Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The PTMC was a looming monstrous institution of concrete and glass, where hell and heaven converged, nurses were angels, and Doctors played both god and the devil— depending on one’s perspective. Dennis wondered which version he’d get today.

He wasn’t actually supposed to be here (he was meant to be in Nebraska for three weeks) but his trip got cut two weeks short due to unforeseen circumstances that resulted in a black eye and some split knuckles that were five days into healing.

Thankfully, the bruising around his right eye had faded into a nice, settled yellow-green, though there were still some purple splotches that needed more time. His hands were fine, raw, and still pinching whenever he flexed, but manageable altogether.

The sun was just coming over the horizon at 6:30 in the morning, a painting of pinks, purples, and oranges in the background, being mirrored in the reflective surface of the building’s windows. In the far distance, he noted murky clouds of grey. A frown formed on his face. Had the weather station said anything about rain? He couldn’t recall.

Probably, he snorted to himself, it would be my fucking luck.

Now, one thing to understand is that Dennis wasn’t always a pessimist.

That came from years of shit experiences and memories. Normally, he could dampen it down for the sake of others and his job, but after the week he’d had, it seemed to be coming in tenfold. Not a great outlook already.

That statement was supported further upon entering the emergency room waiting area. Every chair was full, some people were even standing, all looking various shades of annoyed and discomforted.

The line to Lupe’s desk had twelve people waiting, and the look she gave him as he waved at her —one that screamed get out while you still can!— did not bode well.

Antiseptic and persistent beeping greeted him as he walked through the doors. Two patients were on route in wheelchairs, probably going for scan upstairs, and the remaining night shift staff fluttered around like hyperactive pixies.

Shen was leaning against central, typing out a chart, with a Dunkin cup that held some sort of sugary beverage (that made Dennis’s teeth ache just by looking at it) placed in front of him. He brought his mouth down to the straw to take sips, eyes never leaving the screen once and no hands necessary.

Dennis had to admire the dedication, but he seriously worried for the man’s health sometimes.

He spotted Dana reviewing a stack of papers, muttering something under her breath, probably regarding charts or labs.

She was the youngest charge nurse to grace the Pitt at age 35, hand picked by Nurse Monica herself.

Dennis had known her since her first day as a fresh graduate fifteen years ago. That same day, she’d gotten assaulted by a drugged patient, and bounced back with a newfound determination and confidence that rivaled Trinity’s. He had witnessed her initiative and hard work, and knew for a fact that she’d be running the place by her second day.

At first, when Monica recommended that Dana succeed her, he’d been a little worried about the backlash from some of the other nurses, but it was quickly apparent that they were more relieved than anything.

Being the charge nurse wasn’t for the faint of heart, and though Matteo, and Donnie, were a decade her senior, (Princess and Perlah were hardly five years older than Dana as well) they all had stated that they would rather die than take the job themselves.

It was for the best, really. Dana ran a tight ship, all her ducks were orderly, and her personality was strong yet empathetic. She was the metaphorical oil that kept the machines running.

“Well, well, well!” Dana’s voice sounded as he walked up, “look what the cat dragged in. Didn’t know you were— fuck! What happened to your face?”

“And good morning to you too, D.”

“Don’t give me that,” she grouched, walking around the counter and straight to him, holding his face sharply between her hands, maneuvering him to get a good look. “Quite the shiner you got there. Last I checked, vacations don’t include boxing rings. Who’d you go ten rounds with?”

He stepped back, rolling his eyes, “would you believe me if I said something lousy, like I got smacked in the face by cabinetry?”

She snorted, found his left hand and skated her thumb over the cracks of his skin. “I hope the cabinet looks worse than you.”

Oh, believe me, he wanted to snark back, it does.

She kissed her teeth, dissatisfied as he grinned fondly at her. “You’re a pain in my ass, Whit.” Dana turned back to the desk, picking up a tablet, “does Santos know you’re back?”

“Yeah. Is she with a patient?” He asked.

“No, she’s… upstairs.”Meaning the roof. Dennis’s brows pinched with unsaid worry. “Lena said there was an abuse case; a mom and a kid. Mom didn’t make it, kid got taken by child protective services an hour ago.”

“Jesus,” he muttered grimly. “I’ll go find her. Hold the fort down for me, please.”

“You got it, Chief!”

Dennis Whitaker and Trinity Santos had been friends since they were put on the same ED  rotation as MS4s in 2001. Back when he was just a scrawny, scared little farm boy venturing out into the world of medicine and she was a larger than life, overly ambitious student, who wanted to be perceived as a strong, independent woman, but, more often than not, came across as rude and abrasive.

They were both opposite ends of a complex spectrum, and somehow, it made for a great friendship.

First days always served as a bonding experience. Especially when it involved three pile ups, four stemis, and both of them getting covered in various liquids throughout the day. (Dennis had changed his scrubs a total of five times, which, not to brag, was pretty impressive.)

Together they’d lost three patients, worked almost sixteen hours, and were absolutely traumatized and dead on their feet by the end of it all.

At first, Dennis had (wrongfully) assumed that she disliked him. Though, considering her snide commentary, affinity for assigning some rather rude nicknames (huckleberry, thanks to his Nebraskan upbringing, and Crash, for the younger MS3, Victoria Javadi, who had the misfortune of passing out the second a scalpel cut into a guy’s chest as they placed a chest tube) and overall hardened exterior, it seemed like she thought lowly of him.

That was, until he’d gone to the eighth floor in the abandoned west wing where he’d been squatting for months due to homelessness.

According to Trinity, she’d sensed something strange about him —he still didn’t know how to take that to this day, but her gut never steered her wrong— and it helped that she had also seen him go to the stairs instead of heading out of the building. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and instead of going home, she’d followed him. 

It should be noted that she also scared the shit out of him as he danced along to the music playing through the headphones of his ancient Walkman cassette player when she’d found his little hideaway.

He’d yelped in a very undignified way, and had tried to lie about the situation, but failed miserably.

Obviously, she hadn’t bought it for a second, giving him a flat look with her arms crossed, waiting for him to stop with the bullshit.

And because he had been easily intimidated back then (he still was when it came to her), he spilled the beans immediately.

He explained how he’d been kicked out years ago, surviving on random jobs with shit pay, and instant noodles.

He hadn’t been able to work during his final two years of med school because of rotations and studying, and had been jumping from shelter to shelter before he found the abandoned wing almost four months prior.

She’d offered up her spare room that very night.

In Dennis’s eyes, Trinity was a saint. She was still bitchy, and had severe moods, but over time, she became predictable, they became familiar.

So familiar that one night, after a particularly intense shift, they’d gotten shit-faced drunk off of cheep tequila, and exchanged secrets neither of them had ever told anyone.

Trinity’s home life hadn’t been stable. Her parents had substance abuse problems, and she’d been in and out of the foster care system. There had been several instances where she’d been taken advantage of and abused. Her only friend, another foster child, killed herself after experiencing the same stuff.

In turn, Dennis told her about his own family.

His parents, how they were religious fanatics, forcing their beliefs on their children, using corporal punishment to beat them into submission. How if he wasn’t at school then he was working on the farm until his body felt like it was going to fall apart. The whip scars on his back, his dislike of darkness after being locked in a shed overnight whenever he fucked up as a kid, the torture his four older brothers inflicted upon him, going as far as leaving small, dead animals in his bed when he was young.

In his drunken stupor, he’d also let it slip that the reason he was no longer in contact with his family was because his father had found him kissing a man just before his eighteenth birthday and threw him out of the house after beating him black and blue while spitting vitriol about god and sin and the devil as his mother wept.

He had panicked initially, when he’d said it, thinking that he’d gone and messed things up by telling her. She quickly assured him that she’d already figured he was gay and was just waiting for him to say it. Then she’d shared that she was queer too, and Dennis had sobbed so hard that he’d thrown up.

He owed Trinity his life.

Which is why, on occasion, they met the roof of the PTMC, one of them would stand on the other side of the metal railing, looking down at the inviting sidewalk below while the other one stood behind the rail, talking them out of taking a swan dive to eat pavement.

It seemed that this morning was her turn to be actively suicidal, and his turn to talk her down.

The November air was cooling against Dennis’s skin, the breeze making his short curls blow back and forth like it couldn’t make up its mind on which direction to go. He was grateful he hadn’t stripped his jacket off downstairs.

Dr. Trinity Santos was standing carelessly on the opposite side of the rusted rail, occasionally sticking her right leg out as if she was playing footsie with fate. Dennis’s heart thudded heavily in his chest at the sight.

He approached her without caution, stepping through the large space between the rings and coming next to her.

“Dana snitch?”

“I would’ve found you either way; sibling sonar.” He leaned against the rail smirking at her back as she snorted and shook her head, no doubt thinking up a damning comment. “You want to talk about it?”

Her frown returned. Clearly not.

“I’m sure D already gave you the rundown.”

“It was a hard case, Trin.” He comforted, “you know as well as I do that we can’t save everyone. We can try, of course, but realistically, we can’t.”

“It hit too close to home.” She mumbled. He almost hadn’t heard her over the wind.

He grabbed her hand, interlacing their fingers. “I know.”

“Angela Carter was in such bad shape.” She rasped the name out with a choked noise. “Her face was battered so badly that she was unrecognizable. Her six year old kid, Maria, was the one who escaped the house and ran to the neighbors to get help. Had a fractured arm. X-rays showed multiple past breaks in ribs and  one in the kid’s left leg.”

Jesus Christ.

Sometimes, Dennis truly despised humanity. He felt a righteous surge of anger and resentment come forth, and had to take a deep breath to control himself. Now wasn’t the time to be selfish. Trinity needed him. So he shut up and let her talk.

“I just— I don’t understand the point of it,” she stated roughly. “What’s the point in being here, in being a doctor, if I can’t help in situations like that.”

He squeezed her hand.

“I’m just so… angry. No one should have to go through that!” She said heatedly, he saw a rogue tear trail down her cheek. “It’s unfair!”

“And the worst part,” she continued, “is that they had to bring the son of a bitch here for medical care after the neighbor shot him in the leg. I had to fucking treat him after I pronounced his wife dead and stashed his daughter away in the break room with Kiara.”

“Fuck, I think I need to schedule an appointment with my therapist when I leave here.” Trinity said as her unoccupied hand went to her cropped, dark hair, running her fingers through the strands.

If she had said that to him two years ago, he would’ve laughed at the very thought of his friend willingly admitting she needed help. But after much deliberation on her part, and numerous reprimands from the higher ups about her satisfaction scores as both a doctor and a teacher —getting so bad that they were threatening to fire her— she relented.

Together, she and Dennis had searched for trauma therapists, vetting each one through yelp reviews, then did singular visits that were almost like interviews.

Dennis had tried to go to therapy too at one point. But unlike Trinity, who was actively trying to better herself, bringing up his traumatic childhood had stirred too many bad memories, causing him to have panic attacks and reoccurring night terrors that got him several noise complaints from the neighbors.

Needless to say, he’d gotten really proficient at compartmentalization. It was much easier than the alternative despite Trinity’s insistence that he should try therapy again.

“You did better than most people, Trin.” His heart hurt for his sister. “I know a majority of our staff would’ve loved to see him dead. Hell, they might’ve actually killed him themselves.”

“You persevered. You always do. You adhered to the oath, you helped that little girl, you did everything in your power to do what was best for everyone. It may not feel like you did enough, but you did.”And for the first time since he held her hand, she finally squeezed back.

She’d be okay. He knew that. They both did. 

“Besides, you’d look terrible in orange, murder charges wouldn’t suit you.” That earned him a tired laugh as she ducked her face to her chest.

“There’s a reason you didn’t go into psychiatry. You’re awful at pep talks.”

“Aww, come on,” he snickered, “that was funny.”

“Oh yeah, hilarious.”

“Ready to get off the roof?” He asked then added for humor, “via stairs, not jumping.”

“You’re such a fuckleberry.”With that, they turned, ducking under the rail to safety.

Dennis’s knees audibly popped as he straightened up and Trinity huffed a laugh while he groaned.

“We’re getting too damn old for this.” He said, lifting his arms over his head to stretch out his lower back.

“Speak for yourself, dinosaur.”

“We’re the same age!” He complained as they walked to the door.

“Yeah, but unlike you, I take care of my body.” She quipped.

He snorted. “You do yoga, then follow it up with a bowl of ice cream.”

“And you spend your days off on a farm lifting bales of hay and eating enough apple pie to put you into a diabetic coma.” She countered, “how’re Amy and Theo anyways?”

“Good. Amy’s got some new cattle coming in from upstate, Theo just got accepted to a vet med program in New York.”

“Go figures.” She shook her head fondly, “he’ll do good there. Got the smarts for it, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I’m proud of him.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

He’d known Amy and Theo for nearly two decades. Amy’s late husband, Teddy, had been a burn victim, came in barely clinging to life. Amy had been seven months pregnant with Theo, and Dennis had bonded with her over farming, offering his assistance after Teddy’s death. The rest was history. He became one of her closest friends, became Theo’s uncle, watched the kid grow up and loved him like the child he never got to have.

It was an honor to be apart of their lives.

Victoria and Trinity had psychoanalyzed the situation at first, calling it unhealthy attachment, but as time went on, and the more they got to know Amy and little Theo, they realized that the arrangement was beneficial for all involved. (Mainly because Amy made the best beef stews and apple pies, and won them both over through their stomachs.)

Now they all gathered for the holidays seeing as Trinity and Dennis didn’t have any family, and Victoria did everything in her power to avoid her mother. They’d created their own sort of fucked up familial unit, meaning Theo had two aunts and an uncle that spoiled the hell out of him, and Amy had actual friends and a social life that didn’t revolve around the farm or her husband’s death.

“Your eye looks like shit, by the way.” Trinity pointed out when they reached the fifth floor.

“Yeah, what can I say, Tommy’s got a killer right hook for a 60 year old.” He grouched, “should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut.”

She tsked, “well, I do so enjoy punching homophobic family members. I would’ve paid to see your mother’s face.”

“Don’t even know why I went in the first place. They haven’t talked to me in over twenty-five years.”

She paused, hand going to his wrist. “You had hope, there’s nothing wrong with that, Dennis.”

“Hope,” he said, the word bitter on his tongue, “for what? Change?”

“What was the fight even about?” She asked. “Besides the obvious, of course.”

“My niece, Poppy. Tommy’s kid, got disowned recently for coming out as trans.”

“Oh, fuck!” She hissed, “you didn’t mention that over the phone!”

“I was still too mad about it.” He shrugged, “never even got to meet the kid. I’ve got no clue where she is now, or how she’s faring… I just lost it completely when her brother, Zach, told me when no one was around.”

“No shit!” Trinity shook her head in disbelief. “It’s insane to think that people still feel that way, in this day and age? Absolutely ridiculous!”

“Yeah, well, Broken Bow is stuck in the fifties.” He sighed, “they kept misgendering her and calling her by her former name. Zach was the only one who would even tell me her chosen one.”

“At least he was decent enough to do that?” She offered as a compromise.

“Something like that.” He supposed. “He said she left Broken Bow with her boyfriend, went to Cali. He said she was happier, free.”

“Then that’s all that matters, isn’t it.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s safe, she’s happy, she’s healthy. And hey, California— loads better than bumfuck nowhere!”

He chuckled, “true.”

They stopped at the door to the Pitt. “You ready, Cowboy?”

“Are we ever?”They left the quiet of the stairwell, and entered hell.

Most of day shift started trickling in, Mel and Langdon were just walking in, Langdon carrying both their bags, one hand on Mel’s scrub top to keep her from running into things as she passionately chattered about something Dennis couldn’t hear.

The couple had just gotten married four months back, a low key ceremony of family and dear friends. Langdon’s ex-wife, Abby, and Mel’s twin sister, Becca, were bridesmaids. Donnie and Mateo stood for Langdon, and Langdon’s two children were flower girl and ring bearer. It had been a lovely affair, after all the shit they’d gone through.

Langdon had been Trinity’s pupil, their personalities alike and scarily in tune. It had nearly broken her when she found him stealing benzos from the hospital. And by all accounts, it should’ve gotten him put in jail and had his license revoked, but the hospital settled on rehab and routine drug testing instead.

Trinity hadn’t been pleased. In fact it took her almost two years, several therapy sessions, and an argument with (her then girlfriend) Garcia to finally work on mending the relationship. It would never be as it was, she’d said as much, but things were getting better.

Dennis watched with a soft smile at how much the couple had grown since their intern years.

Heather Collins was moving alongside Dana and Ellis, doing hand offs, same thing with Shen and McKay. All of his crew accounted for except— “where’s Samira?”

Trinity looked up from behind the desk as she typed something into the computer, “probably with the new pittlings.”

“The—? Oh, fuck! New students start today, don’t they?”

“You forgot?” She smirked, enjoying his misfortune.

“In my defense, I am not even supposed to be here today.”

“You literally responded to Gloria’s email about it last night, dumbass.”

“That must’ve been after the bottle of wine I drank.”

“Speak of the devils and they shall appear,” Trinity nodded her head to the doorway, where Samira Mohan led two men and one woman into his ER.

“— right, so, over there is triage, as med students, you’ll find yourself in there quite a bit in the beginning just to get a feel for it, but we do rotations so all doctors spend at least an hour or two on triage duty. North. South.” Samira pointed in the directions as they came up to the nurses station. “And this is central, where you will do your charting, receive assignments, and get directed by our lovely nurses.”

“Who you should always listen to, by the way.” Dennis intercepted the small group.

“Ah, the man of the hour!” Samira joked, “wasn’t expecting to see you here, chief.”

“Plans changed.” He shrugged noncommittally before peering at the students.

The woman —girl, really, considering how young she looked— had a head full of thick, brown, ringlet curls, tan-olive skin, and a pleasant, excited demeanor that only came with the fallacy of youthful optimism.

The one man kept shifting from one foot to the other, army backpack slung over his shoulder with his spine straightened. Clearly he had been a soldier, probably a medic. His auburn hair was cropped, but had the slightest hint of waves, and he sported a devilish grin that meant nothing but trouble. He knew right then that Trinity and the kid would get along famously, which sparked some anxiety.

Then there was the third student.

A tall, gangly sort of guy who looked like he hadn’t grown into his limbs quite yet. His brown eyes shifting around nervously, and his hair stuck up in a couple of places, like he’d just rolled out of bed, his beard was dark, full (Dennis was a little jealous about it) and contrasted nicely with his pale skin. He was… cute, in a baby giraffe kind of way.

“I see we have some new faces today.” Dennis grinned at the trio. “Please introduce yourselves.”

The eager young woman and the assumed soldier started at the same time, names overlapping before they both quieted and looked at each other before he apologized and let her go.

“Baran Al-Hashimi, MS3.” She said brightly, reminding him an awful lot like Mel during her first day during her intern year. He hoped she kept that attitude. It would be a nice change to have someone with a positive outlook on life in the department, even if it was only for twelve weeks.

He nodded at her kindly. “Lovely to meet you.”

The soldier went next. “Jack Abbot, combat medic.” He stated, announcing rank like he was trained to. Then he eased up, probably remembering that rank wasn’t as important here. “Er, former combat medic. Current MS4. Sorry.”

He heard Trinity chuckle lowly from behind him as the kid ducked his head, slightly bashful.

“Never apologize about that, kid.” Trinity stated, arms crossed and head high. Crap. She’d taken a liking to him. Dennis groaned internally.

Dennis’s eyes drifted towards the last man, who was almost hiding awkwardly behind the other two. He raised a brow and a hand in encouragement.

“Me?” He pointed at himself before putting his hand back by his side. He cleared his throat, voice coming out much stronger than before, a deep, melodic sound that reverberated in his eardrums. “Michael Robinavitch,” he said. “But everyone calls me Robby.”

“I’m an MS4 too,” he added.

His hand went to the gold chain around his neck, thumbing the jewelry absentmindedly as he swished a Star of David pendant back and forth. The second he noticed Dennis studying him, he tucked it behind his scrubs, cheeks going pink.

Dana elbowed Dennis in the ribs, getting his attention.

“My name is Dr. Whitaker, Chief of Emergency Medicine, this is our beloved charge nurse, Dana. She is our mother hen. Do not piss her off.” Then he pointed to Trinity, “that is our senior night shift attending, Dr. Trinity Santos. She looks mean, because she is. I’m just kidding, she’s a softy—“

“Slander!” Trinity admonished.

“Your jobs today are simple,” he continued, “listen to the nurses, try your best to keep patients alive, and most importantly, you are here to learn. Ask questions, take advice and critique seriously, and if you need help, come find me, another attending, or a senior resident. We are here to help you and our patients.

“That being said, welcome to the Pitt.”

Al-Hashimi raised a brow. “The Pitt? Why do you call it that?”

Without missing a beat, Trinity answered before Dennis could formulate a word. “The pits of hell, kid.”

“Santos, stop scaring the children.”

“Don’t lie to them, Huck.” She shot back.

“Surely it’s not that bad?” Al-Hashimi laughed, albeit nervously.

Oh, sweet summer child.

“Talk to me again after your shift.” Trinity said with a straight face.

Dennis shook his head, moving towards the group. “Ignore Dr. Santos. She had a bad night and is currently going through an ongoing existential crisis.”

Then the red phone started ringing.

Dana strode up to it, answered, spoke some words into the receiver and nodded wearily before hanging up.

“You’re up, Whit. We got a three car mvc, three injured, one critical. ETA four minutes out.”

“Aaannd that’s my cue to leave. Good luck and Godspeed little pittlings, make papa proud.” Santos gave a mock salute as she sauntered off towards the lockers.

Dennis rolled his eyes, then looked back at the trio as Al-Hashimi mouthed the word ‘pittlings?’ to Abbot who just shrugged.

Dennis clapped his hands together. “Alright, folks. Let’s go save some lives!”

—————————————————

Michael Robinavitch had many strengths.

He was intelligent, competent, held a 4.0 gpa all throughout school, was objectively funny, and despite all the shit that life threw at him —and his commitment issues— he was a hopeless romantic.

Which is why he was currently following the most attractive man he’d ever laid eyes on, and feeling like a complete and utter idiot because his tenancy to study until the wee hours of the morning caused him to wake up late. Thus he had the worst case of bed head in his life, wrinkled scrubs, and horrendous bags under his eyes. Very attractive. Yay him!

Needless to say, he would’ve put a hell of a lot more effort into his appearance if he’d known he’d be meeting Dr. Dennis Whitaker, Chief of Emergency Medicine, today.

Dr. Whitaker at first glance, was not a tall man. His shoulders were relatively broad, but relaxed, and his biceps filled out his shirt nicely. His dirty blonde hair had streaks of silver, notably by his temples, his smile lines were prominent and there were light crows feet decorating the sides of his eyes, one of which, was bruised. Said bruise also skated across the bridge of his nose, painting his face in a myriad of colors that looked painful, but made him appear absolutely devastating.

Robby absolutely itched to figure out how the man got it.

The rest of his face was all angles. High cheekbones, pointed chin and straight jawline, though the slight fat of his cheeks and the lack of stubble made him look fairly young. If Robby had to guess, he’d place the man around forty. Though that seemed a bit too young for someone of his rank.

When Robby thought about who would be in the position of chief, he assumed it would be held by someone close to their sixties. Dr. Whitaker didn’t strike Robby as being that old.

He followed closely behind Jack Abbot (roommate, fellow MS4, and adrenaline junkie— not necessarily in that order) who would’ve been practically skipping behind Dr. Whitaker if it hadn’t been for his prosthetic leg. Al-Hashimi was close on Robby’s heels, talking with Dr. Mohan who was drilling the younger woman about e-FASTs and intubations and critical timing.

She answered all of the questions correctly. Of course, she did.

He had nothing against her, hardly knew her except from the brief minute-long conversation they’d had that morning where she couldn’t stop talking excitedly about her upcoming rotations. She seemed nice enough, just a bit too peppy for seven a.m. Though, maybe that was just his chronic cynicism and lack of caffeine that made him annoyed.

Dr. Whitaker called for three other doctors. “McKay, Langdon, Mel, join up. Multi mvc, one critical, unknown status of two other patients all on route.”

He started throwing disposal gowns at them, “PPE. Always gown up for incoming traumas, face shields, eye protection. Trust me, you’ll want it.”

He handed Robby a gown, their fingers accidentally brushing against one another. A pleasant stinging sensation transferred in the touch, electric, like in the romance movies. (Hopeless romantic. Remember?)

“Ouch! Sorry about that!” Dr. Whitaker chuckled, pulling his hand away quickly. “Static shock.”

Right. Static shock. Totally not an electrical current between two kindred spirits, obviously. He felt his cheeks flame.

Jack had, unfortunately, seen the entire interaction, and started sniggering until Robby “accidentally” hit him in the dick to shut him up.

“I hate you.” He wheezed, half doubled over. 

“Not as much as I hate myself.” Robby muttered back, feeling foolish.

“Are you alright?” Dr. Mohan raised a brow at Jack who immediately straightened and puffed out his chest while clearing his throat.

“Yeah. I’m great. Amazing!” He then proceeded to give her two thumbs up like a total fucking loser.

She made an indecipherable face at him then abandoned them shortly after, walking to the front, standing with Dr. Whitaker, and Dr. Mel. She spoke lowly to the older man who dipped his head with his shoulders shaking.

“Nice going, dickhead.” Robby smirked down at a scowling Jack.

“Kill yourself.”

“Whoa!” Al-Hashimi interjected in panic,  whisper-yelling at them both. “You can’t just… say that!”

Robby had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“It was a joke.” Jack shrugged.

“An unprofessional one.” She scoffed.

The sound of sirens quickly approaching caused the MS3 to go silent, her distaste still palpable but hidden behind a carefully curated mask of seriousness.

“Abbot, you’re with Mohan and Langdon. First non-critical patient is yours, Al-Hashimi, Mel, and McKay take number two, I think Robinavitch and I can handle the critical with Collins .”

Collins? Who’s Collins?

“Where do you need me, Chief?”

Robby turned halfway, eyes settling on a familiar— oh no. Oh, Shit!

Collins, as it turned out, just so happened to be a very pretty (gorgeous) woman he’d met at a bar (fucked) once when he was a MS1; a woman he knew as Heather.

She was still beautiful, dark skinned, short hair, tall and model-like. The aura of a goddess. And suddenly, he was shrinking into himself and pressing so far against the wall that he might as well have been apart of it.

He prayed it was a dream, that it wasn’t actually her standing feet away as they waited for incoming patients. That was thwarted the second she locked eyes with him.

She made a face of pure disgust at him —which, admittedly, wasn’t a great start, and definitely made him feel like a gutter rat— but to his surprise, said nothing.

He made a silent vow to himself in that moment that if he made it through the rest of his first day without having to deal with that atrocious can of worms, he’d start going to synagogue again.

If Jack and Al-Hashimi had seen the (non-interaction) interaction, they at least had the tact not to say anything.

The first ambulance pulled in, and chaos ensued.

Paramedics opened the doors bringing out a woman in her late twenties, no older than Robby and Jack, unconscious, and intubated, with her femur sticking out of her thigh.

“Callidora Duvall, twenty six, broken leg, possible punctured lung, definitely concussed. Intubated in the field, C-collar to stabilize. Tachy at 170, and hypertensive.” One paramedic rattle off the basics to them. “Got t-boned by a seventeen year old who was playing with his phone and speeding instead of paying attention. Her four year old son, James, was in the back seat, got most of the impact. He’s pulling up just behind us; the critical.”

“Mohan, Langdon, take her in, I want full work up, call respiratory, and OR, tell them to keep at least two rooms and teams set up for emergency surgery.”

“Yes, Chief.” Langdon shouted behind him as he, Jack, and Mohan disappeared into the building.

“What can you tell me about the other patient?”

“Another teenager, on her way to school, couldn’t stop in time, got sandwiched between Callidora’s car and the one behind her. Had to pull her out with jaws of life, some broken bones, and a couple of deep lacerations, can’t tell you much more than that.”

“What about the guy who caused it?” Al-Hashimi asked.

“DOA.” Robby heard a sharp intake of breath from her. Then, for a moment, Robby felt a half-assed, sick satisfaction, before he mentally berated himself for being so awful.

The second ambulance revealed the young child, unresponsive, intubated,pediatric defibrillator pads placed on his tiny chest, blood coating his clothes. He didn’t look real, or… very alive.

“Collins, Robinavitch, let’s move quickly!”

They took the gurney from the paramedics and ran into the Pitt. Robby faintly heard Dana shouting a room number as the blood rushed to his ears and adrenaline took hold. 

Two nurses, Perlah and Donnie, joined them. They helped transfer James to a bed, as Whitaker gave orders, Collins set up for an e-fast, and Robby stared on like a dear in headlights.

It was nothing like the simulation labs. No amount of books could’ve prepared him for the mental horror that was watching a child deteriorate right in front of him.

“Rob—!”A voice, tangled in his subconscious was dragging him to the surface, distant, yet so close. “Robinavitch!” The voice was much stronger now.

“Robinavitch! Up at the head, you’re on airway.” He snapped out of his stupor, maneuvering (not so gracefully) around the team of doctors and nurses and the medical equipment to grab the bag.

Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze…

“Keep a steady rhythm, Robinavitch.” Dr. Whitaker said firmly.

“We got internal bleeding in the lower left quadrant, and left lung is collapsed.” Collins shouted over the noise.

“Collapsed lung. Also known as what? Robinavitch?” Dr. Whitaker quizzed.

“Umm, pneumothorax?”

“Are you asking? Or telling?” Dr. Collins inquired.

“Telling.” He answered. Without waiting he added, “can be resolved with needle aspersion, or chest tube insertion.”

He looked at Dr. Whitaker for approval, which judging by the uptick of his lips, he’d earned. “And what would you use on a child this size with the traumatic injuries he has?”

“Pigtail catheter, in the anterior axillary or mid-axillary line at the 4th or 5th intercostal space.” He said directly.

“Good.” Dr. Whitaker praised. Robby’s heart jumped from it. “Now switch places with me and do it.”

“What?” His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “You want me to…”

“Yes,” the older man nodded, “preferably sooner than later, if you don’t mind.”

“Chief,” Dr. Collins started, eyes shifting nervously from Robby to the little boy on the bed, “you think that’s a—“

“Teaching hospital, H.” He reminded the woman. Hearing the nickname, the familiarity of it between the two doctors made something go sour within his stomach. “He’s gotta learn how to place a chest tube at some point.”

“He’s still green,” she argued valiantly, “placing your first chest tube is difficult on an adult, much more on a child!”

Robby was half agreeing, hoping that the man would let the seasoned professionals do the procedure. The other part of him —stubborn and prideful— resented her for not believing in his abilities.

He said it before Dr. Whitaker could refute. “I can do it.”

Whitaker instructed Perlah to take over the bag and grabbed Robby’s wrist, pulling him close as Donnie handed him the needle and catheter.

“Show me where the placement will be.” He stood behind Robby, arms crossed, but ready to step in if necessary.

Robby pointed at the space between the kid’s ribs. “Good. Clean the area, then insert the needle at an angle—“

“Whit,” Collins’s voice rose, “oxygen is dropping fast, BP too!”

Robby followed his lead, wiping away the dried blood on the boy’s mottled skin before using his fingers to find the proper position and inserting the needle on his first try. He placed the catheter, and nearly cried when he heard that quiet hiss of air.

“O2 climbing, heart rate slowing, BP returning to normal.” Donnie called by the monitor.

There was a moment of relief that seemed to flow to each individual in the room.

“Anyone call up for an OR?” Whitaker asked. 

Perlah went to answer but was interrupted by the door opening and a tall, intimidating woman (clearly a surgeon) walking in.

“Starting bright and early, huh, White Chocolate?”

White Chocolate?

“For the last time, Garcia, that is inappropriate for the workplace.” It was the first time Robby had seen the man grow agitated. A frown formed on his face, cornflower-blue eyes narrowing at the Surgeon. “Next time, I write you up and contact HR.”

The gentle demeanor Whitaker had worn since Robby had met him was long gone. His voice had an inkling of cruelty etched into the surface. A seriousness that meant that he wasn’t in the mood to be tested.

“Seriously? Still?” She huffed, indignantly before muttering a few words in Spanish under her breath.

“Yes.” He agreed, not elaborating further. “Collins. Present.”

With that, Whitaker tore off his gloves with a snap and tossed them into the trash. “Robinavitch. With me.”

He followed blindly, dumping his own gloves and walking out behind the older doctor half-hearing Heather give Garcia the details of the case.

They went to the central hub, where Dana held a tablet and cross referenced the content on the computer screen to her left.

“How’d he do, Chief?”

“Placed his first chest tube on a kid, who is now a lot less critical.” He clapped Robby on the back, “beautiful work, Robinavitch!”

“Th- thanks, Dr. Whitaker,” he smiled shyly at the compliments. His head was a bit floaty, though he wasn’t sure if it was the positive commentary or the after effects from the high of saving a kid’s life.

“Ugh, get out of that gown, kid, you’re getting blood on my floor.” Dana’s nose wrinkled.

Robby looked down, realizing that he was, in fact dripping red onto the tile and bashfully tried to pull the thin gown off only for the ties to knot up.

“Ack!” The noise was unintentional as he accidentally choked himself.

A deep chuckle sounded beside him before Robby felt the thin fingers of Dr. Whitaker manually turn him around. “At least bend down a bit so I can undo this.”

Robby went red in the face and immediately crouched to a more appropriate height so the smaller man could assist.

“Why’d you double knot it?” Whitaker asked. 

“Jack —Abbot— did it.” He corrected himself as he tattled. He heard Whitaker snort softly behind him as the strings loosened.

Fingers, warm and calloused, touched the expanse of the skin above the neckline of his scrub shirt, making Robby visibly shiver, breath hitching in his throat.

“All done.” He said, “go toss that into a bin and come back to start charting.”

Whitaker picked up a tablet, pulling a pair of glasses, placing them on the bruised bridge of his freckled nose. Robby thought he might melt at the sight.  “I’m going to check on Mel and Samira. Dana, if you see McKay, can you tell her that her labs on bed 10 are ready, and I want her to call up to endocrinology for a consult. Please and thank you!”

It took a moment for Robby to orient himself as Whitaker stepped away, blinking once, twice, three times, before pulling the gown off and tossing it into the nearest hazards bin.

He stopped for a second, just to breathe. In through the nose, out the mouth. In, out. In, ou—

“Did you see the fucking bone sticking out of that woman’s leg!” He hadn’t heard Jack approaching, and jumped out of his skin when he roughly grabbed his shoulder from behind.

“Shit, sorry, man.” He laughed when Robby turned around sharply, hitting him with his elbow. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Jackass.” Robby muttered with a scowl. “That woman has a name, you know?”

“Callidora Duvall.” He nodded, “I’ll never forget the name. My first patient— whose life I just helped save, by the way!”

“Humble, much?” Robby snarked, “and what are you talking about? You had dozens of patients when you were deployed?”

“Yeah, As a medic,” he replied sarcastically as he grinned lopsidedly. “But this is my first real one. As a doctor.”

“You’re an MS4, genius, not technically a doctor yet.” Robby stated the obvious.

“Jesus Christ, can’t you just let me have this win?” Jack threw his hands up dramatically.

A few things happened in the span of the next five seconds. One, a flurry of alarms began chirping. Two, someone was calling for a code blue. And three, Dr. Whitaker nearly barreled into Robby’s chest while on route to the room where the third car crash victim was currently attempting to be resuscitated.

“Whoa! Jesus!” Whitaker yelped as Robby’s hand came out to catch him. “Shit, sorry kid!”

He ran off as quickly as he’d crashed into him, leaving Robby’s head spinning while he watched the chief scurry off to the busy room.

He looked down at his palms that had just recently been on Dr. Whitaker’s waist and shoulder feeling almost breathless from the brief contact.

“Oh, please!” Jack’s voice rudely cut through Robby’s train of thought.

He glanced up to his friend’s hazel eyes. “What?”

“Our boss?”

Robby’s face pinched as he glared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Abbot.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Oh, because you’re so innocent?” He hissed childishly, “mister thumbs up? Panicking in the bay just because Dr. Mohan asked if you were alright?”

“Bit rude to bring up the past…”

“Don’t give me shit, Jack!” Then to prove his point (there was none) he stalked away, feet stomping and everything as Jack called him a a drama queen.

—————————————————

The patient didn’t make it.

Robby figured that out as he sat at central working on a chart after an hour and a half of covering chairs.

He hadn’t seen it happen, but he heard through the grapevine that the teenage girl from the crash —Vera Kowalski— had passed on due to an unforeseen internal injury that hadn’t shown up on her scans.

Jack was off with Dr. Mohan doing rounds (and sort of avoiding him), and he was in between patients, waiting on labs for a man in central nine who complained of abdominal discomfort but had no other symptoms, when Al-Hashimi quietly came up beside him.

She looked… bad. Really bad.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and dull, expression sullen. Clearly the loss of her first patient was hitting her hard. He couldn’t blame her. It was a rough case.

Selfishly, he felt the teensiest bit grateful that it hadn’t happened to him. He wondered what that said about his character. His Bubbe would’ve smacked him upside the head for being so mean-spirited.

“I—“ the ms3 tried to speak, but no words could capture the sting of loss.

Despite not knowing her all too well, Robby hesitantly reached out and patted her shoulder in hopes to comfort her in some way.

“She was fine.” Al-Hashimi grieved, “I did the e-FAST, there was nothing there!”

“ Sh-She was talking, and on the phone with her mom, and—“

“Hey. Breathe!”he interrupted as she started to hyperventilate. “With me, okay?”

“In.” He inhaled, she followed suit. “Exhale. Yes. Good.”

“Inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…”

They repeated the pattern until he was certain that she wouldn’t pass out.

“You don’t have to force yourself to talk about this yet,” he advised, “it’s a fresh trauma. You’re allowed to just… sit with it for a moment if you need to.”

She looked at him with a mid of incredulity and mirth. “Is this your way of saying to shut up and suck it up?”

Yes. “No.”

“I’m just saying that maybe you could benefit from speaking with social services, get you set up with a counselor—“ she made a face. Clearly he wasn’t doing a great job at this. He added in defeat, “there’s a reason I’m not going into psychiatry.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

He huffed a laugh, ducking his chin to his chest.

“For what it’s worth, Al-Hashimi, I’m sorry you had to go through that with your first patient. Death is not an easy thing to witness.”

She hesitated on the next question, “Do you think it gets any easier?”

He shook his head and shrugged.  “I’m not sure. But I think it’s important to remember that in here —hell, in life— there’s only so much that we can control. We are not omnipotent. Patients can be completely stable one second and then go downhill quicker than we can anticipate.”

“My point is, us being there for them, us trying our best despite the outcomes is what’s most important.”

There was a beat of silence. Then another. He started to get a tad bit nervous. Had he fucked up again?

“Maybe you should rethink psychiatry.” She hummed, “and Call me Baran. I think you’ve earned it.”

Then she walked away. Robby could admit, that acknowledgment made his chest warm. Even more so when a voice piped up behind him.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Robinavitch.”

He startled. Did everyone in this ED have to sneak up on him like that?

“Dr. Whitaker!” He breathed, “didn’t know you were there.”

“Sorry,” he apologized (something Robby realized he did a lot), then let out a little laugh. “I’ve been told I’m a bit light-footed. Trin— Dr. Santos used to threaten to put a bell on me back when we lived together.”

Lived together? Wait. Were they—? Maybe that’s why she’s… oh!

He felt like he’d cracked some sort of code.

“We’d all probably benefit from that.” He said without thinking, still slightly reeling from the conversation with Al-Hashimi (Baran. He mentally corrected.) and now the new piece of information that Whitaker and Santos were maybe, possibly, definitely, formerly dating.

He’d file that disappointment for later, when he had time to process that he’s object of attraction was straight. (Or at the very least, Bisexual.)

Robby’s chances (not that he really had any in the first place) were dwindling; borderline nonexistent at this point, really.

“I think Mohan could use some help in north six if you don’t mind.” Whitaker encouraged.

Robby nodded, standing from the chair and heading over.

“Other way, Robinavitch.” Oh, right.

He turned around, blushing at the fond stare Dr. Whitaker gave him as he shook his head before turning to Dana who had tapped the countertop to get his attention.

Not only was Robby embarrassed, but now he was pathetic as well. 

Fantastic.

—————————————————

Dr. Mohan was exceedingly empathetic, as it turned out.

Seriously. The woman spent ample time listening to her patients even if the cases weren’t as prolific as a trauma and could’ve honestly been taken care of at a clinic instead of wasting their time and resources.

He admired it, don’t get him wrong, but god, it was such a slow process.

Together, they’d had four patients to routinely check on over the course of the last two hours, and the more he worked with her on these cases, the more he ached to be doing literally anything else. None of them were life-threatening —not that he wanted them to be— but he was bored out of his mind. (Okay, maybe he did want them to be at least a little life threatening. He wanted a little action, that’s all; sue him.)

“What tests would you order for our lovely patient here?” Dr. Mohan asked him.

It was a geriatric patient. An old woman who came from the nursing home with a strange rash on her body that, at first, she dismissed as an allergic reaction to something and had been taking Benadryl which wasn’t working.

“I’d do a full blood panel, to cover all of the bases, topical cream for the rash, maybe do a consult with Dermatology.”

“I think you’re missing something, kid.”

Missing something? What could he possibly— “oh, and an intramuscular injection of antibiotics in case of infection?”

“What kind of antibiotics?”

“Penicillin.” He answered confidently.

“Try again, remember to look at her allergy listings.” She suggested.

The patient alerted them beforehand that she was allergic to penicillin. He felt like an idiot. “Sorry,” he winced, “cephalosporin?”

She gave him a brilliant smile. He could see why Jack was smitten. She really was quite pretty.

“Alright, Mrs. Novak, we’re going to put orders in, a phlebotomist will come in to do some bloodwork, and a nurse should be by soon to administer a broad spectrum antibiotic called Cephalexin afterwards. I’d like to keep you for monitoring in case of any possible reactions since you are allergic to certain antibiotics.”

“Anything to get rid of this horrible rash. An absolute nightmare! A few other residents had rashes too not long ago.”

Dr. Mohan paused. Robby’s head cocked to the side. A viral infection?

“You never mentioned that, Mrs. Novak.” He said.

“Didn’t think it was important.” It was very important, actually.

He looked to Dr. Mohan, who pursed her lips, bitting back a smile. “Mrs. Novak,” she addressed after a moment. “Where do you say the rash started on your body again?”

“My thighs.”

“Whereabouts?” She asked.

Mrs. Novak’s beady eyes went from her to him then back, nervously. “My inner thighs. I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m comfortable with him being here for such intimate questions.”

Intimate? His brows furrowed in confusion. Robby didn’t understand. It was just a viral rash, who cares where it… “oh my god!”

He whispered as it clicked. He really wished it hadn’t.

Dr. Mohan looked at him like he was unintelligent. He felt that way too. “I’m just going to… yeah. Excuse me.”

He rushed out of the room, cheeks aflame, and deeply horrified at the prospect of an old woman possibly having an STD.

Dr. Mohan came out moments later, shaking her head with a grin as she made her way to Robby who had already put in the orders and couldn’t look her in the eye.

“How much do you know about sexually transmitted infections, Robinavitch?” She teased causing him to blush further and shrink down in his chair.

“Textbooks covered it, but not when it concerns the elderly.”

She laughed, smile lines prominent, and dark eyes shut as she tilted her head back.

“What’s wrong with the elderly?” One of the nurses, the one practically glued to Perlah’s side —Princess, he reminded himself— asked.

“Our dear Mrs. Novak has been having relations with a few men at her facility. Unfortunately one (or more) of those individuals must’ve caught something—“

“Oh god! Eww!” She fake gagged.

“Why is it always the nursing homes?” Dr. Langdon, who had been a few feet away, and overhead everything, cringed.

“Statistically speaking, around 25% of elderly people contract STIs due to the myth perpetrated by society that they’re “too old” to be having sexual relations in the first place. Therefore they tend to forego condoms.” Mel slid up closely behind Langdon, placing a hand on his shoulder that he immediately grabbed, rubbing his thumb over her pale knuckles.

Are they… together?

His wondering was put to rest, and proven correct, by Langdon. “Mel, sweetheart, I mean this in the nicest way possible, spouting facts about STDs in the elderly community while touching me isn’t exactly appealing.”

“It’s a fact of life, Frank. If you aren’t careful —regardless of the age group— the possibility of getting an infection is probable. Your mother is at that age too, you know. Oh! We should send her some pamphlets— mmph!”

Langdon stood up lightning-fast, covering Mel’s mouth with his hand to stop her tirade with a grimace, much to Robby’s relief.

The man kissed the crown of the blonde woman’s head. “We most certainly are not going to be giving my very single 70 year old mother a pamphlet on sexually transmitted infections, my darling wife.”

Mel rolled her eyes, mumbling something behind her (apparently) husband’s palm. “Met ee oh!”

“If I let you go, do you promise not to have the talk with my aging mother?” She nodded and he released her.

“I hope you at least sanitized your hand before touching my mouth.” Her nose crinkled.

“Nope.” He joked, I touched the floor right before this.”

Her face grew stern. Langdon held up his hands in surrender. “Kidding! One hundred percent kidding!”

“You’re terrible, Captain Scurvy.” Langdon snickered.

“Captain— what?” Robby asked incredulously, eyes bugging out of his head.

“Inside joke, kid.” Mohan explained, “the newlyweds are disgustingly in love, ignore them.”

“Newlyweds? Oh, um, congrats?”

“Thank you!” Mel smiled widely.

“Alright you two,” Dana groaned beside Princess, quit that before we start getting PDA complaints.”

“Must you ruin the fun?” Langdon sighed.

“Yes.” She stated, “you’ve got a patient with constipation in twelve that could use your brilliance.”

Langdon made a disgusted face, “please tell me it’s not going to result in—“

“Dispaction?” Mohan supplied. “Probably. Good luck, buddy!”

She pointed two finger guns at him with a wink and a click of her tongue, reminding Robby all too much of his loser friend. Maybe Jack did have a small chance after all, lucky bastard.

“Go. Shoo!” Dana motioned with her hands, “away from my station!”

“I will pay cold hard cash for literally any other case.”

“Tough luck.” She snorted in response.

“I believe in you!” Mel cheered encouragingly from his side.

“Thanks.” He sighed in defeat as the rest of the group laughed at his misfortune. “You’re all the worst.”

“Except me?” His wife said brightly. Langdon softened slightly.

“Except you.” He agreed.

“Gross.” Mohan muttered out loud as Langdon and Mel kissed an he walked away towards his impending doom.

Robby couldn’t help but agree. He was a romantic at heart, sure, but that— the PDA— yeah, no. Yuck! He couldn’t imagine doing something like that with anyone, especially not a certain chief attending. Wait, what?

The red phone started ringing. Dana walked briskly over to it, answering by the second ring.

There was a sudden shift in the air, one that he felt immediately. It was bad, he was certain of it.

“Alright. Yup. Got it.” She hung up the phone, frowning and clearly stressed.

“Whit!” She called out to the chief attending who had just exited a patient’s room. “Incoming trauma. Male, 20, suicide attempt. Roommate found him hanging from a ceiling beam. Unconscious, pulse thready, but still alive.”

“Jesus, fuck!” Mohan said. Robby couldn’t agree more.

“How far out?” Whitaker’s face was serious and grave.

“Two minutes tops.”

“Mohan, Robinavitch, you’re with me.”