Work Text:
In one of Whitaker's early years of med school, when they'd learned about cardiopulmonary resuscitation, his professor had instructed the class to make a playlist of songs that were between 100 and 120 beats per minute, the recommended rate to preform. They were to pick one song and commit it to memory and "never forget it," because it would "save someone's life one day."
The first time Whitaker had preformed CPR on an actually dying person, it didn't work. He told himself it was because he'd forgotten the song. Robby had needed to tell him to slow down; he wasn't going at the right pace.
At the end of that shift — that terrible, traumatizing first shift — when Dennis had been dragged out of his makeshift room at the hospital by Santos into her apartment and spare bedroom, he stopped his bleary eyes from closing for just long enough to consult the playlist he'd made three years ago and hadn't looked at since. Scrolling through the songs, a few caught his eye:
Killer Queen, Queen. That was a fun one, but not quite his taste.
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, Stevie Wonder. God, that was old. He wondered where he'd even come up with that.
Peace Frog, The Doors. Now he was getting somewhere.
Like Sugar, Chaka Khan. That song was in his current playlist as well, but he wasn't sure it was an exactly respectable choice until he remembered someone telling him that Melissa sang Megan Thee Stallion to herself when she was stressed. They were saving lives, respect be damned. So he put Like Sugar on the short list.
There was one song near the bottom that stood out to him, however. A song that was so good, such an earworm, that he immediately knew it would be perfect. He put in his earbuds and played the song to refamiliarize himself with that life-saving beat.
—
It was another three days before he preformed CPR again and had a chance to try out his new song. A 43 year old man came in with heart attack symptoms and flatlined 35 minutes later. Whitaker wasn't assigned to the case, but he happened to be walking past the room as the event happened. He jumped — as in, literally jumped onto the man — to begin chest compressions, yelling for help in his usual panic. His reflexes could have used some work, but CPR had been on his mind so much lately that he didn't hesitate to yell for a crash cart.
One hand clenched around the other, he thrust his palm into the man's sternum, raising himself up and pushing down with all his body weight. He didn't think about rhythm at first, but he soon remembered the BPM, and then the song. The baseline rang clear through Dennis's head.
His breaths were thrown out of him with every compression, his arms already aching, but the words were coming back to him. He sang in his head. Hey, once I was a boogie singer...
No one corrected him on his rhythm.
The man still died.
A blood clot in the artery. It made sense, unfortunately. He was healthy, much healthier than most men his age, but he had a clotting disorder.
Dennis knew it wasn't his fault this time. He'd been quick to react, and his compressions had been textbook-perfect. No one gave him any notes. Mateo even gave him a sad pat on the back as he left the room. His brain told him it was pity, but he told his brain to shut it.
Trinity came up to him at the glove station right after.
"You look pretty happy for someone who's CPR just failed," she shrugged, bouncing on her heels.
But he wasn't happy. Of course, it was awful that the man died. But his plan had worked.
"Don't say that," he replied, walking away.
—
Four days later, it happened again.
Dennis had been losing sleep, a block party down the road having lasted over 48 hours, and loud music sang through the walls of Trinity's apartment through the night. He tried everything to fall asleep that he had access to, but nothing worked. He didn't want to bring it up to his roommate because they hadn't been living together that long, and he didn't want to compromise the only decent living situation he'd had in years in case she took issue with the complaint. Dennis was probably overthinking things, but with 2 hours of sleep in his system, he simply didn't have to energy to think otherwise.
A shout woke him up from his seat at the computer and he peeled his face off the keyboard it was smushed into. Looking up, he saw a gurney being pushed into a trauma room and Dana waving him over frantically.
As he approached, a hand pulled him into the room and closed the door behind him, his ears immediately assaulted with more shouts of medical jargon he couldn't even make out.
"She coded in the ambulance," someone said.
"Whitaker, take over chest compressions," Robby barked as an EMT climbed off of the woman on the gurney. He immediately took his place, interlacing his fingers and pushing down hard on the woman's sternum.
At first, he couldn't figure out the rhythm. He was so exhausted that all his senses blended together, and he began to panic. If this woman died because of his shitty compressions, he'd definitely be fired. Robby would hate him. Trinity would probably kick him out. He'd have to go back to the farm and muck out horse shit for the rest of his life, eating dinner with his parents every night while looking at their smug "we told you so" faces.
Being a doctor was fucking stupid, he decided. What kind of profession makes you memorize songs to save lives? And what kind of doctor was he to pick a song like Play That Funky Music?
The lyrics all came flooding back to him when he remembered the song, relief countering his exhaustion. Newfound energy strengthened his compressions and he began humming the song, pressing all his weight down on beat.
It was still loud in the room, with people talking over eachother and blaring monitors and a nurse suctioning the blood out of the woman's throat. Mind still drowsy, Whitaker mumbled the lyrics, wearily alternating between humming and singing the song.
"When they weremmmm, mmm singing, mmoving to the grooving, andmmm, mmmm, somebody turned around and shouted..."
He barely realized he was doing it; he could hardly even hear himself.
After a while he zoned out and stopped singing, only humming softly every once in a while. It seemed like he was doing compressions forever. It didn't take long for the woman's ribs to break, but when they did it startled Whitaker.
After a while Robby tapped his shoulder, no doubt to tap him out. "Let Mohan take over, k-"
They were interupted by Perlah pointing at the EKG monitor. "Sinus rhythm."
Sure enough, when Whitaker pulled away, there was the constant, steady beeping of a heart beating all on it's own. Flooded with relief once again, Whitaker stepped back, folding his hands over his head. He'd sweat quite a bit without realizing and was struck with the sudden rank smell of his own body, prompting him to excuse himself once the woman was stable.
Stable. Alive. She was alive.
—
In the bathroom, Whitaker splashed his face with water, grinning wildly. He hadn't had this much adrenaline running through his body since Pittfest. This was good adrenaline, though. He felt good. Being a doctor was the best decision he'd ever made.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw Santos sitting at a computer. She gestured him over.
Her voice was low and serious. "I, uh, heard you when you were doing compressions."
He didn't understand. "What?"
Santos rolled her eyes and said slowly, like she was talking to a child, "I heard you singing while you were doing CPR." A shit-eating grin spread across her face.
Panic froze Whitaker in place. He hadn't even noticed her in the room, let alone close enough to hear him singing. "W-what do you mean?"
"Don't play dumb, Huckleberry. You were singing one of your weird funk songs to stay on beat."
"It's not- Ugh, I wasn't-!"
Santos shushed him. "Don't make a scene, babe. No one else noticed, I don't think." She started giggling to herself. "That'd be really fucking funny, though."
"No it wouldn't! It would be completely mortifying, kind of like how I feel right now." Whitaker's face was hot and he couldn't quite breathe properly.
"Well, you did save that lady's life. Whatever works, I guess. Oh, I did look up the song, though. I knew I'd heard it somewhere before."
Whitaker couldn't believe this was real life. It seemed he'd never stop being embarassed by his music choices in front of others. He gripped his stethoscope tightly, compelled to strangle himself with it. "... And?"
"Pretty good, I must say. Personally I prefer Renegade by Styx. I'm pretty sure Mohan uses Pink Pony Club," Santos laughed.
"Wait, what?" Whitaker always thought he was the only person who actually used the song trick.
"We all have a song, dude. We just don't all..." She snorted. "Give a performance like you do."
"I'm exhausted, okay? I didn't mean to sing the- I just have a hard time keeping count sometimes, okay?"
Santos held her hands up in surrender. "I get it. This isn't Whiplash. We all need a reminder sometimes. I'm just teasing you."
Whitaker sighed, dragging his hands over his face and then dousing his hands in sanitizer. "Trinity, I-"
Her head snapped up at the sound of her first name.
"I can't sleep. That block party is so damn loud."
Santos just stared at him. "You couldn't have brought this up at home?"
"No, you're right. My bad, we can talk about it later-"
"Huckleberry, hold on. I have melatonin and earplugs you can use. I don't want you killing someone because you fell asleep while intubating, or whatever."
Whitaker had to hold back a smile. "Thanks, Santos."
She punched his arm. "You should take my patient in twelve as a thank you."
He rolled his eyes and made his way to twelve.