luck, you weren't willing to bet on it.
"The ambulance should be here in twenty minutes," Dennis says gently, "eat some more of those chips."
You should've just stayed home today.
"I'm glad you didn't."
You look at him.
"Obviously I'm not glad that you're in the middle of a flare up -"
Your nose crinkles as you laugh, "you don't have to stay with me -"
"I definitely do," he shrugs, "it would be supremely uncool of me to leave you back here to go and peruse erotica."
"I mean, I wouldn't judge you if you did."
He reaches down to trace one of the patches on your backpack.
"Did you go to Pitt?"
"Yeah, I graduated a couple of years before I got sick"
"What do you do?"
"I'm, um, a librarian? I do digital archiving. I work from home."
"I didn't know librarians could work remotely."
"I work at Pitt."
Dennis' smile is shy, "and I work at The Pitt."
"Is that really what they call it?"
"Yeah."
"How long have you worked there?"
"A year and a half - I did my residency there."
"The ambulance is here," Riley announces, pushing open the door back door.
"Hey, Cary," Dennis calls to a petite Asian woman at the front of the gourney.
"Dennis? What happened?"
"She's a thirty four four years old, suffering from a postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome flare up."
"Any fainting or nausea?"
"N-no."
Cary gives you a soft smile, "we'll get you up here and we'll start you on a drip."
"0.9% Normal Saline," you and Dennis say in unison and Cary laughs.
"How often do you struggle with flare-ups?" She wonders as Dennis shoulders your backpack.
"It's been a while -"
"She has myalgic encephalomyelitis," Dennis interjects.
"You said no nausea?" You shake your head, "I'm going to give you some Zofran just in case," Cary explains, "the ride to the hospital can be pretty bumpy."
"Are you taking any other medications?" Her partner asks, opening a fresh IV starter kit.
"Yeah, I, uh, have the list in my phone," you fumble to pull it from your back pocket, to hand it to Bosco.
"Looks good, thanks," he tears open the alcohol swab, "you'll feel a pinch -"
"Dennis?" You call, and he glances up. "Will you stay with me?"
He looks at Cary who nods, and fresh tears leak down your cheeks as the cool rush of saline hits your system.
You know it's absurd, as Dennis follows you outside, you just met - you don't even know him, but you still seek out his gaze as your settled into the back of the ambulance, and as he settles next to you, carefully taking your hand - you feel better.
"So," Dennis grins, "what book were you going to get?"
"Oh," you shift on the gurney, "it's called Fan Service. It's about a guy who finds out he's a werewolf ..."
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