Chapter Text
Robby heard the clamor before he saw it. Normally, he could smell it too. The scent of sickness, fear, and pain was usually palpable, but now the only thing he smelled was the unhoused entering man behind him. He catalogued the people in the waiting room. It was surprisingly relaxed. He had expected it to be packed full in honor of the 4th of July. He hoped it would last all day, but he had been at this job for too long to know better.
36 hours was all the time he still owed the ER. Three more shifts and in about 61 hours, he’d be on the road. It couldn’t come fast enough. He was in a constant battle with himself to keep himself from checking out early. A battle he was losing.
Dr. Shen walked him through the patients from last night.
The new attending, Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi who would be taking over for him during his sabbatical started today. His last three shifts would be them working together to get through any growing pains, extra hands during the 4th of July, which was always a notoriously busy day in the ER. People forgetting fireworks were explosions, burns, cuts, fights, and drunk idiots all came flooding into the ER.
The new attending arrived a couple of hours early, bringing a bagel spread with her. He ignored the annoyance nipping at his patience. Showing up and taking everything over before he had even left. Before they had even introduced themselves.
He hadn’t met her yet—and already, he didn’t like her. He tried to keep an open mind; it would make the next three shifts together a lot easier. Although soon none of this would matter. No longer would any of this be his problem for three good, long months.
In trauma bay 2, he watched Javadi, Whitaker, and the new med students, whom he wasn’t overly fond of, run through a mock code, trying to resuscitate a mannequin.
Mock codes on a mannequin on 4th of July? That was new and definitely a waste of time. Plenty of real patients were waiting for care while they played with dolls.
Robby stepped into the room, hovering at the door. He caught the end of her lesson. It was about time he met this Dr. Al-Hashimi.
“Your patient would have lived if you pushed magnesium sulfate.” Dr. Al-Hashimi said
“Good news is he’s an organ donor.” He walked into the room now, taking in the setup, fist-bumping Jesse on his way out. “Parts of him are going to get used to make frisbees and waterbottles and end up as microplastics in our brains and reproductive organs,” He stood beside Whitaker, gesturing to Whitaker’s brain and reproductive organs.
“Thank you for your words of encouragement, boss,” Whitaker said, flushed, his arms crossed. Robby bit back a smile, privately amused and a little too pleased by Whitaker’s embarrassment.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi, Dr. Michael Robinavitch.” He said, shaking her hand. “Everyone calls me Robby.”
“Baran, please.” She said and gave him a tight, polite smile, and sized him up.
“Welcome to the Pitt.” He returned the tight, polite smile.
“Yeah, about that–” She starts.
Here we go, he thought to himself.
“Trauma is a minute out,” Perlah announced, bursting into the room.
Oh thank god. She’d been here for an hour and already had opinions. She hadn’t even met the day shift yet.
“Ooh, who wants to treat a real patient?” He asks the room, giving Dr. Al-Hashimi a pointed look.
“Yes, please. This thing is going to give me nightmares.” Javadi said.
Jesse grabbed the mannequin and threw it over his shoulder. Everyone followed Robby out. Morning had officially started.
Robby moved through the department on instinct. Checking rooms, answering questions, signing orders. By mid-morning, the shift had settled into its rhythm. Unfortunately, Dr. Al-Hashimi seemed determined to be part of that rhythm. Everywhere Robby turned, she appeared. She proved to be irksome, bringing her AI, patient passports, and being best buds with Gloria, who Robby was sure loved her. Their teaching styles were so different that they were constantly butting heads. He tried to just stay out of her way, but no matter how hard he tried, she just kept coming back, popping up again and again.
Robby first spotted Langdon halfway down the hallway near triage. To make matters worse, Langdon was back, first spotting him down the hall, looking like a kicked dog. He hadn’t seen him since the night of Pitt Fest. It was still hard to ignore his own shame that he hadn’t seen what was happening right under his nose. He couldn’t deal with this today. He should’ve left last night, been spared the Langdon and Al-Hashimi show. Langdon was desperate to prove himself and make it right, trying to talk, but Robby didn’t care to hear what he had to say. He stuck him in triage and would deal with him later.
Robby escaped the hallway by cutting through the south corridor. Voices drifted out of one of the patient rooms. He slowed when he realized who it was and paused outside the room. He watched Whitaker, Dr. Whitaker now, lead the med students around with quiet authority, confidence in every gesture. Four days into his intern year, and already teaching. It was technically a job for McKay or even Santos, but Whitaker was doing it just fine. Robby hovered by an open door and covertly watched Whitaker take a moment of silence for a patient who had passed, like they had done on his first day. Whitaker had taken the lessons he learned and put them into practice. He was going to be a great doctor. He moved on with a quiet warmth settling in his chest.
Nurses moved between computers, printers spat out labels, and the tracking board blinked with new arrivals. Robby continued toward the hub, grabbing a stale granola bar on his way. Dr. King sat at the hub, cleaning her glasses. She looked glum.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, taking a pump of hand sanitizer.
She sighed. “That’s a loaded question.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. You have a deposition in a couple of hours? How are you feeling about it?” he asked, leaning over the privacy wall of the nurses' station.
“Trying to think positively, but feeling…less so. You know this job is really important to me and my sister. You know I support both of us.” He nodded, urging her to continue.
A gurney rattled past with a drunk teenager singing the national anthem. He ignored it, while she watched it go by.
“It’s gonna go great. Just tell them what happened. You’re not at fault. Your job’s not in jeopardy.”
“I mean, the lawyers said I could–“ he cut her off.
“The lawyers’ job is to try and shake your confidence. So don’t let them. You’re a very good doctor. I have been training residents for years. you are one of the very best,” he said, eyes warm but steady.
“I am?” she asked, eyes wide like she couldn’t quite believe it.
McKay caught his attention across the hub. A patient’s husband was getting loud, raising his voice.
“I promise.” He was already moving toward McKay, ready to calm the husband, keeping a careful eye on the situation. He’d seen enough doctors get assaulted trying to do their jobs; he’d started to build an instinct for these kinds of things.
“Thanks.” She smiled, and he paused beside her, offering a small, reassuring nod, eyes still on the patient’s husband.
“It’s gonna be great,” he assured her. She’s gonna be just fine, but now his focus has to shift to McKay.
Mid- afternoon rolled around, Robby slipped into an open computer and started catching up on charts while the department churned around him. Monitors beeped. The printer whirred. A gurney rattled past.
Santos walked towards the hub, her eyes on the board. She glances at him before speaking.
“I think I am the baby whisperer.”
“Great. We’ll add Baby Jane Doe to your patient load.” He says, not looking up from the computer, still typing.
She made a face. “Forget I said anything.”
He finally looked up over the rim of his glasses. “How’s your charting?”
“Catching up and checking it twice,” she sits down at a computer to continue her charting.
“Good.” He took off his glasses.
“Hey.” He tapped the keyboard once more before glancing at her. “Have you had a chance to talk to Langdon today?”
Langdon was on his apology tour, making his way through his list of people to make amends. Robby had done his best to avoid Langdon and any sort of apology or conversation about the situation. He knew Santos was gonna be on that list. She was the one who caught on to what he was doing.
“No,” she hesitated. “Why? Did he say something?”
“No. Just curious.” He studied the screen for a moment. “How are things at home with you and Whitaker?”
She stops charting and studies him for a second before going back to typing.
“He’s weirder than you’d expect.” She half smiled, thinking of something specific.
“Really?”
“Yeah, but he’s hardly ever home. He stays out late after every shift, going somewhere or meeting someone. I don’t know.” She watches him before continuing her typing, “Plus, he’s on the street team, and he just wants to help everybody. And I just don’t wanna see him taken advantage of, you know?”
She paused and really looked at him now.
“He’s just a fucking Huckleberry.”
Robby nodded, but something tight settled in his chest at the thought.
“Yeah, but he’s our fucking huckleberry.”
Santos blinked at that. Robby wondered if that had been too familiar.
“I’ll talk to him,” he adds quickly.
“You’re the boss. At least until end of shift Friday”
“Still the boss. When you see me in here, still the boss. “
“Copy that, Boss.” She smirked and went back to charting.
Beds were scarce as they always were; they needed people out of here. Robby and Dana were trying to figure out how to move three admissions upstairs when he noticed someone sitting at the hub. It was Noelle looking at a chart. He noticed she’d cut her hair. He wondered what brought her here all the way down to the Pitt.
“Noelle Hastings, to what do we owe the pleasure?” he bent down to tie his shoe. He took longer than necessary.
“I came down for a consult and to persuade Ahmad to start a new betting board.”
“Why is the Westbridge board full already?” He asked, still kneeling.
“I was gonna ask him to start one about you and your midlife crisis trip. I give it four weeks.” She smiles. “Seven, tops.” She stands, and he stands with her.
“Ye of little faith,” Movement catching his eye, Robby watches as Whitaker comes up to an empty computer, across the hub, typing away.
“Not faith, just facts. Based on my experience, you’re a seven-week itch kind of guy,” he smiled at her fondly. They’d enjoyed each other. “When do you leave?” she asked him.
“After my shift on Friday.” Whitaker is watching them, pretending that he isn’t.
“I still don’t see why you can’t just leave in the morning.” A look in her eyes saying he should spend his last night in bed with her.
Before he could respond, Perlah came up “Hey Robby, a med student’s got a pickleball player in the north hall with a possible Achilles rupture, asking for your opinion.” He nods.
“Thank you, Perlah, at least somebody down here has a little faith in me.” He starts walking to the north hall. “I’ll come find you before I leave.”
The department had picked up again by early afternoon. The waiting room was louder, boarders lining the hall.
He was talking to Dana, who was convinced this sabbatical was a midlife crisis.
“I’m just sayin’ there’s safer ways of dealing with a mid-life crisis,” he shot her a dirty look, offended at the allegation that his sabbatical was a thinly disguised mid-life crisis. He was already getting it from all sides. He didn’t need it from her, either. ”Or needin’ a break from this place.” She added. “Than hoppin’ on a donorcycle and makin’ your way across the US flyin’ by the seat of your pants.”
Robby rolled his eyes, looking for an escape from this conversation. His eyes landed on Whitaker with a patient in Central 8. He seemed to have lost his ducklings; it was just him and Perlah. The patient was sweating so heavily that his hair stuck to his forehead. He still had his sweatshirt on despite the heat. He rocked lightly back and forth, likely intoxicated. Alarm bells rang in Robby’s head. He went to check in.
“Nice talk. I gotta check on something real quick.”
Dana gave him a look that said this wasn’t over yet.
“Make sure you’re listed as an organ donor.” She said as he walked away.
“Hello, Dr. Whitaker, what do we have here?”
“Erik Patin, thirty-four, was involved in an altercation outside, brought in by EMS,” Whitaker began, his voice tense.
“He’s complaining of severe abdominal pain, diaphoretic, likely intoxicated. The patient was combative on arrival. EMS did a basic search, didn’t find any illicit substances or medications.”
“Hi, Erik. I’m Dr. Robby. I’m here to help. Can you tell me where it hurts?” The patient mutters something, words indistinguishable.
“Okay, let’s start with vitals and assess the abdomen,” Whitaker suggested.
Perlah moved to grab the blood pressure cuff, her hands steady but careful. As her hands approached, the patient jerked violently, staring at her with a hard glare. The first time, he seemed briefly aware of their presence.
“Sir, we’re going to take your blood pressure. Can you roll up your sleeve?”
The patient starts shaking his head, his hand diving into his shoe, grabbing something, and suddenly lunges forward, holding something metallic—a Swiss Army knife. Whitaker reacted immediately, grabbing the patient’s wrist. They collided, knocking Perlah back into a supply cart stacked with gloves, gauze, and IV fluids. Whitaker and the patient grappled on the floor. Robby lunged forward, trying to intervene, as Whitaker struggled with the patient on top of him. Robby grabbed the patient, pulling him off Whitaker and forcing him back onto the floor.
Security arrived quickly, restraining the patient and neutralizing the threat. Robby thought he heard Perlah call his name. The blade was no longer in the patient’s hand. He scanned the floor.
“Robby.” Dread pooled in his stomach at the sound of Whitaker’s voice.
Robby focused fully on Whitaker, still on the floor, eyes wide, trembling, making him appear smaller, more vulnerable. Whitaker’s hands were red, pressing on his abdomen. Robby quickly identified the blade lodged in his intern’s lower abdomen. His gray scrubs darkened with blood, the metallic scent hitting his senses. Perlah was already applying pressure to a second puncture wound in his left upper quadrant. Robby noted only two bleeding points, dark stains spreading across the fabric.
“I need a stretcher!” he shouted, kneeling to control bleeding around the blade and assessing Whitaker’s condition.
Dr. Mohan arrived with Donnie, assisting as they moved Whitaker to a stretcher.
“Dana, what’s open?” Robby asked.
“Trauma 2!” she shouted across the floor.
“Call the OR.”
They burst through the doors of Trauma 2, transferring him to the trauma bed. Donnie was already cutting his scrubs. Someone attaches him to the monitors and starts two large-bore IVs. With his clothes gone, they could see the damage. Two wounds. One in the left upper quadrant. Another lower and lateral — the blade is still lodged in place. Robby moved to stabilize it.
“Whitaker, do you take any medications daily?”
He shook his head. “No. No allergies.”
Garcia bursts through the doors. “Fuck, what happened to farmboy?”
“He’s tachy at 140. BP is eighty, systolic and dropping,” Perlah says.
“He’s bleeding fast.”
“We got two units of whole blood going on the rapid infuser.”
Mohan squirted the ultrasound gel, Robby grabbing her hand with the probe and guiding it himself. “He’s positive FAST and crashing. Activate MTP. Free fluid in the LUQ.”
“I… I think I’m going…” Whitaker mutters, trying to speak, his attention locks on Robby.
Robby moved the probe down to access the wound in his lower abdomen, struggling to get a clear image.
“Michael… hey—”
The sound of his first name rips his attention, the name so out of place in the ER, it didn’t belong here. He never called him that here. Whitaker’s hand found his wrist. Robby’s chest tightened. He caught the faint tremor in Whitaker’s fingers, the desperate look in his eyes.
“I love you.”
Robby freezes. Only for a second, but still Mohan notices and takes the probe.
“Free fluid in the pelvis.”
Robby snaps back, professional but tense. Whitaker’s hand still gripped wrist.
Whitaker continues. “If I— “ He cuts himself off, like he didn’t want to speak into existence. “You have to be okay,” he begs. “You have to– promise.” His voice trails off, muttering what sounds like please over and over again, desperate to be heard. Robby tries to ignore it. Whitaker’s hand tightens.
“You’re not dying. Stay with me. You’re gonna be just fine.” Robby reassures him.
Whitaker's speech trails off, slurring as his hand loses its grip.
“Pressure’s 70.”
“He needs the OR, or he's going to bleed out on this table. Where are we with the OR?” his voice was not as steady as he wanted it.
Monitor alarms escalate.
“OR can take him.”
“Push ketamine for transport.”
Transport for the OR arrives.
Whitaker was sedated. He watches as they take him to the OR. The doors swung shut behind the gurney. And just like that, he was out of Robby’s hands.
Robby stood in the blood-slicked trauma bay, staring at the empty doorway. He didn’t realize he was still holding his breath until the silence hit. Someone said his name. He didn’t turn. The monitor alarms were gone. Whitaker’s voice wasn’t.
I love you.
His body felt numb.
What just happened?
It all happened so fast.
He could feel the stares of the staff, the weight of their gazes full of questions he didn’t have the answers to.
“Dr. Robby, what was that?” Dr. Mohan asks. “Why did he say he loves you?” She steps forward. “He called you Michael.” An accusation sits somewhere in her tone. His focus remained on the doors Whitaker had left through.
“Dr. Robby.” She repeats, harder this time. He finally looks at her now. She looks scared, confused. Working on Whitaker took its toll on them all. He was beloved here. She wanted answers.
How?
Why?
Questions that never got answered here. So her attention turned to Robby. To what might be Whitaker’s last words.
“I don’t know.” With that, he walks out of the room.
To the next patient. He should check on the attacker, who was never treated; he still needed care. Even if he wanted to leave him in pain, transfer him to a different hospital, let someone else treat him. He couldn’t. He took the Hippocratic oath. He was the chief attending and head of this department, and he would have to oversee his care.
The noise of the ER seemed to circle him, noise from all directions; he couldn’t differentiate it. It was just noise. Chaos.
He needed to breathe. He was panicking. How cruel that it makes him think of Whitaker.
Of—Dennis.
The thought of him, his big, pathetic-looking eyes on his stupid, pretty face. His heart crumbled in on itself, taking him with it. He fought to keep his knees from giving out. He felt like he’d been laid out on that table and cut open. Like someone had put their hands inside him and pulled his guts out. Starting with his heart, taking his lungs, his intestines, and his liver. Gutting him. Leaving nothing but an empty shell.
“Robby!” Dana’s voice cut through the haze. She stood in front of him, looking concerned.
He didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t want that. He wanted it to stop. He wanted them to stop. He wanted them to leave him alone.
“You okay?” Dana grabbed his arm. “I heard about Whitaker, it’s never easy workin’ on someone you know. He’s gonna be okay, you hear me? That boy's strong, don’t you worry.”
He was strong. He was also brave and… kind. He was fighting for his life in the OR.
“I love you.”
The words rang in his ears. His voice had been so weak that he fought so hard just to say it. He thought he was dying. He was dying. With his last word, he wanted Robby to know that he loved him and that he had to be okay. He–
“Dr. Robby.” Dr. Al-Hashimi rushed towards him. He resented the sight of her. “I heard one of the doctors was attacked, stabbed by a hostile patient.” She said it like it was just a workplace hazard. Some unavoidable risk that comes with the territory. A flash of something crosses Dana’s face, too, but she was too professional to let it show.
“Yes.” He said, his tongue like lead in his mouth, words felt wrong.
“You have to be okay.”
“Whitaker. He’s in the OR.” He had spent his career delivering bad news, telling mothers their child is dead, telling husbands that their wife didn’t make it, telling a daughter her father will never walk her down the aisle. He took all those feelings and locked them away in that familiar spot under his ribs.
“Perlah, she was knocked over during the commotion. How is she?” He asks, deflecting but feeling guilty that he had been so caught up, he hadn’t checked on her. She’d been in the trauma room.
“Princess is checking her out. Makin’ sure she’s okay,” Dana supplied, still looking at him with the same face of concern he’d seen on her face when talking to patients. He didn’t need it. He was fine.
“And the patient?” He had to ask.
“He was taken to B1. The patient is in restraints with security. Police have been called and are on their way,” said Dr. Al-Hashimi.
“How did this happen? How the hell did someone bring a knife into my department?”
“It’s the Fourth of July, it's busy, sometimes things slip through the cracks,” Al-Hashimi answered. Rage erupted from that little spot under his ribs. It burned through him. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head.
“That’s not good enough.” He forced the words out between his teeth. She didn’t understand. This didn’t mean anything to her. “I have an intern in the OR fighting for his life because something slipped through the cracks?” He felt himself getting angry, his voice rising despite himself. He raised his hands to make her see. He wanted her to understand.
“His blood is on my hands, on my scrubs.” The anger consumed him. “What do you have to say about that?” He wanted an answer. He wanted her to explain it to him. Maybe she’d have an answer that made this easier.
“Robby, take ten.”
He whips his head around to see Dana.
“There are patients to see.”
“Not in those scrubs, like you so helpfully pointed out, are covered in blood, go change, wash your hands. It’s never easy seeing someone you know hurt. You’re takin' it hard, that’s okay. No one’s blaming you. Take a ten.”
Someone you know. He was just someone he knew. His intern. Robby was his boss; it was their only tether. There were no words for what he was feeling, no reason he should be feeling like this.
Was it guilt?
Robby changed his scrubs, washed Whitaker’s blood off his hands, and splashed some water on his face. His shift wasn’t over. There were still a lot of other patients who needed him. He couldn’t do anything for Dennis now.
He walked out of the bathroom to the board; he needed a patient. Dana walked up beside him, her posture stiff. Something happened while he was in the bathroom. She looked at him like she was trying to see through him. She rocked on her feet.
“I heard he called you Michael.” Robby shook his head. He couldn’t do this.
“Nope. Not doing this now, still a lot of people on this board.”
“Rumor has it he said he loved you.”
He didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes locked on the board.
“Did you encourage it?” She stood in front of him now, blocking his escape. She looked at him like he was a stranger.
“No.” He denied firmly.
“That boy was bleeding out on the table, his BP was dropping, and his only concern was telling you he loved you.” She studied him, looking for a reaction. ‘Kid was scared that he was gonna die, but was begging you to be okay.”
“I'm not doing this, right now. I have to check on the patient in North 1 .” He said. They both knew he was running away.
“Robby.” She shouts after him.
He still had a job to do. Fifty-two hours left.
The rest of the shift went by quickly. It was nearly over. He stayed so busy he never had a second to answer anyone’s questions outside of patient cases, never staying in one place long enough for someone’s stare to linger. Moving from one patient to the next, case after case. He didn’t imagine he was going to improve his patient satisfaction score any favors, but he’d seen nearly a record amount of patients; surely that would count for something.
Shen arrived, and Robby walked him through the handoff, avoiding the topic of Whitaker. Someone else would fill him in. Rumors spread fast, but this would spread like wildfire. Safe to assume everyone already knew, and everyone who didn’t would know soon enough.
He needed some air. He ducked out of the ED and walked right up to the roof, straight into the hot summer air. He walked to the edge, leaning forward, his elbows on the railing. He let his head fall.
Taking one deep breath at a time. He wanted to ask if Whitaker was out of surgery or if there were any updates, but he couldn’t. It felt like an admission of something that he’d be confirming what everyone already assumed about his relationship with Whitaker.
Which was nothing. They were nothing. But after how he’d reacted, nobody would believe it. Not with his past with Collins. He let his gaze drift to the traffic below, the city alive with distant fireworks, bursts of color lighting the sky, and the wail of sirens threading through the chaos.
“How ya doing, brother?” Robby expected Abbot to show up eventually. He kept his eyes on the traffic, not ready to face him.
“What the holy hell is going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“An intern got stabbed, and while he was bleeding out on the table, he had some big dramatic love confession, cut to you yelling at your replacement, and then to end up on the roof.”
“I-” he started before he realized he had nothing to say. “They need us back downstairs to finish the handoff.”
“Not like this, they don’t.”
“I am fine.”
“I don’t think I believe that.” Abbot shook his head. “Why’s Whitaker confessing his love for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why’d he call you Michael?”
So many questions he didn’t have the answers to.
“It’s my name, isn’t it?” Robby deflected.
“I am going to be one of the many people who ask you this, but brother, for better or for worse, I need you to be honest with me.” Abbot closed the distance, standing beside him now. Looking at him head-on, daring to try to lie to him now.
“What is your relationship with Dennis Whitaker?”
“Nothing.” His voice was firm. It was true. It was nothing. “He is an intern in this ED, and I am his attending and boss. There is nothing outside of that.”
“Then it’s nothing.” Abbot accepted the answer even though he didn’t look like he believed it. “But there’s still something you’re not tellin’.”
Robby met his gaze, holding it before sighing, letting his head fall.
“It was nothing, it is nothing.” Abbott held his gaze, waiting for a dramatic confession that would never come.
“Then just tell me why he called you Michael.”
Robby’s jaw tightened. It was the easier question, but probably more revealing than asking why Whitaker said he loved him.
“I love you.”
He didn’t know what to do with it; he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the knowledge that Dennis loved him.
“It is nothing,” he repeated, softer this time, voice barely above a whisper.
Abbott didn’t look convinced. Fireworks in the distance exploded.
Robby swallowed. The heat from the rooftop pressed in around him.
“It started about a year ago,” he said quietly. “A couple of weeks after Pitt Fest—”