Chapter Text
Something’s wrong with Dennis.
It starts small, just little things that Robby hardly registers at first. It’s a busy day, it’s been a busy week, so when it vaguely ticks that Dennis is a little quieter than usual during rounds, fumbling his notes, missing cues he normally catches, he doesn’t actually think twice about it.
Nor how when Robby asks him a question about a patient’s chart, and Dennis blinks like he’s been startled awake.
It’s only when Robby looks, really looks, that he notices that something is… off.
Actually off.
Dennis’ gaunt cheeks are flushed, his hair damp where it curls against his forehead, and there’s something hazy in his eyes as he tries to focus on Robby’s face.
“You alright, kid?” Robby asks, leaning in just a little as he softens his voice.
“Yeah,” Dennis answers too quickly, his voice shaky and thin. “Just, uh… didn’t… sleep great.”
Robby doesn’t buy it. He wants to push, wants to demand Dennis tells him the truth but… but he’s just taken a pre-alert from an incoming ambulance about a car crash with three trauma patients and they’re already having to put people in the corridor, and Dennis looks like he might just fall apart if Robby pushes, so he lets it go.
For now.
An hour later though, it’s somehow gotten worse.
Dennis keeps slipping off between calls. He says he’s grabbing supplies or checking something with one of the nurses, but he always disappears towards the bathrooms and comes back looking paler, shakier.
Robby catches him once, leaning against the wall outside the staff toilet, eyes squeezed shut, one hand on his chest as he tries to slow his breathing.
“Whitaker.”
That catches Dennis’ attention and he jerks upright, too fast, his hands squeezing so tight together that his knuckles go white.
“You look like hell, kid. Go take your break and have a lie down.”
Dennis shakes his head, forcing up a smile that doesn’t even remotely reach his eyes. “No — no I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear, Dr Robby, I’m fine. Promise.”
Robby sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s used to dealing with stubborn, but Dennis isn’t stubborn as much as he is stupid, and Robby knows that he’ll push himself to the point of collapse because he’s so desperate to please. It’s ridiculous. Completely and utterly fucking ridiculous, because anyone with eyes can see that Whitaker isn’t alright.
But of course that’s the moment a cardiac arrest is called through, and every insistence Robby might have that Whitaker sits this one out dies on his lips when it comes through the tannoy that it isn’t just a cardiac arrest, it’s a 6 year old girl.
By the time Jack comes in, it’s beyond obvious. Dennis is helping one of the porters move a gurney, but he’s walking like all his limbs belong to someone else. He’s sluggish, unsteady. His hand slips on the side rail, and Jack catches it just before he pins it between the bed and the wall.
“Hey,” Jack says, his face twisting into a frown as he realises how warm and sweaty Dennis feels. “You don’t look so hot, mouse.”
Dennis tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. “Just… a little bug, maybe. I’ll be fine. I am fine”
“Uh-huh.” Jack looks up, and catches Robby’s expression mirroring his own from across the floor. “You sure about that?”
Dennis nods, and the motion makes him sway, his fingers tightening around Jack’s.
“Yeah.”
Jack just raises an eyebrow, and he can see Robby sigh, setting down the files in his hand before he crosses over to the two.
“Whitaker, go lie down in the staff lounge. That’s an order.”
“I can’t,” Dennis insists. “We’ve got another trauma due in, and you said—”
“I’ll manage.”
But Dennis shakes his head, stubborn to the core. He sways again, and Jack steps a little closer, the hand still holding Dennis’ (for some reason) gripping a little tighter. But Dennis persists.“I don’t want to bail on you guys. You’ve already got enough—”
He doesn’t finish.
Mid-sentence, his face goes white, and his knees buckle. For a second, Robby thinks he’s just dizzy, until Dennis sways dangerously to the side and his pager slips from his hand, clattering to the floor.
“Dennis?”
There’s no answer, just the sound of his breath catching once, sharply, and then he goes down.
Robby and Jack both lunge forwards, barely managing to catch him before he hits the tile. The dead weight of him is terrifying, the way his head lolls, resting in Robby’s lap, his skin clammy, and so hot.
“Shit — Jack!”
Jack’s already there, kneeling at Dennis’ side. He’s got his thin wrist in one hand, fingers pressed over his pulse point as he looks up at the clock.
“He’s tachy, and his radial is super weak but it’s regular.”
“Come on Whitaker, wake up kid.” Robby gives Dennis a shake, but he doesn’t stir. “Come on, you’re okay.”
When he still doesn’t respond, they lay him out flat on the floor, Jack propping his legs up over his own.
Dennis’ eyelashes flutter then. His lips are pale, and he's breathing too quick, his chest rising and falling erratically. A bead of sweat runs down his temple, dripping down into his hair.
“Hey, hey,” Robby murmurs, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Mouse, come on, stay with us.”
Dennis groans weakly and he tries to turn to Robby, but his body doesn’t do what he wants.
He tries to open his eyes, but the light is too bright, too much, and he squeezes them shut again, a pained noise escaping him.
“Okay, let’s get a monitor over here,” Jack says, reaching for his pager. “And someone grab a thermometer.”
Within seconds, they’ve got a small crowd forming around them, a handful of nurses, doctors, a couple of curious interns. Robby barely registers any of them. His whole focus has narrowed down to the boy in his lap.
Beside them, Jack’s got the monitor next to them, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Dennis’ bicep, the sats probe already on his finger.
Dennis stirs at the pressure of the cuff as it inflates, his face twisting in discomfort.
“Hey,” Robby murmurs, “you’re okay Whitaker. You’re okay. You hear? You’re not dying on my shift.”
Dennis groans, and Robby hushes him. “Shh,” Robby says, easing his hand under Dennis’ head. “Don’t talk. Just relax, mouse.”
Jack takes Dennis’ temperature while the monitor cycles through his obs, and his expression turns grim as the machine beeps at them. “104.5”
“Christ.” Robby scrubs a hand over his face. “I should’ve—”
Jack cuts him off with a look. “Don’t. We’ll deal with it.”
Robby nods, but guilt curls deep in his gut anyway. He’d seen it, he’d known that something was wrong, and he hadn’t pushed him, hadn’t made him rest.
They load Dennis onto a gurney, Robby and Jack forgoing any lifting equipment in favour of just picking Dennis up. He really doesn’t weigh much, and that only makes Robby feel worse as he realises how thin he is.
As they wheel him towards one of the bays, Robby keeps a hand on his shoulder, steady and protective. His skin sticks with sweat, his scrubs damp as the fever runs through him.
Once he’s in a bay and the curtain is drawn, Jack takes charge, writing up a chart as he barks orders.
“Right — let’s get two large-bore IVs going, hang a litre — uh, two litres of normal saline, then have a litre of Ringer’s on standby. We need a full panel of labs, a CBC, U&E, lactate, a venous gas and an arterial gas if we can get one. Let’s get a blood glucose and ketones too, and let’s get a twelve-lead on too.”
A nurse hands Robby a glucometer, and he does it himself, pricking the side of Dennis’ finger. The blood beads scarlet, and Robby watches as it runs up the testing strip.
The machine hums for a long moment before it beeps.
It doesn’t give a numerical reading, just says "HIGH" in bold blinking letters, the little ketone indicator flashing red.
“Jesus,” Jack whistles, flushing the cannula in the back of Dennis’ hand. “That’s — yeah, I guess that tracks. We’ll get a full reading with that VBG.”
Robby takes another drop of blood, this time with the ketone strip, his jaw clenched as the counter ticks down.
Fuck.
7.3mmol/l.
Fuck.
Robby stares at it for a long moment before Jack leans over his shoulder, reading the little numbers on the screen. The monitor beside them comes to life then with a steady stream of readings: heart rate 144, sats of 93, BP of 76/48.
“His blood pressure’s still low,” one of the nurses points out.
“Let’s get that fluid running,” Jack says. “Now please.”
Robby looks down at Dennis, his breathing still too fast and too shallow, his chest heaving as he fights to breathe even as one of the nurses gets an oxygen mask on him. His lips are cracked and dry, the bags under his eyes darker than normal.
Robby can smell it now that he knows, faint but unmistakable, the sickly-sweet, pear and acetone scented tang of ketones on his breath.
One of the other interns has brought one of the fans from the nursing station over and plugged it in next to Dennis, and the cold air makes him stir a little.
“Kid, hey,” Robby murmurs, brushing his hair back. “You with us, Whitaker?”
Dennis stirs faintly, lids fluttering open just enough to reveal unfocused eyes. “’mmngh—” He tries to swallow, but he’s so dehydrated that it’s clearly a struggle. “Sorry…”
“Hey, no,” Robby says quickly. “No more of that. You’re alright, Mouse, okay? We’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Jack squeezes the bag of saline, forcing the fluid faster through the line.
His jaw is tight, eyes darting between the monitor and Dennis’ ashen face. “We need insulin as soon as he’s had a litre. Can someone draw up an infusion and check on those blood gas results?”
One of the nurses nods, disappearing behind the curtain.
Dennis looks a little less pale now with most of a litre of fluids in him, and as the cuff deflates, his blood pressure reads 87/62.
Not good, but better.
When the insulin infusion starts, Jack checks the pump himself, adjusting the rate. “Let’s keep a close eye on the infusion, we need to watch his potassium so let’s keep that twelve lead on. Blood gas has come back with —“ he hesitates, then whistles, staring at the slip of paper in his hand. “Fuck me, okay. Blood sugar is sitting at 704 mg/dl, ketones are 7.3, pH of 6.98, serum bicarb of 15, and we’re just hypokalaemic at 3.0. Let’s keep an eye on that EKG and run repeat VBGs. We can supplement potassium if it drops.”
Robby exhales through his nose.
He knows all this. They both do. But it feels different when it’s someone that matters.
How many times has he run through this exact situation? How many times has he given insulin and potassium and advised a reevaluation of blood sugar management without thinking twice? It shouldn’t bother him this much, it shouldn’t, they’re doctors for fucks sake, but seeing Dennis looking so small and sick… it’s like it shifts everything sideways, like Robby’s forgetten how to be a doctor.
It’s a really good thing Jack’s here.
Robby stays at Dennis’ side.
He watches the insulin infusion run, feels Dennis stir every time the nurse returns to draw bloods for another gas.
He’s holding Dennis’ thin wrist, not quite his hand, that feels too much, too intimate, but instead curled around the joint, the pads of his fingertips pressed against his pulse, feeling its faint but steady rhythm.
It’s better now than it was, stronger thanks to the fluids running into both of his arms.
Robby’s so focused on the boy before him that the sudden firm warmth of a hand on his shoulder makes him jump, but he relaxes into it instantly. He knows this touch, he’d recognise it anywhere.
“He’ll be okay. He’s young, he’s strong.”
Robby doesn’t look up. “He could’ve died.”
Jack’s strong fingers grip at Robby’s shoulder. “But he didn’t.”
Jack’s touch grounds him, and Robby heaves a deep sigh, leaning backwards until his head makes contact with the sturdy warmth of Jack’s chest.
Before him lies Dennis, still too pale, still sweating, face twisted in discomfort, and Robby squeezes his eyes tight shut. He can’t keep looking at him, because if he keeps looking then he’s going to lose his fucking mind because in some stupid twisted way this is all obviously his fault.
He should have noticed something was wrong.
He did notice something was wrong.
He should have picked up on the fact that Dennis has been ill far longer than just today, he should have realised what everyone else missed.
He should have forced Dennis to lie down and done a set of obs on him, he should have thought to check his blood sugar, he should have — he should have —
“Stop thinking,” Jack murmurs, his grip still strong, firm on Robby’s shoulder. “I can hear you blaming yourself. Stop it, Mike.”
He knows him too well.
The hand not over Dennis’ reaches up, and Robby covers Jack’s fingers with his own. They twitch, just momentarily.
“He’s just…”
“I know.”
They stay there until the incessant hum of the emergency room calls for Jack again, and he leaves Robby with a final squeeze of his shoulder. The imprint of his warmth lingers, even as Robby bends down towards Dennis again.
“Hey kid,” he whispers. “You’re gonna be okay. I’m not going anywhere, kid. You hear me?”
It’s long past midnight when the worst of it breaks.
The ward lights are dimmed, the sterile hum of hospital nights wrapping around them like white noise.
Robby hasn’t left Dennis’ side once.
Jack went home hours ago after making him promise to at least try and get some rest, but Robby’s still here. Still awake.
He’s pulled a second one of the visitor’s chairs up beside his own, legs stretched out in front of him, alleviating some of the bone-deep exhaustion from a full day on the floor and now a night of this.
His eyes are heavy, burning every time he blinks, and he doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know that they’re bloodshot, but they stay locked on Dennis, tracking every twitch, every shiver.
He’s been watching his numbers for hours.
Slowly, they’ve started to stabilise.
His heart rate has dropped, finally, his heart no longer thrumming away, but steady, normal. It’s still a little higher than Robby would like, sitting in the 90s, but it’s no longer persisting in the 150s so he’ll take it.
Dennis’ blood pressure has come up too now, just the low side of normal, but normal, the litres of fluids pumped into him doing their job.
And his fever.
When it breaks, it’s almost anticlimactic.
Dennis shifts about under the blankets, and then he stills. His restless, shallow breathing eases into something deeper, more rhythmic. The worst of the flush drains from his face, and when Robby blinks the gritty exhaustion from his eyes and touches his brow, it’s cooler.
And when the touch stirs Dennis from his slumber just for a moment, his blue eyes are no longer clouded with the harsh edge of delirium, but the soft haze of groggy confusion.
He’s asleep again almost immediately and Robby finally lets himself sag back in the hard plastic chair, exhaustion finally catching up with him.
He must doze, because when Dennis stirs again, and Robby blinks himself awake, the light through the blinds is different, a thinner, grey-blue. The ghost of morning.
Dennis blinks blearily, squinting up at the unfamiliar ceiling.
Robby sits up at once, leaning forward as he finds Dennis’ hand again. “Hey. Hey, Whitaker. You with me?”
Dennis frowns, disoriented, his eyes struggling to focus as he turns towards Robby’s voice.
“Dr Robby? ...Where’m I?”
“Yeah, hey,” Robby says softly. “You’re okay. You’re on the ward.”
Dennis swallows, then coughs, his throat dry. “What—what happened? Why… why’m I here?”
Robby hesitates, then leans in a little closer.
“You… went into ketoacidosis,” he says carefully. “Your blood sugar was really high when you collapsed. That’s why you were feeling so awful.”
Dennis stares at him, forehead wrinkled, not comprehending. “But… I don’t—but I’m not diabetic. How? Why?”
Robby gives him a small, sad smile.
“I know… but I uh… I think you might be, kid. You just… didn’t know. Sometimes type one takes a while to present itself.”
Dennis’ face crumples, his features twisting with confusion. “That doesn’t—” he starts, voice breaking as his lower lip trembles. It makes him look so young. Robby has to look away. “But that doesn’t make sense. I— so many years I—how? I’m—”
“I know. It’s a lot. It doesn’t make sense right now, and that’s okay. You’ve probably been fighting this for years without realising. But you’re safe now, Whitaker. You’re going to be alright.”
Dennis blinks hard, his blue eyes glassy. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and it’s so quiet it nearly breaks Robby’s heart.
“Don’t you dare apologise,” Robby says, shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know.”
He’ll be mad at Dennis later, when he’s well enough for Robby to find out exactly why Dennis didn’t say he wasn’t feeling well, why he didn’t notice something was wrong.
But not now. Not while he’s like this, so small, so young, so fragile.
Dennis turns his head slightly, squinting toward the window, and that’s when he notices the faint grey of pre-dawn creeping through. He blinks, then looks back at Robby, confused. “What… what time is it?”
Robby checks his watch. “Half five.”
“In the morning?”
“Mmhm.”
Dennis frowns harder, still trying to process. “You — why are you still here? You’ve got work in a couple of hours–”
Robby huffs out a quiet, tired laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, I know.”
“So… why?”
Robby looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “You scared the hell out of me Dennis, what kind of attending would I be if I just left you? I couldn’t just go home.”
Dennis blinks at him, clearly stunned by the simplicity of it. “So… you stayed? With me?”
“Of course I stayed.”
Dennis swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing. “You didn’t have to,” he whispers.
“‘Course, I did. You’re one of mine, kid.”
Dennis looks away, blinking fast as he tries not to let the tears welling in his eyes fall. He’s clearly so exhausted that he’s not even trying to hide that he’s crying. It’s hard for Robby not to just reach forwards and take him into his arms, protect him from everything that’s ever hurt him. But he doesn’t, even as Dennis whispers, “You’re… you’re too nice, you know.”
So instead, Robby just chuckles softly, leaning back in the chair, head tipping against the wall. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
Dennis laughs at that.
It doesn’t take long before Dennis’ breathing evens out again, curled up in the thin sheets as the ward hums around them, the bustle of the hospital a familiar white noise to them both. Around them, the dawn creeps higher, painting the walls a pale gold as the sun creeps in through the hospital windows. Robby watches him until his eyes drift shut, too heavy for him to fight them any longer. His hand still rests lightly on the edge of the bed, just close enough that if Dennis reaches for it in his sleep, he’ll find it waiting there, and at long last, he sleeps.
Robby wakes a half hour before his shift starts to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and a bagel, and the warmth of a familiar, steady hand on his shoulder.
He’s dazed, his neck stiff as soon as he tries to lift his head from how deeply uncomfortable his chair is, but Jack’s there immediately, his fingers finding the tension in the muscle and working it gently as Robby fully comes round.
“Morning brother.”
“I brought you breakfast. I know I can’t talk you out of working, so at least start your day right.” Jack’s hand falls from Robby's neck, as he moves to his side, taking a seat on a chair Robby hadn’t noticed before. “How is he?”
“He’s okay.”
Jack nods, glancing from Robby to where Dennis is still fast asleep. He looks a lot better, no longer as pale or as gaunt in this light. It’s clear he’s no longer unconscious, just sleeping, catching up on what he’s been lacking for so long.
Robby looks worse.
And when Jack shifts forwards, arms outstretched, Robby doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s strong as he collapses against him. It’s awkward, the plastic arms of their shitty hospital chairs digging into Robby’s side, but he doesn’t care.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, the warmth of Jack’s embrace more rejuvenating than however long he managed to sleep. But he has to move eventually.
“Come on Mike, have your breakfast. I’ll keep an eye on Whitaker until my shift starts.”
Robby nods, scrubbing a hand down his face. “He needs rest. Can you write up a ‘script for a benzo or something? He needs to sleep.”
Jack nods. “I’ll take care of him, brother. Go.”
Dennis sleeps through nearly the entire day, thanks to Jack.
He doesn’t so much as stir when the nurses check his lines, or when the infusion machine beeps, or when rays of sunlight finally creep through the blinds.
He just sleeps, curled on his side, knees tucked up slightly, his face slack for the first time in… days. The harsh pallor of his skin has faded, his lips and cheeks pink again. One of the nurses has replaced his thin hospital blanket with one of the thick fluffy ones from the staff room, and he’s swaddled in it, thoroughly tucked in.
It’s a reassuring sight.
Robby stops by again just after handover. He stands in the doorway for a long moment, the coffee cup from Jack in his hand, and he just watches Dennis breathe.
There’s something profoundly reassuring about it, easing the tightness in his chest.
“Keep an eye on him, will you?” he asks the nurse on duty.
She gives him a small smile. “Of course, Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Thanks,”
Robby stays for another moment, just enough to assure himself that Dennis is okay and he’s breathing, before he forces himself to go back to the floor.
It’s a brutal day.
A brutal shift.
The ambulances don’t stop coming. The waiting room door seems to be an ever-revolving, patient after patient coming in. The ER is overflowing, beds stacking in the hallway.
Robby doesn’t have time to eat, not beyond the apple Jack appears with at around lunchtime. He doesn’t even have time to drink his second cup of coffee, it sits at the nurses station, stone cold and woefully untouched.
He has to change his scrubs twice, blood soaking through the fabric.
It makes him feel like Whitaker, ironically.
Every free moment he gets, he spends slipping over to MAU. He doesn’t wake Dennis, just checks him over: looks through his obs charts, straightens his blanket, checks his IV.
Dennis doesn’t stir.
Jack catches him the third time he escapes up from the ER floor, clearing his throat as he leans against the doorframe.
“You’re supposed to be working,” he says, mildly.
“I am,” Robby answers, not looking away from Dennis.
Jack hums, “He’s in good hands, Mike. You can relax. He’s okay now.”
Robby sighs. “Yeah. I know.”
By the time Robby’s shift finally ends, it’s dark again.
The ER is still chaos, and Robby hands over to the night team blinded by the kind of bone-deep fatigue that makes his vision blur and his entire body ache.
His head is pounding, his scrubs are clinging uncomfortably to his skin and he’s sick with hunger, and he’s totally dehydrated, but he doesn’t go home once he’s finally free.
Instead, he trudges back to the ward, and sinks into the same chair he’d occupied the night before beside Dennis’ bed.
Dennis is still out cold, dead to the world.
Robby exhales, something torn between relief and exhaustion, and slumps forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands.
He’s asleep in seconds, his body finally relaxing now he’s sure again that Dennis is okay. He didn’t mean to sleep, he’d meant to stay up waiting until Dennis awoke, but exhaustion gets the better of him before he knows it.