Archive of Our Own

pittsburgh, pennsylvania

Will's never been to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania before.

Hannibal's been here but he's never been to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Will doesn't really like Pittsburgh so far and Hannibal doesn't like Pittsburgh Trauma Medial Center much at all either.

It's loud and noisy in the emergency service's waiting room, lights bright and way too florescent for either of their liking. They sit at the end of the row of plastic little chairs, no space on either side and all four knees forced to press inward. "We've been here for hours."

The former agent's curled into the curve of his chair, fingers of his (good) hand playing with the edge of his sweater. Like always, the one his daddy put on him.

"I still don't get why you can't do this at the hotel."

Behind them, there's another row of chairs upon chairs and the smell is just as potent and harsh as the noise around them. Hannibal has all his fingers delicately circled around Will's bad hand, holding it like it's even noisier. "Because wrist fractures need imaging, darling." His right hand pulls the pillow tucked underneath the younger's elbow a little tighter, traces the bruising with five short cut nails. He looks down, face soft, patient, and kind. "Still hurting after the Tylenol?"

The empath's fingers tease the edge of yellow wool near his denim blues, neither looking up nor denying it in the process. "A bit."

The doctor hums. The noise has grown louder since the lunch hour passed and the only thing taking up more space in the room has been Will's ever-growing frustration. They wouldn't even let him have a snack after they'd checked in. "Are you sure we have to do it this way?"

"Unfortunately, yes." The truth is— unfortunately— reciprocated even further. "Only to get it cast though. After this, daddy can take care of everything else."

"Hannibal." Will's looking up now, cheeks pink where his glasses press in. "Stop."

So the former surgeon stops. His face is blank, words not breaking past enamel quite yet. He's ready to fight if he has to though.

"Will." He sighs, turns his right palm over so it can touch the skin where bone is cracked deep enough to be called broken. "Alright." He closes his eyes at the same time that a loud buzzing noise starts to pierce overhead for what feels like the fiftieth time this afternoon. Louder and louder, over and over. It's probably too much for him too.

"Will, I'm sorry that this is the only way to handle it. And I'm sorry that it's still hurting, my darling." His eyes open when he says the word, almost expecting Will to look angry (he's not). "It'll be better once they get you in the back. Would you like Olive for now?"

The red's overtaken where pink once was, right below the rims where glass reflects the words he can't seem to say.

Instead: "Hannibal." It's quiet because he does want Olive, hates that his friend is jammed inside the cramped corners of a bag, all deep and hidden where he can't get to her. Where he can't see her.

"I said stop." Hates it so he says it exactly how it is. "Not that little, please."

Forward of them, patients move between and back-and-forth; loud, noisy, dying and not. It feels like a place that the ocean wouldn't be able to take back to her waters, not even with the deepest waves pulling all of it in.

"Alright." Hannibal repeats the word again, an entire wave crashing into shore with his gentle reminder. "She's there if you need her."

They'd been there for hours already— well, three— but the dose of acetaminophen came only after two-and-a-half hours first. Plus an apologetic plea from the former surgeon. Kathy from Patient Access had been kind enough, wore cherry red glasses that probably held more empathy than William Chilton even knew existed. She'd smiled at him, promised no set time but with two solid white pills in a paper cup at hand. "Younger ones right?" She'd said affectionately despite all the noise and chaos around them. "He the type who complains about having to swallow 'em too, right honey-bee? You got it bad, don't you?" The only thing moving were her fingers, ten going at the speed of twenty. "Maybe another hour or two. No promises. And if you ask again, I'll add one more." She never looked at him the entire time but Hannibal hadn't failed to catch the tail end of a smile, one made from noise and chaos, not affection and empathy.

"Of course," he'd said, polite and all, jacket over his left forearm. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Are you sure you can't just cast it?" Will's got his eyes on his right wrist where the metacarpal bone is bent at an awkward angle and it looks anything but something that can be done at home. "It'll probably heal fine on it's own."

Hannibal's turned in his plastic chair, both knees touching against Will's left. It's gotten louder and it forces him to have to speak up. "Just a bit more, alright?" He still looks so soft and patient, so very kind.

The noise remains vibrant and fractured all around their tiny little bubble in the waiting room. And the blend of patients (both young and old) are broken and bent just the same, but Hannibal's never looked more comfortable in his life. Probably in more ways than one.

Will watches from the side as double doors to the far end open and close twice more. In his jean's front pocket his Airpods remain tucked deep, no longer charged and now known as 'not found!' on his mobile device. "Hannibal." His fingers keep pulling at the end of his sweater where mustard-yellow threads break apart.

"You said that an hour ago." He really doesn't like Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center very much if he's being honest, thinks there has to be at least a hundred other cooler places they could go in the city.

Like back to the hotel room.

"I'll check again in a moment. We can see if they will let you have some ibuprofen as well, alright?"

Will's about to complain about the concept of another dose of anything, complain about the infant cries and impatience roaring in the background, complain—

"Mr. William Chilton?" They both look up at the same time, knees pressed together, bone against bone. This time, louder: "Mr. Chilton?"

Will stands first, pillow falling to the ground and baby sobbing over his right (sorta-bad) shoulder. He thinks she has to be louder than all the lights and noise and lack-of-patience combined.

"Right here!"

*

"So Pittsburgh from Amsterdam?"

The thin gray-haired nurse looks more than a little confused when he turns his attention from his computer monitor to the patient sat on the far edge of hospital bed. "Long ways there."

Somehow it seems the fluorescent lights in the tiny eighteen-by-eighteen square foot hospital room feel even brighter than the ones from outside. Even without the infant piercing at his temple and even with Hannibal standing far too close for his liking.

Will's got his right hand rested on the brought-in pillow, palm up. There's ducks all over the pillowcase— baby yellow ones! — but most of them can't be seen unless you're looking really, really hard. "Yeah, well.. not here by choice."

Both men look over at the empath.

"Right."

The nurse makes a face, hesitates for a moment more then turns back to the bright of the computer screen. "I'm going to guess you didn't do that by choice either." He doesn't bother to look at the source of the problem as he talks and types in practiced parallel. "Dr. Whitaker is finishing up with a trauma and will be through in a hot one— but I'm Jesse, assigned nurse. Care to share what happened?"

Under the florescent lights, all the rays of whites and blues, Will wishes nothing more than for his daddy to answer instead. Even though he's not even feeling that little. "I fell wrong." His eyes are on his swollen joint, feet dangling off the edge of the bed, legs bent at the knee. "At the hotel. I tripped over luggage and fell into the dresser." He can't look up because he's never been good at lying, not even as a child. "My hand tried to take the brunt of it but it snapped when I fell over."

Jesse stops typing midway between the letter R and N. "Happen today?" He glances over then, eyes aimed towards the break and two ducks hidden underneath. "Looks pretty swollen. I'll get you some ice in a second."

From the side, Hannibal stands up with his hands clasped at the front. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." The nurse is eyeing Hannibal more than Will for far longer than either would like but he doesn't act on any ruminating thoughts. At least not right off the bat. Instead he asks, "today, right?"

"Yes." Will answers. "This morning, maybe around— five hours ago? Packing."

"Right." And just like earlier, the quick steps of being a lifelong ER nurse take lead and he's typing faster than he's thinking, focus already clocked out of her twelve hour shift for the day. "Any known allergies? Current medications? Might be helpful if you have a list."

Hannibal's closer without being asked. Jesse's noticed but Will hasn't. The empath's more focused on the purple swell forming along bone and muscle. It looks uglier than an hour ago, more gray around the knuckles. "No." He blinks, looks back up and catches nothing but screaming lights and radiating white noise. "No allergies and I only take a vitamin— a daily one. Tylenol.. aspirin maybe, for a headache— but no, nothing— nothing else."

"This is the vitamin." The doctor's ridiculously close now, mobile device in one hand, coat hung over the other. The screen is illuminated and he's leaning over the empath from the side. "Since March last year, so nearly a year and a half."

"Vitamins are excellent for men your age. Men all ages actually." The voice incoming is loud and dominant, just as the man through the side of the (now) open door is. "Hi gang. I'm Dr. Robby. This here is Dr. Whitaker." The oldest of the bunch— Dr. Robby— stands with both hands tucked deep into his jacket's pockets, three-day old shave very telling about the 'need' for things like vitamins.

"What have we got going on here? I can already tell that," and he's looking pointedly at the empath's right wrist, "is a nasty break."

There's an energy that the doctor brings in with him, something that exhales everything out and inhales only the good bits back in. He drags the attention, all the eyes and all the hearts (regardless of weight), demands their sole focus with a sound of authority dressed in light-hearted words.

He'd probably seen more death than Hannibal'd ever be able to create.

Even Jesse looks up. "Forty-four, hand versus dresser collision. Here from Amsterdam, happened at the hotel. Haven't had a chance to look at it yet but definitely seems like a grade two at least."

The physician reaches for a pair of blue powder-coated gloves from the wall, his junior opposite shadowing from behind and doing the same for himself. "I don't know what's worse about that to be honest. Breaking your wrist or being in Pittsburgh instead of Amsterdam. Geez, what a difference. Whitaker, can you check for tenderness, deformity, range?"

The physician's stepped closer now, the oxygen in the room shifting with each of his movements. Inhale, exhale. "What's brought you over to this side of the Atlantic?"

On the other side, the shorter doctor presses for space to try and get by, almost nudging Dr. Robby a little too hard in the process. "Sorry— let me." He starts, apologetic and limb over limb between wire over wire. Hannibal's already stepping back though, giving space and room for all the others to do what he can't right now.

Whitaker smiles patiently, politely, clearly a doctor-in-the-making. He's got his gloves on already too, the same baby blue ones that make his hands look a little too small. "Hi Mr. Chilton. You mind if I take a look?"

"I— uh," and it's not much of a start on his end either. "We had a layover." The empath does everything he can to avoid looking at the 'doctor who's not really my doctor', so he just keeps talking instead. "Was on vacation. And— sure, yeah."

Robby's pulling the second glove on, watching more of his fellow physician than the patient in front of him. "Awful place to have a layover." He's smiling despite his answer, flicks his eyes from junior to wrist to Hannibal. "We'll have to do some x-rays and it'll probably need a cast—"

But then he's interrupted by the the door opening again, all the loud beeping and static from outside pouring in all over again. "Hey Robby!— we got life flight incoming, seven minutes out."

His eyes haven't left Hannibal's, curiosity showing threefold with a different level of understanding hidden underneath. "Right— right." The attending sighs heavy, two fingers pulling off one of the gloves with a snap! before reaching to palm at the backside of his neck. "Sorry folks. Whitaker— orders, demo in the notes. Meet us in one in ten. Jesse, you're with me now."

Then Robby's hanging off the side of the door, one foot in and the other out, beep-beep-beeps uncontrollable and like lightning in his eyes. "Might take a minute guys. Imaging should come in soon for ya though." He knocks the door with his knuckles twice. "Be back kids."

When the door closes with a click behind Jesse, Whitaker stands awkwardly with both hands folded at the front, gloves still on.

"So dresser, huh?" He looks a little apologetic, steps forward after his question. "I broke my wrist when I was seven. Fell off my bike. Had to drop from baseball. It sucked."

Furthest away from the real heart of it all, back against a hospital sink and freshly-painted walls, Hannibal watches as Will's foot kicks back and forth. "Never broke a bone before."

The doctor's eyes snap up. "Really?" He never knew that.

Will blinks, glances up from his swollen wrist propped on the pillow. He looks surprised that Hannibal's so far away. "Yeah," he's smiling despite the overall frustration. "Couple of close calls but never a full-on break."

"You'll get to pick a cool cast color though."

The doctor is standing close to the bedside, as if back on track after being left by his counterpart. "I did blue but kinda wish I went with red. Marker doesn't show up as good on blue." His right hand pulls Will gently at the elbow, has the offending arm lifted to the open space between them so that light touches it from all around. "Oh yeah, well that's definitely a break. How much pain you in?"

The empath stares over the bump along his forearm, catches the younger doctor's eyes across broken bone and buzzing overhead light. The feeling from earlier is back. The one where he wished his daddy would answer instead. "A little." He's docile, eyes fixated on the violent swell of muscle at the palm. "Mostly when I move my elbow."

"He had acetaminophen from up front." Hannibal's voice cuts across the beeps of the neighboring machines. He knows he sounds tired and he knows he must absolutely look it too. "And we had ice on it, up until an hour ago."

Whitaker has two fingers tracing along Will's open palm, splitting off and checking each digit after. "Good." He's not looking at either men, focused instead on the sensitivity-to-pressure along his patient's middle and index finger. "Turn left, then right. Range is mildly limited."

The empath winces with a certain movement, half his body recoiling in distaste. "Maybe a bit more than mild."

"I'd be inclined to agree with you, Dr. Whitaker." Hannibal speaks from above again, barely half-a-foot behind the junior physician now.

Not even Will had noticed him come over.

The youngest of the trio looks up. "Right."

He's got his index finger and thumb on Will's, repeating movements from earlier. He stands awkwardly afterwards, having to roll more right to avoid colliding with Hannibal's hovering form. "So, like Dr. Robby said— imaging will be in soon. I'll have one of the nurses come by with something stronger for the pain."

His hands are holding the ends of his stethoscope, thumbs rubbing steel. The beeping rattles steady between his words. "We'll get you wrapped up after, alright?"

Hannibal is closer to Will now, his own hand replacing where Whitaker's once was. "Thank you, doctor." His eyes aren't on the junior physician but instead cast down towards the man on the bed.

Across the small room, the young doctor is already at the computer, gloved fingers typing away. "Of course." He's smiling, warm, friendly, doctor-like. "Is your flight back home today? Tomorrow?"

"Today." The former surgeon answers, looking down at the patient sat against hospital sheets and too many wires. Something else entirely found between the chaos of life and death. "It's been moved though."

The answer makes the physician glance up from his screen. "Good." It sounds automatic, almost robotic when it rolls off his tongue. He's watching the pair of them from across, only fluorescent lights and noisy beeps standing between. He answers despite what he sees. "It'll be sore for a day or two at least. Immobilizing will help but it'll do loads better if you can let it rest. Might have some nasty bruising though."

He double-taps something against the keyboard and steps aside, smile half-tilted up. "Have a color in mind?"

Will looks up at the question. His face shows nerves it can't seem to hide, almost caught off guard. "Oh— uh, doesn't really matter." His nails have caught the edge of sweater again. "Blue?"

Two fingers tighten around the empath's palm, just below the break. Whitaker speaks above the action though, demands a level of attention with his words. "No way. I told you—" and now the youngest is smiling wide, radiating under the lights and the labor. "You can't see sharpie on blue. Think on it." His hand's on the door of the tiny room, gloves off now, all the motions coming to a still at the doctor's command. "Jesse or one of the nurses will be back with those meds, alright? Buzz if you need anything."

He doesn't stop smiling, even after he leaves the room.

Hannibal hasn't stopped looking at Will either, even after the door clicks closed.

"You can pick a color, sweetheart." The older's voice is so quiet, so effortlessly gentle when it comes out.

Will hears each word across the buzzing noises, across the lights and the expanse. He tugs harder on the end of his sweater, traces a loose thread on the pillowcase after. "Not that little."

"I know." He murmurs his confirmation even quieter, so much so that Will has to look up because he doesn't want to miss anything else Hannibal might have to say. Not with all the sounds and brightness trying to take over.

Not with things like: "You can be though."

The younger swallows, florescent light catching the little bob as it rolls from throat to chest. He averts his eyes to the square monitor measuring his heart rate, the thump-thump making the digital line go up and down. His fingers tug at another thread, pulling it nearly loose as he starts to speak. "Don't like hospitals."

From the side, Hannibal remains close, his long coat brushing gently against Will's knee. There's so little space between them, just the smell of chemical cleaning products and a blood pressure cuff that keeps going on-and-off every sixth minute. He lets go of the empath's wrist, moves his hold instead to forearm where he squeezes gently. "Neither do I." Those fingers trail further north but he stops at the curve of shoulder where loose curls lay wild. "Would you like Olive darling?"

And he would like Olive, yes. Of course he would, but it's— "Hannibal. Not here."

The plastic wrap around his arm goes off again, taking the remainder of any words the former agent could come up.

"I don't know why you fight it so much, Will." Hannibal sighs but despite his words his tone comes off gentle and fond, the type of patience you can only find within the four walls of a hospital (or inside your heart). "No one's going to say anything about a stuffed animal."

But even the word stuffed animal seems to make Will recoil. The squeeze relaxes on his arm at the same time he does and the monitor reads what Hannibal already sees.

"Will, settle." And that word seems to recreate just as strong of an effect. The empath turns inwards, pulls his legs onto the bed and looks far away, between the red and blue wires and smells of hospital that won't seem to go away.

Hannibal hadn't even noticed the smell— so unlike himself— and instead watches and wonders if he'll have to fight the rest of his life for this.

Part of him hopes he has to.

"Fussy thing." The doctor's smiling, bright lights cast across from above. His hands are cupped at the front, jacket left on a nearby chair between the chaos from earlier. Olive remains patient and calm inside the familiar satchel, deep in it's leather brown folds. "You still need to pick a color."

The word is echoed when the door of the room is flung open for a third time, noises flooding in louder and even messier than the last.

"You got a color?" It's Whitaker in for a second appearance, but this time he looks less smiley and more like he's just run a marathon that he's not finished with yet. His words give the same feeling, all out-of-breath and jumbled up from chasing down death in between visits. "We have blue, red, uh, orange— looks awful though, don't do that one— right, uh, green, pink— and uh, yellow. Think that was it."

The junior doctor is hanging onto the edge of the doorway with all ten fingers and the toe of his shoe poked into the room, stopping it from closing in. "Imaging might take more than a minute too— sorry— but meds should be around the corner."

Will's flush pink across both cheeks. "Yellow." And at least two of the three know it's a lie but he keeps lying anyways, "please."

"Sure." The junior doctor looks anything but like someone who plays with things like life and death to pay the bills. He smiles friendly, waves his hand in gesture. "See ya back in a few, alright?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, something about a knife through the hand calling his attention instead of two men in a tiny little hospital room.

"Silly boy." Hannibal scrapes metal against tile as he drags a chair across, settles in with the same coat folded over his lap after. "You know you could have picked else."

Between them, in the gap of space between visitor chair and folds of hospital sheet, Olive appears. "Is there room for her?" It's quiet as a whisper, reaching through wires and beeps just to be heard. "Will she fit?"

Will can't bring himself to answer, face gone red and sure enough, blood pressure through the roof. "Hannibal." It's wet and urgent across each and every syllable. Then even worse: "Daddy."

The doctor's smiling down at him though, his entire body faced towards the empath with nothing but threatening beep-beep-beeps, crisscrossed wires and the entire door at his back.

He's smiling so much that there's wrinkles sprouting at the corner of each eye. He keeps at it too, his heart feeling nothing like the word heavy at all within these particular four walls. "Olive says please."

Maybe the idea of heaviest organ of them all was nothing but that, an idea.

But maybe it was something entirely else. "Okay."

He decides he'll have to take measurements some other time and nudges the plush toy from over to under the bed's thin sheet, pressing her plastic snout close to the outside of Will's (good) wrist. "See? Perfectly hidden." He nudges the stuffed dog forward again, pink in both cheeks himself.

Will glances up to look at the door again, closed like his old cardboard box used to be. "Just scared."

Hannibal hasn't stopped looking at him, doesn't think he could even if he tried, even if the door was open. "I know sweetheart. It'll be alright." His hand slips from underneath the sheet and his fingers lay across the topside, nails roaming against plush and forearm hidden underneath. "Let daddy play doctor for a bit too?" Crow's nests bloom on top of crow's nests with the question and at the same time, the blood pressure cuff goes off.

The younger's palm is sweaty but oddly still against the backside of Olive and her puffy brown tail. He almost wants to hide under the sheets too, just so he can bury himself into her fur and her fluff. "Hurts bad."

When the doctor smiles further, his fangs shine under the florescent light from every single angle. "They'll bring something soon." His index finger and thumb pause over the bump on Will's outer wrist, mind still curious how he never knew his little one had never broken a bone before. He had no idea. "I know you can't play your video games, but would you like to watch something? The distraction may help."

Before the words are even done though, Will's hand is already moving, acting like a recoil to the realization that he wouldn't be able to play video games.

It's just so, so hard sometimes— anytime— when they do this. They could be anywhere. Pittsburgh, Amsterdam, the ocean if she never gave them back. It was hard enough when he had to hide it, but now that he actually gets to have it? 'Closest thing he's ever tasted was falling in love and now he doesn't even know if that's in first place anymore.

It's so hard when he gets to say things like: "Sucks. Can't even color now."

And when he gets answers like: "Baby."

The doctor's in charge then, collects the cord-attached remote and sets up the rest of the scene to provide whatever comfort he can afford in their tiny little room. He's got the television in the upper right-hand corner of the room clicked on and a flood of channels flying by one-by-one as he acts more with his heart in the moment than anything that a medical text could ever provide.

It's just so, so hard on him sometimes too— yes, even him— when they do this. Anywhere, anytime. Hard when he says things like: "daddy found Paw Patrol darling," but gets answers like, "no!" instead.

Hard when his heart actually does weigh heaviest after all.

"Hannibal, stop— no, here, just give me— give me." Will's movements now are faster than his recoil from earlier. It takes him no less than three seconds to have the entire remote firm to the palm of his (good) hand and the channel switched over to something he is sure that's absolutely not Paw Patrol.

"You fucking suck sometimes, daddy." Oh. Hannibal gets it now. Will had already told him twice already. Not that little.

He feels more than a little embarrassed by all of it and his face absolutely shows it. "That's not polite, Will."

The very tip of the empath's tongue presses past the slit of his lips and Hannibal knows that if they were home the brat would have stuck the whole fucking thing out.

No, not that little at all. "Just because we're in a hospital doesn't mean I won't punish you if you act out."

There's nothing but static and beeping and soap opera across the entirety of the room now, all the oxygen sucked right back out with one single line uttered across the place where life meets death. We can't save her! a character on the screen screams out and once again, the blood pressure cuff inflates round precisely on time. It's just too much, doctor!

Will's eyes are lasers to Hannibal now, eyebrows furrowed and smile so upside-down that he'd be a liar if he didn't call it pouting. "You're mean. And they're taking forever."

And even then, even in a place where life meets death, Hannibal finds that he keeps discovering these things out of nowhere, things that he's never known to want, things he's never knew could even be wanted.

The machine above beeps three times over and then five times in succession, marking an actual elevated systolic number on the digital monitor in the aftermath. It's higher than average, brighter on the screen as it screams in red over and over and over.

He truly never knew Will hadn't broken a bone in his life, didn't know there was a big boy eyeing to come out and not just a little one. Didn't even know you could touch someone's heart without having to pierce the skin to call it yours.

"Patience Will," he's sharp and it should unsettle him— should unsettle them both— but the empath just growls and the doctor's forced to play doctor instead. "And settle down."

The blood pressure cuff tightens again for a recheck and Will's eyes narrow as he turns back to the television nested high above. "Can't color, can't play video games, can't do anything." It all comes out in a flood, like he's been waiting all day for it. Like maybe now, with the door closed long enough and the pain touching one too many spots, he can finally give in and do what he does best of all. "Mean."

A commercial clicks over louder and the announcer cuts through clear and crisp. Parenting done right! Pittsburgh's newest and most premier early education center opens this October! The beep, beep, beep resumes and the screen shows normal but Will's face is so red that it rivals the truth that the machine reads. 131/92. 131/92. 131/93.

Ratio's with one baby to caretaker.

Afterschool care coming too! 131/93. 131/94.

"Settle." Hannibal looks exasperated, calm and kind yes, but like he's completely ready to put the boy in a corner if he had to. 131/94. "Find something else and settle down."

And without being told but knowing full well that his ass could go in the corner, Will gives it only three, four seconds before he's flicking through channels once more. Parents call 954-27— Chase! After those pups!— Doc! She's bleeding out! You got to save her!

"They have nothing," is how he explains it, "and you still suck," is how he makes it all make sense.

Beneath the thin of hospital sheet, Olive lays pressed between his side and the elbow of his (bad) arm. He thinks she'd bark about all these issues too if she could and it makes him nudge his elbow in further. "Nothing, nothing, nothing." Bark, bark, bark.

"Here." The older is sat fully square and forward now, facing the empath with the urge to put even Olive in the corner at this point. He's reached in and collected spare bits of paper from the folds of the leather bag, a few pencils then a marker too. "Take something to write with, I have an idea."

"I can't write." Will eyes a swept-away pink crayon that's tumbled down Olive's lump. "Or are you blind?"

Maybe he'd need something more than just the corner. "Take something please."

The television interjects once again and Hannibal proves that he is indeed, not blind. He moves the chair, pulls a tray table, nicks the overhead off, does everything because he will do anything to get what he wants. She's in recovery now. It was a close one, the doctor tells the husband on screen. You can see her if you want.

The beep, beep, beep on both the screen and in real life at the same time says it all and a whole lot more.

It's dim with everything settled as best as he can make it, both hands on the short end of the tray table with a wipe at the center. And in between, they stare at one another across the beeps and the dim glow, both feeling all the more reckless even with the numbers on the screen finally flashing green over and over. 127/89. Bark, bark, Will thinks. "Don't want pink."

"Alright." The former surgeon slides a black leaded pencil across the smooth of the wood and starts wiping it down after. Back and forth, back and forth.

(Yeah, he can do that too.) "Have you played Connect Four before?"

"Connect Four?" Will answers right away despite not connecting the dots to the actual question first. "The game?"

"You'll only have to draw lines. Though I'd highly encourage you to pick another marker to help build dexterity in that left arm of yours." Hannibal's hand sweeps across the table one last time with his bare palm then lays out the game for play. He has to draw a square to start and while it's quick, the forty-two smaller boxes that come after take much longer. "I used to play in grade school." He's slightly hunched over at the mid-back as he shapes each box out, television selling a love scene in the making just over his shoulder. "To pass the time."

He's smiling then, fixated on the last two rows of squares he has to sketch out. "Would you like to play?" He looks boyish even as he says it, hair swept across at the forehead and eyes lighthearted, something that makes Will think there's a lot more at stake here than just a schoolyard game.

Overhead the character who survived surgery looks dreamily at another character sat bedside and something swells in the former agent's gut at the very same time.

Beep, beep, beep. "Okay," he's quiet when he answers and Olive is even quieter. Not a single bark to be heard. "Still don't want pink though."

The doctor's fangs shine again. Barely, because of the dark, but he can't hold it back. "Of course. The pencil's still there, right besides you honey."

His counterpart makes a face at the name but the game goes on ill regardless. The younger makes the first move, hardly able to sketch out an x in the right corner box. He still does though, focus gone from the romantic overture on the television, from the blood pressure beeping over and over and over, from the fact that he doesn't care if the door is open or closed right now, that he just wants to win.

He does it even better the second time too, then the fourth x is nearly a connect four but it's (unfortunately) forced into a box too far to the left. When it happens, he glances up at the doctor with long lashes and eyes that look like they're always ready to threaten his daddy with a good time. He doesn't actually do it no, but he starts to build a second row on the complete opposite side because he knows he's gonna have to start somewhere.

When they start to bounce back and forth with fluid motions across the piece of paper, almost everything else in the tiny little hospital room mutes out. There's still sound yeah, but all that's left is notes from some romantic song neither would ever know the name of (they both do) and the repetitive beeping once again doing the beep, beep, beep thing.

Will's got his tongue poked out and his thirteenth x on the paper when he takes a peek over the Hannibal's shoulder for the first time in a very, very long time. The door's still closed and the soap opera drones on and on from up above.

"You keep blocking me," he says under his breath, now half arched over the little tray table as he claims another box.

Hannibal's not as close but he's still sat on the edge of his plastic little chair. He can see Olive's back bump underneath the sheet from here and how Will's got a line of spit at the corner of his mouth threatening to come out for a good time too.

The doctor answers by nearly taking the game with his fourteenth o. Nearly. "You're doing the same, darling." He watches as Will blocks him yet again and the empath's smile is anything but upside down. "And I saw that."

"Saw nothing, daddy." His tongue is between his teeth.

The doctor isn't watching the game when he answers back. "Saw that too."

The game ties and Hannibal sets up another rematch. The medicine has yet to arrive and Olive's nearly asleep underneath the sheet but at least the episode's over and the pain's a little further away from where it was before.

"Wanna go first again." He plays the way he says it too, sweeps across with a calculated move to make it look like he just knows he's going to win this one. "Play fair this time."

"I promise you I am." A large hand reaches out between moves, collects the line of saliva and wipes it away. His fingers linger though, right where the pink crayon lay forgotten. "Let daddy try to win a little too, alright?"

Will's presented with the blunt end of pink crayon then, without wrapper and worn to bits from top to bottom. And somehow that's more than enough to make that swollen feeling in his stomach take a life all of it's own. Takes him with it, without even asking.

"Nuh-uh, daddy. I'm gonna win. My turn."

His tongue peeks out after his words and they fall in sync from the third move on.

The sounds, the soap opera and beep, beep, beeps, move on, forward and all around, falling into rhythm as time and pain fade away in the only way Hannibal knows how to make them do such ridiculous things: without a knife and with one's heart instead.

(The one that he's not sure the weight of anymore. Just that Will has it. Has always had it.)

"Wait— I need that one— daddy." Will's still hushed when he speaks but they're at the tenth turn each and he doesn't want anything but a win this time. "No, no."

"Nope." It's so informal and yet Hannibal's smiling from ear-to-ear, laughter near escaping without a choice. "Find your own way." And then it does escape as he makes his mark on the board, deflecting Will from yet another four in a row with a single move.

"Now it's your turn, bab—" But the pet name is cut off entirely. Not by Will (which would have been expected) but instead by the door swinging wide and open for the fourth time (which should have been expected).

"So they usually have a radiology tech come in with a machine but—" and now the nurse— Jesse— is cut off like their conversation was. His head is tucked over his shoulder as he walks in backwards, body craned in at a weird angle as he reaches over to knock the light back on with his knuckles.

When everything illuminates across he's left with two things: two men staring at each other strangely and more questions than he'd come in with.

Papers are still flying and the table's slightly ajar but all of that seems to be the least of anyone's problems at this very moment.

Jesse doesn't even notice the crayon let loose underneath the bed.

"Your meds." The nurse looks flustered and tired both in body and mind, has dark circles that make it look like he's either got a lot of years left in these four walls or maybe just not enough of 'em. "Shit, I forgot. It's been a day around here."

Either way, meds or not, Jesse gets to work. He sweeps over and around, steps on the side of his patient's good arm with movements one after the other, reaches and works between the endless wires and all the beep, beep, beeps. And he's pointed too, with all of his Registered Nurse, CCRN, CEN, BSN, TYVM actions. Enough so that the oldest of the bunch takes a step back and the plastic little chair along with him.

It's oddly unfamiliar to step away from an injured body and Hannibal almost trips backwards in his third step because of it. He finds himself growing a bit tired of finding things he doesn't know about. Beep, beep, beep.

Metal against linoleum makes Jesse look over. He still talks between his thoughts processing, not knowing how to stop them otherwise. "How have you been doing?" He's got three fingers cool to Will's good wrist from across as he counts out a manual pulse.

"Sorry it's taken so long again. Absolute nightmare out there."

Will knows he's taking too long to respond— to say— to do— anything— by the time that the nurse finishes his fifteen second count. He's got his broken wrist inching forward as it stays hidden under the thin hospital sheet, trying his best to nudge Olive lower and lower so she won't be seen.

"Fine," is all he can come up with. "It's fine."

And with the plush tucked in enough towards his outer right thigh, the younger slips his injured limb out and into the light from the overhead panels.

"We expected a longer wait to be honest." Hannibal's voice cuts across again, not necessarily answering for his counterpart but absolutely interjecting. It's enough that the gray-haired nurse looks up for a second time in two minutes and that's more than enough for any medical professional to start taking notes of their own.

"Well, that's a first." Jesse doesn't really know what to think about that quite yet so he diverts his attention elsewhere, thoughts moving faster than his hands and hands moving so fast that his mind thinks otherwise. "Worse pain than before?"

"Just a bit." With the attention back, Will starts to feel those blurry lines of little and big begin to peek between the cracks they like to sneak in through. "Mostly in the palm."

The nurse is on his haunches, slightly lowered at the bedside where he's near face-to-face with Will. His fingers trace along the bruising and bones of his patient's forearm, left and right, up and down. The bright lights above show everything in full display, all the skin that's damaged and the muscle that wants to know nothing about 'something' called a cast. "You fell forward, yeah?"

Will swallows, still fighting to climb back up and through all the ages he lost between the red and blue wires. He doesn't even know how long it's been, how many games they'd played. Two? Three? Was it the fourth? "Yeah," he answers softly, a lie under a lie. "Fast." Did he win?

The fingers on his right hand— his good hand— crawl digit-by-digit along the opposite side of the bed. They can't been seen, not with the nurse's lowered stance, but they seem to crave the presence of his stuffed toy too much to be stopped.

She's not on that side though. He'd have to reach over to get her. Then he would be seen.

The hand closest to her is probably broken and the realization hits him like a train, like another year off the tracks. Hits him like the fact that he probably won't be able to hold her the way he likes to for a long, long time does, makes him feel like he's sliding reverse against the years all of a sudden, needing to reach out for something else besides just a number.

He looks over at Hannibal, lost and a bit dazed in both eyes and expression. The blood pressure cuff tightens again, plastic-like noises between the beeps and the wires. And for whatever reason, be it life, death, love— the soap opera turns back over and the woman who survived surgery is back on screen yet again.

She's flat-lining this time though and it's loud. Really loud. Makes all three of them turn heads and look up at the tiny little monitor tucked into the far corner. She's coding again doc! "Bit dramatic, huh?"

Jesse's smiling at him and it makes Will feel even smaller.

"If you don't mind losing the drama, I can let you walk to radiology with me." He's gone then, up and away and probably a little too close to the doctor as he reaches overhead, through doors and drawers. "It's a bit of a trek but at least you won't have to be laid out like a filet for the night shift nurses. We're near shift change and we're wall-to-wall in the back of the house."

It almost feels like information overload for the both of them but the nurse doesn't stop, lays it out all in one go.

"You'll have to lose the sweater for a gown. Simple, knots in the back," he's closest to the door now, smiling as pleasantly as one could at the near end of hour thirty-six. He tosses a laundered dressing top towards the end of the bed, arms at the side after. We can't call it yet! "But we can swing by and grab your meds on the way. Should get to working by the time you get back." He stops then, remaining instructions left behind pearly white teeth and his eyes focused on the way that the older of the two seems to have taken over managing all aspects of clothing there could be.

He thought it was supposed to be simple anyways. "We usually won't let you walk on the good stuff but I won't let you swallow them until you're on the table. Sound good?"

And then, words in sentences and sentences turned paragraphs, the nurse stands there with his back to the door and a face that knows patience even when he's run out of it.

Hannibal answers for him, but this time Jesse doesn't avert his eyes. "Wonderful. Thank you."

The soap opera's still churning, time still moving. Character saved once again and another commercial from earlier repeated a third time in an hour. All the beeping and noises persist and the blood pressure cuff has gone off at least twice more, each time unnoticed and each time normal. Hannibal's got the gown in hand after he answers, working it loosely and without direction but with eyes completely on the man now sat at the edge of the bed, knees bent over the cliff, feet that should be kicking.

"William?" The name makes Hannibal look up but Will shifts to look instead at the only person whose ever called him that outside of his daddy. His real daddy.

"Mr. Chilton?" The nurse asks again. "That sound good for you?"

Beep, beep, beep. "Yeah," and he's still looking up at his daddy, still doesn't know how the machine can keep screaming normal, normal, normal when there's no way it can be anything close to normal. But he does know that he's never been happier to see that Olive's already been tucked into the gown's only side pocket, body and head completely hidden.

His eyes are up and everything else feels far away when he signs his confirmation. "Sounds good."

The doctor's eyes remain on the tall nurse as two fingers nudge the plush toy deeper and deeper into the gown's pocket.

And Jesse's next words aren't even over before he's left with exactly what he had before. "I'll have him back in fifteen, tops."

Two men staring at each other in a strange way and more questions than he came in with.

*

I'll have him back in fifteen, tops, turns out to be, "sorry about that!" instead.

The former nurse is replaced with the younger doctor this go around and Hannibal is presented with something else entirely. "We had to re-image and then we had a technical issue." The television above is still screaming about life and death and the light's are dim once more, but the way that the Will is looking at him is anything but strange.

It's sort of like— "He might be a little high."

Hannibal's eyes are wet— have been wet. "Will," it comes out so quiet, so, so low against the beep, beep, beeps. "You're back."

"Not really high." He's smiling. "Hi."

Will's across the dark of the room in three, four steps and stood right in front of Hannibal, good hand in the gown pocket and Olive snug tight. "I think it's broken."

Between them, with Hannibal sat on the edge of the tiny little hospital bed, the younger has his arm hooked through a fabric sling and everything about it makes the doctor feel like this might very well be God giving them yet another cliff to jump off of.

Like God's not yet done breaking bones that he wants to break first.

His right hand lifts and touches Will at the wrist, presses fingertip into pulse. It matches the rhythm of the overhead beeping, the beep, beep, beep. The normal, normal, normal.

Dr. Whitaker— Dennis— stands at the back, shoulders pinched and hands along a clipboard at the front. Beep, beep, beep. On last week's episode of Young and the Restless. "Yeah," stretches out long like the word restless itself and in the same stretch the young doctor steps over with an apologetic smile already up to bat.

"Definitely broken. And like I said, sorry about that. Been barking mad all day."

He doesn't complete that full step either, because by the end of it, his patient and daddy (?) are staring at each other. Again. "All day." The metal of the board hits both his knees when he rolls from toe to heel before adding, "hello?" to his laundry list of questions he's brought in.

Of course Jesse talked to Dennis. It's a hospital.

"Don't need to call a code blue do I, Will?"

They both look over then. Immediately. "Or do you not take William short?"

With a palm pressed to Olive's backside and only half his face showing over his right shoulder, the now-not-youngest in the room answers with an aloof smile. "Will's okay."

The relief feels not dissimilar to the waves of an ocean. "Here, sit." Hannibal's up a second later, coat over his arm, eye's still damp. "I got you an extra blanket. Sit."

There's some shuffling split between the noises, the beeping, the soap opera in the background. Dennis lingers there, bouncy steps, bouncy body. He seems like he's very, very aware that all three of them have a sense that something else might be going on in this tiny little hospital room, but with the (un)fair knowledge that he's the only one of them that's willing to talk about it.

It's only when he has to keep diverting his eyes from looking over and over that he sees the clock barely lit high above, just underneath the dim glowing flood light. It's nearly quarter past seven and he feels more than tired of the day than because of it.

And for a guy like him, that's saying a lot.

So he does what any guy like him would do when shift's long over and you only ate half a sandwich at lunch: you stay longer and you get hungrier.

"And I know I just picked ya up from Jesse and he was gonna do your cast— but," he stops, leaning around with a friendly smile spread across. "If you don't mind me yapping about my roommate stealing my lunch today, I'll do it myself for ya. Right now."

He's still looking towards his patient, lets his hand slip to grab the mesh cuff between his words. "Try and get you guys out of here before the changeover anyways."

There's a pause between sentences, a delay where a doctor would make his diagnosis. Will's sat on the bed looking up at the space between doctor and doctor, but Dennis wouldn't even need to look at this patient to diagnose him. He slides the cuff on at the same time that he starts to continue to sell his idea. "If you're discharged after seven—"

And Will's a little high yeah, but he answers clear as day. "Yes." Politeness still in tact. "Please."

Hannibal can't help but echo the sentiment even though his eyes are still only on his little boy. Even in a place where life meets death and in a place he never thought he'd have to say the word again. "Please."

"Yeah, of course." He's taken a step back, toes up and heels down. "Wait. Actually—" The blood pressure starts over at the same time that four eyes look over. "Shit. Need to— forgot the stuff. Right, okay, okay— hang tight."

He's just as bouncy aiming for the door, hands holding either side of his stethoscope as he makes way to make his shift even longer.

"Yellow right?" The doors open, talking and buzzing coming in, soap operas and patience going out.

Hannibal's turned back to Will once again but the empath manages to peek just enough over to make his answer heard through the beeps and the wires.

"Pink," he says, both feet swinging, Olive tucked tight. "Please."

The young doctor is half out the door but his smile stretches far enough that you'd be blind to miss it. "Now that's a good one."

But Will probably doesn't hear, at least the physician thinks he doesn't anyways, but he still adds on, "be back!" just in case and let's the door push him out from behind.

Outside the tiny little hospital room, outside the place where it feels like the noises are louder than he's ever heard 'em before, the junior physician works with quick steps as he moves forward and around the colluded halls of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center's finest Emergency Room: The Pitt.

There's patients galore, heads down and feet up north-to-south in all the rooms. A pregnant lady to the left and a man with fingers gone from both his hands on the right.

On top of all that, he's still hungry.

The thought pushes in with him as he shoulders into the supply closet, only the door and one Dr. Michael Robinavitch closing in from behind after.

"Hey you."

The room itself is lit enough but even they can't be seen with how cornered Dennis is into the v of two supply closet towers and especially with how Robby is able to make that corner feel even smaller. "Why are you still here?"

With his back to cool metal and clipboard to his chest, the junior resident looks more than nervous, like maybe he's not even here in the first place. He's got his shoulders hunched forward and the look on his face reads nothing like a man who saved three lives today. "We're always still here, Dr—"

His sigh feels like it bears the weight of the world in it, eyes closed before he corrects himself. "Robby." His facial expression changes as he glances up. Robby's smiling at him like he has yet to work an hour of his entire twelve hour shift, like he wants to work even more of them if it means he gets something like this.

"You're going to make me stay later if you don't let me—" and then he's pushing past his counterpart, past the metal and the bars, trying to get through the gap of space and into the open area in the tiny supply closet. It's bigger than the tiny little hospital room but it feels much smaller, like even though Dr. Dennis Whitaker knows nothing about the importance of a cliff, he's gonna have to figure it out real quick if he knows what's good for him.

For both of them. "I am trying to actually get out of here, you know?"

He barely squeezes by, has to nudge completely underneath armpit that needs more than just deodorant and a shower to do so. And even worse, he's barely got his hands on a packet of stockinette before Robby's right back at it all over again, doing the exact opposite of getting out of here by playing with the younger's scrub pocket.

His ring finger dips inside. "I know, and again I ask: why are you still here, Dr. Whitaker?"

Dennis is midway into jamming one too many rolling pads between his forearms— two, three, pointedly looking over at the taller after. "I have a patient." He presses in a fourth roll just for show. "And you are getting on my last nerve."

Robby's smiling of course, scruff all wild and rough. "Alright, alright. Jeez." Then the attending is but a clipboard away, two fingers in now. Three. "You sure everything's okay baby?"

He's close then, threatening to make the idea of a cliff very much a reality in all their universes. "What's gotten daddy all worked up?" His head's tilted to the side, bright lights overhead and in goes a fourth.

"Robby— stop that. Stop." Dennis is more than red in the face, so much so that he has to look at the older's chest just so he doesn't run out of the room (out of the entire hospital) instead. "Not here."

It's quiet around them, worn out scrubs and soft breaths between two men who probably know much better than to do things like this. "You know better." Dennis has his gaze up after he says it, shaking his head.

"Sorry, daddy," and the junior nearly drops all of the items barreled into his forearms then, because the doctor's hands are on his face, one palm to one cheek on both sides of four-day old scruff.

Robby can barely feel the hair, wonders if it'll ever grow in.

His fingertips are cold, washed one too many times. "Robby— stop you." He shakes his face away, looks off to the side as both of them stand under the bright florescent light, all the proof of life and death far, far away.

But even when it's far, far away, and with fingers he finds that are very much the same, Dennis can't help but turn that frown upside-down. "Bad boy." It's affectionate but final enough and the junior doctor pulls his arms in tighter afterwards, sharp of metal to his forearms. "It's been a day and I still need to cast. Why are you here?"

Robby's near mimicking Dennis from earlier, hands on the stethoscope from both sides, pulling playfully back and forth.

He looks like he's still waiting for his shift to actually start. "Sorry." He's got his bottom lip wedged between his enamel, looking all the more apologetic with every action. "And busy things. Lots and lots of paperwork."

And he's about to go on, about to keep playing into it, but Dennis is finally looking back up at him. He's still pink from cheek to cheek, flush faded down the bridge of his nose, but his mouth has slightly parted and Robby finds that all he can think about is how much he wants to lick inside of it.

Instead, he says: "Lots of typing."

"Yeah? Sounds like a lot." The younger's right half of a smile turns up even higher, like he's making a diagnosis right this very second.

In the supply closet. "Tons."

Dennis watches as Robby's fingers have moved from plastic stethoscope down to the strings along his hoodie, threatening them with a good time too. "I could give you a lot to do at home that could be useful."

"What?" Robby's smile threatens something even more than just a good time (a blowjob). "Like you?"

"Oh my god, Rob— Robby," but Dennis's expression doesn't change right away, his mind still on an idea of laundry and newspaper organization that he had cooking from just a second ago. He looks amazed to even be talking right now. "I swear— I haven't even eaten. I'm tired." He's got the clipboard tight to his chest too, frown all of a sudden wanting to rejoin the party. "Can you behave for once?"

But Robby's just too busy watching that little frown do it's thing, pulling back and forth on those ridiculous little strings while he watches. "Absolutely not."

It makes his opposite snap his head up but it's too late, Robby's already there, has his forehead pressed to the junior's before a single word can escape.

"Anything I can do to help you baby?"

For a brief moment, as Dennis holds everything tight to his chest, the clipboard, the casting, his boy's heart— he wonders something completely different: if his patient with a broken wrist has gotten a hug from his daddy today.

"No, not right now Robby." When he exhales this time, he closes his eyes again and steps a little closer.

Heel to toe. "But I appreciate it. You're sweet."

The chief's a bit red across himself but you can barely see it. His fingers let go of the ridiculous strings and dip back into pockets. "Thank you daddy."

They linger for a moment more, a sense of quiet overtaking that only comes from working in the halls and walls of an emergency room, no matter the country, no matter the doctor.

They know their time is limited and this truly isn't something they should be doing, something neither should risk, but for a brief moment more they linger in the place where they don't have to fight life and death, a place where a risk like this is the only one they are willing to take.

"Want a sandwich." The younger's request is quiet, cast like a pebble across the lake. "Hungry."

"Just a sandwich?" Robby's so close that he can feel the plastic edge of packaging to his chest.

Dennis's tongue peeks from between lips and his lashes flutter open at the same time. They're wet but the junior doctor is smiling nonetheless. "You make the best ones for daddy."

The space between them is gone when Robby whines, pulled somewhere from his chest and ripping out like twelve hours had all of a sudden become overtime and he was ready to work without pay if he had to. "Den— please." His fingers inch further inside the soft material of baby blue scrub top, press into the sharp edge of sticky note and deeper and deeper until he feels the soft roll of belly hidden underneath. "Daddy, please."

"Later alright?" His question comes out with the tail end of a laugh. Dennis leans back, forehead slick all the way across and both cheeks red once more. "You're such a mess sometimes, you know? Let me finish this one."

He doesn't wait for an answer before he's moving again, letting the quiet take the places they once were.

He's got a hand on the metal of a handle and the other holding on just as tight when he already knows what's coming. It doesn't take Robby long to get there either, right near his daddy's ear on the left where his tongue makes the lobe all wet from the inside out. "Find me after?" Dennis's question feels the same way that life meeting death does to Robby, like how death meeting life means to both of them.

Like they both already know the answer to life's biggest question out there.

Like the answer to find me after is: "meet me upstairs."

Robby's scruff pokes all over the junior's neck. "I can make you a sandwich. Supposed to be a nice sunset today too." Then it pokes all over his scruff too. "We can wait out the traffic. Please?"

Dennis can see how badly the overhead light needs to be replaced when he tilts his head back and closes his eyes before jumping off the only cliff he knows of in this universe.

"God, you're annoyingly sweet."

They kiss two or three times before Dennis leaves with the door closed and something entirely else left behind (not his hunger).

*

When he's back in the room, he's still got questions but he has a few more answers than he had before. And at the very least— at the very start of hour fourteen— he considers that a win. The older doctor is sat on the edge of the bed now, plastic chair forgotten and light's out from left to right. His back is to the door again, but this time he's so close to his patient that Dennis thinks that it looks like one person conjoined.

He walks in quietly, door closed with a click behind. The bounce in his step is still there, can't seem to get rid of it, but the noisy television up above seems to demand even more attention than anything he brings to the table.

Anything that any of them want to bring it seems.

"It's gotten so ugly, darling." And Dennis barely hears the word darling but the way Dr. Chilton seems to say it only makes him draw half-a-step closer, heel-to-toe.

Heel-to-toe. "Hi again." And yeah, he knows that he has to look a little ridiculous carrying the lot of supplies but his next words are even more so. "Sorry that I took so long."

He's back on his heels then, half a smile curved north and the opposite shoulder hiked up in well-practiced apology. "Insane, like I said. Got your color though." A bit more shuffling, a bit more bounce. "Whatcha think?"

And even though he looks more than a little silly, more than a little ridiculous with a bin of cast supplies on one side and his free hand at the hip, goofy smiled plastered all the way across, his patient still hasn't bothered to look over.

Doesn't look like he wants to anyways. "We'll have to be gentle with it." And it seems the polite physician had lost his politeness somewhere in the 'walls' of the last hour of the day too. "I'll take care of you."

"Yes!" He's louder then, makes an awkward laugh after the memory lapse. "Good idea. Right hand breaks are the worse." And feeling confident enough with the attention he's gained, he gets to actual work. "It won't take long but I haven't done it in a while."

It's only then that the older physician looks over his shoulder, eyes soft and dazed at the same time. "Hello doctor." The clock hanging above clicks the next hour over and the blood pressure cuff goes off again. "May I observe?"

Beep, beep, beep. Dennis doesn't exactly trip over but the tray table comes to a stop and his actions come to a cease. His fingers on the edge of the plastic little stand edge closer and closer to his final diagnosis of the night. "I mean, sure— well."

The tiny little television stuffed in the corner signals another commercial but none of them can be bothered. "Actually."

That gets Will's attention. "Jesse said you were hungry early. Asked for a sandwich?"

The way his patient duplicates, "well—" pretty much confirms his diagnosis. 131/94. 131/94. 131/96.

The TV hasn't mentioned anything about a patient crashing out but the junior doctor reacts like there's one right in front of him that must have crawled out of the screen itself. "Think you can ask your friend to nick something from the vending machine for us?"

And that gets both their attention's. Dennis' moved on already though, the table swiftly swept across and his hands onto the next step, procedure order going one way and one way only: a neon pink cast on a right broken wrist. His head leans close when he passes by with the little plastic table at the front. "Come on doc." And while the playfulness eludes the eldest physician, it's still friendly and warm throughout the cold confines of hospital room.

It's gotta make it hard to say no, right? "I bet you could get there and back in ten. You gotta still know the best ones are in OB, right?"

Hannibal's still sat but he's nearly fully faced out and half topped over. Glossy eyes turn dry, rapid blinks and ongoing confusion spilling at the edges of his tailored trousers. Something about vending machines when the train he was on was headed somewhere called I'll do everything for you instead.

"Ha—" Opioids. "Harry. Harry." Opioids. "Please?"

Dennis worries for a moment that he might have a second patient with how the opposite doctor seems to be whippin' his head back-and-forth over and over but all thought processes comes to an absolute stop with the answer he hears a second later.

"Of course. What would you like?"

Truth be told, Dennis doesn't think he's had a patient— patients?— like this in a hot minute or two, least of all since he started banging the chief of medicine.. what, like— fourteen months ago? He thinks it has to be the same reason that he still wonders if his patient has gotten a hug yet, and if maybe he wants something besides local news on the television instead.

Thinks it's why he answers, "I want Skittles," so easy, because he knows what it's like to be in love and in a weird situation too. "Sour ones."

Under the dim florescent lights, the scene's entirely stilled in a way that mirrors life meeting death. The metal shears, cast padding and plaster are all set aside and in exchange are three individuals looking at each other with more questions than they have answers like usual, but at least now it feels like the questions are all the same.

Even the dingy little television seems to be observing them, gone quite with a mute forecast cast across the screen. "I want Skittles too." Will's quiet when he says it, hands still folded over his lap. He's being brave even though Olive's nowhere in sight. "The rainbow ones."

"Oh yeah." And it's the junior's moan that steals all the attention this time. "Those are good too." His hands are moving again, beeping and commercial in his shadow's wake. The next time you're at Dave Bueller's of Pittsburgh, let us show you your new car! "You sure you still know your way around a hospital?"

"Yes." It's automatic but only because the doctor is focused on a completely different question: did this doctor know his way around? And: does he know where the corner is?

"I'm familiar enough, thank you."

He moves like he's a doctor now, like he's got his own diagnosis to figure out. "Just that, Will?"

The name comes off the exact way that it's said— ownership implied— and he's got the long end of his coat jacket laid out on the empath from the waist down. He stands bedside, hands at the front with his eyes softer than Dennis Whitaker would ever get the chance to see.

"Yes please," is said soft. "You too?" is asked even softer.

The older's answer is quiet too, said with a smile and fingers along the former agent's wrist on the bad side. "We'll see."

Obvious to being included and excluded at the same time, Dennis lets them carry on and focuses on unsealing the rest of the packages instead, eyes lowered and bottom lip between shiny teeth in afterthought.

"It really shouldn't take more than half an hour. Fiberglass is kinda cool like that." He's got the table nudged forward, ready to do one of three things: get the overbearing doc outta here, get off shift before 20:30 20:45, or at the very least, get Skittles.

"You mind?" He's smiling, one palm on each side of the table as he's leans over it, bent at the waist. Even his right eyebrow looks playful like this, intention or not.

It must be because he's still thinking about if his patient'd gotten that hug or not. And if maybe he might need more than just the one perhaps.

"Promise I won't hurt 'im."

The doctor's still settling the sheets around, touching here and there without rhyme or reason, but even his heart freezes when the words meet his mind. He looks over his shoulder, room still dark. "Thank you." In local news—

When it's just the two youngest, the light is back on and the only doctor left has gloves stretched across all ten fingers. The blood pressure's gone off again but Will thinks the machine has to be lying because he knows how fast his heart is actually going.

Two men are wanted for a crime in— "Sorry about him." Will's smiling, looking the tail end of loopy and much more welcoming than he'd been the first time Dennis had met him. "He can be a little weird at times."

"Huh, couldn't tell." But then Dennis is smiling brighter, like the glowing television behind him isn't the only bright thing in the room, but nor is the diagnosis right there in front of him: his patient still needed a fucking hug.

Symptoms confirmed, documentation reads: patient's got a fun kink and a nasty break.

Neither of which make for a pretty conversation. So as a man of medicine, he tries to save a life. "You been with him long? He didn't want to let you go." With the question in place, the doctor helps dilute the sting by nudging the empty half of the table over the bed.

Then he gives an extra dose by changing the entire subject. "Here, help me out?"

It's exactly what Hannibal— what his daddy does. Will blinks twice, more focused on the fact there's a table over his legs instead of how he's even supposed to help with something like a broken wrist in the first place.

Which, now that he's thinking about that part too, makes it all even more confusing. "Uh— long." He's still looking at the table when he makes a scrunched up face, trying to put such an answer into a singular sentence. "Uh— forever it feels like, I guess, and—" The pain medication softens his next ask, eyes up now. "Help?"

The former agent's hands are gone from underneath the shield of the table and out in the open, one a little broken, the other a little not.

"Yeah," Dennis is crouched down to the floor, five fingers degloved as he works to lower the height of the makeshift desk from below. "Like I said, haven't done this in a hot minute. Might need you to tell me if I'm doing it right or not."

The way he's down on one knee reminds Will of his father and how he'd tie his shoes when he was little, when he wasn't doing it right and so he had to ask his daddy how. "How?"

Dennis has got his tongue poked out as he eases the table down to near his patient's thighs. "Sorry, tight. Need it for the angle." He stays down though, doesn't move, looks like he sees a shoelace of his own that he needs to tie. "I'll talk you through it. Helps that way anyways— I think."

He's peeled off his other glove so that he can balance himself with both hands, fingers along the steel. "Elbow down and wrist up. How's the pain?"

Will still hasn't answered and he still doesn't know how he's supposed to do any of this in the first place, but he knows the pain's a little less there and that Spongebob Squarepants is supposed to be up next. "Good."

When the first layer of padding goes over the stockinette maybe five minutes later, the doctor's on a rolling chair with both elbows on the soft of the bed as he keeps focus in his work. "How long ago did you tell him about it?" His fingers are rolling around another thick layer, slow and steady, just to test things out.

The medicine has to be what's to blame for Will's slow response but when it does come out they both know it's not because of anything like medicine. "It?"

Medicine could never inspire Will's curiosity like this. "It?"

"Yeah," Dennis has to bite back his laugh. He's leaning a little more over the bed to check the far side of the empath's forearm from an angle he can't see. "The regression thing. It's kinda what makes things feel like forever, right?"

His eyes have moved from his work to his patient, incision done and chest ready to be cracked. And with school starting just around the corner— "I— doctor—"

But Dennis stops him with soft eyes, hands still ready to tie knots, and the knowledge that in fact, the heart is the heaviest organ of 'em all. "Remember, keep your wrist up." There's crow's nests at the corner of his eyes starting to bloom and they remind Will of his daddy.

"Takes twice as long to redo." He's back on the rollaway then, heel to toe, heel to toe. "It's fine. Brought it up more as to check on you anyways. Think Jesse got spooked because of your guy more than anything. But I really am worried about the break."

Will answers almost too quickly. "It wasn't him."

His hand remains completely still though. Heavy, heavy heart racing and the little screen mimicking the news in red and yellow, over and over. Beep, beep, beep. "I seriously just fell. Fuck—"

He says all of this maybe because of the opioids, maybe because of lo— "Who just asks things like that?" His lower lip wavers after but only because his teeth are doing a fine job at biting it instead of answering anything else.

He's red across, nose to cheek on either side. Why. "Well," Dennis is sat still now, a pause between operations where life finds out if death wants anything to do with the last one. "For one thing, I don't think you could have gotten here on your own."

The doctor's fingers flex on both sides of his upper thighs, where underneath Robby left kisses along the fatty tissue for three-and-a-half hours last night. Probably four. "He just about roped every word out of you today. I bet he filled out the papers for you too, didn't he?"

"I— Dr. Whitaker— It's not—"

"It's alright. I," and then his words are a little unstable too, a little haven't done this in a while either. "Sorry. I tease a little too much sometimes. Anyways." His sigh is affectionate, like his mind is elsewhere for a moment.

"—it's not—"

Dennis's smile remains lopsided, half up, half down. He's got pointy elbows on his knees and feet rocking heel-to-toe. It all just makes so much sense. "Him though. My forever thing, he's bad about it too."

And with as much practice as nineteen signed off cases would get him, he cracks ribs and gets back to work. "But really, both you guys suck at hiding it— if that's what y'all were going for. Not judging, just— here, tilt inwards for me."

Will doesn't even know where to begin with that one so he listens instead. "Okay."

The junior physician works quietly for the next two layers, going circumference from distal to proximal, over and then once more. He's got his fingers working gently, careful against the purple bruising and what feels like another truth he needs to pull out of the supply closet.

"Last year," Will's voice is so very soft, fingers of his (good) hand flexing into the thin of hospital sheet. "Summer. It's been a lot."

"I can imagine." Dennis is focused too intently to try and look up, to try and check in. There's a gap too wide and he's forced to unwind and roundabout again. "Should still be more careful. Especially him, thought he was gonna rip my head off when I told him to scoot."

He's on the third layer when he's near hanging upside down to get it around. "Does he bite too?" He's looking up then, smile flat but friendly, excited for wherever this conversation could go.

"Sometimes," Will whispers. Beep, beep, beep. After the weather, Saturday night cartoons return to the local station— "He's not bad."

"Nah, they never are." He looks innocent fumbling back and forth, like he's not meant to be a doctor or a daddy. Like the title doesn't match what Will could have ever imagined. "Mine thinks I'm the best daddy in the whole wide world." He's making a face that says otherwise but only because he thinks he's wrapped the forearm an inch too low at the junction.

He might be able to salvage it. "Doctor—"

"It's alright." Dennis leaves the last layer hanging loose and twirling around backwards, another job to be done over yet again. "I know, I know you're going to say otherwise, but, well."

He's on the floor then, scrubs to the tile and tongue out of his mouth. "I really am. But anyways, we can just talk about my lunch instead. My roommate— Trinity— she's the absolute worst."

Will stares, doesn't even realize that Dennis is on a completely different topic entirely, surgery almost done, patient surely saved. The television drones on though, waits patiently to hold it's judgment and echoes what he's been waiting all day for: Spongebob Squarepants, new episode! Tonight!

"Lunch?" He asks.

The young resident looks a little taken aback, like he's curious if he missed a step and he should be looking at things like memory issues instead. "Yeah, my sandwich, remember? Anywho, like I was saying—"

The conversation is nearly mute by the time fiberglass gets coated.

And Will's fingers all drown in the process too, submerging like they were taught forever ago to.

"Pain gone down a bit?" He knows he doesn't need to linger for this part, doesn't need to wait for someone to come back, but he does it anyways. "Can give you another dose of meds before you leave, but anything else and you'll need to stay longer."

Will's got his eyes up above on the television that's turned to something he knows he doesn't need either but does so anyways. "Yeah," he whispers. Rocky! Go get 'em boy! "It's better."

Dennis is a distance away from the opposite, fingers at the helm as he works to pluck the train wreck remains of his thoughts apart. He's still sat on the rolling stool, pushing back and forth as he switches between the cartoon and his patient.

Patient presented lucid, awake, oriented, he types.

"You guys going to stay in town again tonight?" he asks.

The empath doesn't stop watching the dogs on the screen when he answers. "Probably." Something in his chest makes him wish he could bring his fingers to his mouth. Thinks that he's probably even allowed to. "Up to him." That he wouldn't even have to ask.

"Then probably yes," Dennis murmurs, fingers striking keys again. Patient ensures provider he has a safe place to go. He looks up to the dogs chasing each other on the tiny little television, all barking loud and proud after a successful mission. "No more falling into dressers, right?"

That makes Will look over, makes his free hand rise up so much that his fingers touch the scruff on his chin. He shakes his head, curls-due-for-a-cut covering almost all of his forehead and nearly eating both eyebrows too.

"Uh-uh." His face looks a little different from the celebratory ones on the television's screen, thinks that the pain medicine must be wearing off because now he's just frustrated. "Was an accident." The frown deepens and so do his words. "Said that."

It's never been this easy before.

He's never wanted his daddy to see it more either.

"How long?" Will asks out of nowhere. For what, he doesn't say.

Dennis is back over, computer left open on the tray and his feet inching him heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe across on the noisy little seat. "Eight weeks in the cast," he starts. The dogs are barking louder behind his head and he knows the attention has to be there. He looks down at the submerged pink cast, watches as the fingers underneath drift back and forth. Beep, beep, beep.

"Twenty in the water." He's got a different answer in mind but Will's looking up at him instead of Paw Patrol, looking up at him like regardless if or if not his patient's already had a hug, he probably wants another one too.

"Dunno how much more on your daddy though. You sure he's a doctor?"

Will's not brave enough to look at him and talk like this at the same time so he has to look away. But his fingers crawl through the sheets a few digits more, just like he feels like he wants to crawl through all his favorite ages right now.

Through any of the ages. "He is one."

The empath's nails threaten to pierce more than just the thin sheet when he answers loud, eyes forward and on the illuminated screen once more. "A real one."

He's still not looking at the doctor either, but he's smiling. And Dennis's stomach growls louder than most of his patient's words put together but the doctor still keeps going like he knows nothing else in the entire hospital could keep him full like this. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say."

The young resident's eyes copy the agent's and he watches as the cartoon's intro rolls over again, Skye and Rubble both taking off on hoverboards in the background. No job's too big, no pup's too small! "I know your favorite."

Paw Patrol, whoa-oh! "But whose your least?"

He still hasn't moved back to his work, to the things that pay his bills and give him purpose. He still hasn't figured out if life meets death today, still has a sandwich to eat and a man waiting to calling him daddy for the next four business days.

The blood pressure cuff goes off again. "Skye." The pink across his cheeks is near brighter than the pink of his newly fitted cast. "She's not good at sharing." When he explains himself it's like he's whispering a secret that he only ever wants Dr. Whitaker to hear, like he doesn't know if he'll just put this one in a cardboard box and never tell anyone else that he hid it there.

"Have you told your daddy that?"

Will inhales so hard that his answer nearly goes along with it, "no."

He looks over when Dennis touches his (bad) elbow. "You should. He'd probably like to know."

The television grows louder as the intro turns into the show itself and the adventures for a brand new day begin. "I—"

But his words don't get the freedom they seek and instead the door cracks open, a familiar face between life, death, and the only thing he's ever wanted more than this.

He almost says it too. Almost. "Ha— Harry."

Dennis is completely unfocused as he watches the five dogs on the screen run down the street. "Hey," he sounds distracted even as he says it, "you found your way back."

The doctor's all the way inside now and their tiny little hospital room once again is all just that: theirs.

"Apologies." His hands are full in a way that looks more awkward than not. "No vending machine on campus had Sour Skittles. You must have been mistaken, Dr. Whitaker."

Despite his words, Hannibal steps closer and deposits a neon green bag onto the tray table, spread long across the illuminated keyboard, work still left stranded.

"Will?" He asks, arms carrying the load. "Darling?"

And he knows what he's doing when he says the word, when he knowingly has let someone else see. "How was it?" comes out louder.

The older physician is stood near parallel to Dennis and the bed. The junior resident being the one to answer, of course. "Still setting. It'll be done soon."

And Dennis looks like he absolutely knows what he's doing, what he's been invited in to see and what that means in the grand scheme of things of saving his patient's life. "He did good. Eight weeks max." He's scooting back with each of his words, nearly bumping into the little metal stand on his way. "Oh heck yeah. Sharing size?" He's shuffling back the last few inches to his computer, reaching over to stake his claim. "Thanks doc. What do I owe ya?"

There's not a sound, beep! nor second that comes before the answer. "Nothing."

Without Dennis there, Hannibal stands at the absolute closest he can get to Will's bedside, hands already touching. His head's not fully turned when he says it and the music on the television makes it even hard to hear. "Thank you but nothing."

And then he's right back where he belongs, between the wires and the ages, between the waiting and the bags of sharing sized Skittles. "Hello you."

The pups seem to have found their place too, all settling on the screen like they'd been waiting for him to get back to the tiny little room too.

Dennis knows that he's not going to be heard but he's always been a polite type of person. It's how his mama raised him. "Like I said, twenty-five minutes max but don't take it out— no matter what." His arms are crossed, laptop closed, stool discarded for something else entirely.

His shoulderblades push the wooden door slightly ajar. "And don't move it." He's got a playful face despite his words, one that says he's leaving with the answers he came for. "I'll send you back to chairs if you do."

Will surprises him though, looks at him dead in the eyes from his spot on the tiny little hospital bed in his gaudy little gown. The room goes quiet between the sounds and the pups and all the questions he knows that Hannibal— that his daddy has to have.

His exhale out can be heard even as Dennis is half-out the door. "Fine."

No one except the empath can see Hannibal's reaction but the junior resident has to think it must be something beautiful because his patient has fingers slipped through fingers, eyes on everything else in front of him expect pups.

Fingers keep the door open enough. "Thirty minutes and I'll be back."

When the door closes behind his current doctor, Will's still looking up at Hannibal but he says, "daddy," instead.

*

Thirty minutes and I'll be back turns out to be a lie after all, but at least sixty-eight minutes later they're one patient shy of being finally let free.

"We've been here forever." And Will's making sure that Hannibal's first to know it too. He's got a pout on his face and eyes that are far too floaty for any age he could stumble through the halls of.

The last barrier to actual freedom is filled with people like the front half was, mask-covered faces left and right and with the kind reminder that death isn't always after you.

"I know sweetheart." He says it because he knows he can get away with it right now. "What's gotten into you today?" It comes out with amusement, with him turned to face his counterpart, hands folded at the front and a plastic bag danging down below. "I thought the medicine would make things more tolerable."

Will's eyes are up on the screen near the exit of the building. There isn't Paw Patrol on display but the commercial looping is for some Star Wars movie that the former agent's has been eyeing to see. "Tolerable for you or for me?"

Around them, the crying is much less than before and there's not even a baby within sight— well—

"Reckless boy." The doctor's smiling like the dickens, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to (he doesn't). "Come on."

The paperwork, four, five, six pages, doesn't exactly take long. A few signatures, too much security involved to be associated with something as simple as a broken wrist— ever— but Hannibal steps up without asking and does it without saying a word.

They grow quiet between scribbles and blank boxes as patience bears her weight with one foot forward and Will's low, low back to the cubicle's makeshift wall. His wrist lay cradled, age somewhere unknown.

It's only when the television has switched to the news again and when there is a baby— not him— within earshot that Hannibal asks something he's been holding onto. "That was about something else besides a broken bone."

It feels like it should feel like relief yet he feels anything but. "Yes." Anything but.

Will's got his gaze lowered with his admission, his good hand at the side with all five fingers missing a familiar friend very much so. His index finger and thumb pull at a loose thread at the end of his sweater. "You want to talk about it don't you?" Olive's never felt so far away.

Hannibal's facing forward as he waits for the return of the clerk but it's mostly because he finds it a bit too hard to turn and face Will right now. It's not hard to answer though. "I'll never make you."

Will's still looking at the ground when he responds. "I know."

It's quiet in between, the ebb and flow of life and death waiting to know which door they should enter, which soul they should take. The television continues to drone from above, the baby still screams with all her might. And cross through it all they remain side-by-side, neither death nor life finding a reason to approach.

When the empath speaks again, the doctor doesn't expect it. "It wasn't like that, Hannibal."

The doctor quietly says, "I know," at the same time as the clerk returns but relief still hasn't found it's way home.

When they're outside no less than three minutes later it's still not there either but the sunset is gorgeous.

It's every color out there, all the way from Will's favorite shade of pink to an orange so orange that it makes Hannibal wonder if they have them at home or not. It feels different too, from the very moment that they step through the electronic doors and taste the summer humidity to when they've stopped for no particular reason at all, fingers touching fingers where day touches night.

The former agent has his eyes forward as he watches night take day, meeting in the middle the same way that life so often meets death: beautifully.

His eyes are on the yellowest hues when he says, "I don't like Skye."

Between them and the prettiest colors of sunset, cars chase trucks and ambulances fly through the bay. Death meets life here too, but sometimes she's fine with just waiting instead. Hannibal's not looking at the sky anymore though, his mind somewhere other than cars or trucks, far from things like life, death.

His thumb is along the soft of the younger's palm. "Skye?"

Will swallows. "From Paw Patrol." His eyes remain open and they look hazy from the side.

The last bits of sunset press into Hannibal's cheek when he turns to look over at his opposite. It feels warm, something that could never exist within the four walls of a hospital or over the edge of a cliff on the Atlantic. "Oh."

The gradient of colors are playing all over the former agent's face and Hannibal knows exactly where his mind must have run off to. "Tell me why tonight?"

It comes off so informal that Will does look over. "She doesn't share." There's pink hues making his blue eyes look a shade of purple that Hannibal doesn't think he knows the name of.

Purple Mountains Majesty he thinks, index finger along index finger the same way he'd pick up a crayon. "Sounds like someone I know." Purple Pizzazz, Vivid Violet, Royal Heart.

Will's still looking at Hannibal when he murmurs, "me too," but he looks back at the faded colors after, knows that he'd never want to share his sunsets with anyone else. It makes him wonder if sharing is something his daddy could teach him about one day and if he even knows how to do it himself.

And while they've been here for nearly twelve hours already, the empath finds himself rooted to his spot on the sidewalk. The doctor refuses to move either, thinks he's fine in the space between life, death, and his baby's broken wrist.

All of it feels like a weight still pulling the empath back though, a weight heavier than his heart.

He wonders if relief is something that can be shared, if Skye would just try and steal it like she does everything else. "It wasn't like that." Wonders if there are things out there more selfish than the Atlantic and if maybe he's supposed to be one of those things.

The sunset saying goodnight sinks them quiet and their hands stay together as she bids them farewell. She kisses them all the way to their stomachs, touches their toes before the moon takes her place.

"I know." It's quiet across, streets near mute as the signal overhead holds traffic to a still. The blue in Will's eyes has turned a shade of black and it's not because of something as silly as the moonlight.

The plastic bag dangles low when Hannibal leans over to kiss Will's temple. "Tell me why tonight?"

Will turns his face in so that his nose bumps into chin. "Okay," he repeats from earlier, fingers between fingers just the same. "Okay."

When the streetlight signals for them to cross, life and death don't follow after.

But relief does.

*

"You know I don't like you up there," is what's left when relief isn't in the walls of PTMC. "Get down."

They've been on the roof for over an hour, don't look like they have a plan to leave anytime soon. Dennis is splayed out on his back with his arms v'd out and both hands behind his head. He looks like he's tired, happy, in love all at the same time. "Robby."

All the things that come after a near-fourteen hour shift.

His counterpart is doing anything but listening of course, one foot in front of the other as he DUI's the raiser from north to south. He's even got his hands raised to the side (and half a sandwich hoisted in the left).

On his head there's a flower crown. It has daises and sunflowers all around and makes his head look tinier than it actually is. "Yeah, yeah." Robby makes a face before turning inwards and hopping down from the barrier to the flat below. "Whatever you say daddy."

Dennis makes a face right back, smile upside-down and eyes halfway to rolling out the back of his head. He's watching the moon, the daisy petals, the— "Robby."

The stars are endless from this angle, Pittsburgh rewarding it's finest for their efforts in a way that most can't even see. "Finish your sandwich."

The mood is low and quiet, someone's iPhone cast to the side with a playlist on looping repeat. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun or something. And it never really feels like Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center up here on the roof either, but neither of them know how else to explain it. There's no beep, beep, beeps, no charting or delays in radiology, no life or death, nothing remotely exciting whatsoever— but even Dennis knows the place they had their first kiss has to be special.

It just has to be. "You didn't even finish yours."

"Because you made me eat half of yours." Dennis is up on his elbows now, fingers pushing the corner end of bread crust into his mouth. "Come here."

My father yells, "What you gonna do with your life?"

When Robby clears the distance, he sinks to his knees on the shared blanket and doesn't wait to find out why he's here. He barely gets out "Den—" before lips are on lips, all memory of the day washed away like the night shift taking over. Oh, girls just wanna have fun.

The junior doctor is halfway into a fifth kiss when Robby finally manages to get words around teeth. He's got one arm on each side of the younger and he's so close that their noses keep bumping at all sorts of funny angles. "Daddy's in a better mood," floats between mouths and it makes Dennis smile into the sixth and seventh ones too.

"Well," Dennis starts, fingers stretched through short brown hair. "You do make a good sandwich."

"Yeah?" Robby's pressed up like he's doing a push up, both palms imprinted by the harsh of cement. "Can do a lot more too. Anything to make my daddy's day better." It's so overwhelming when it comes out and the senior only makes it worse by dipping down to present kisses eight, nine and ten to his daddy. "Anything, baby," he says between breaths, flower crown fallen to the ground below.

"Jesus," and neither of them know if Jesus Christ is anywhere in the building tonight but that's neither here nor there when Robby keeps hearing girls just wanna have fun over and over and— well, he wants to have a little fun too.

"Oh yeah. Sandwiches, Jesus Christ, all of it daddy," and while he still doesn't know the actual coordinates for any of the biblical characters out there, he does know that the roof can make a fantastic alter if you need it to be.

So at least there's that.

When the working day is done— "Rob— Robby."

When they're parted, only a slit of light remains between chests. Dennis is looking up at the older like he's still unsure if he's ready to clock out for the night, like there's still something he has to figure out, some life he has to save. "Where did you even get this thing, pup?"

"Den—" his head dips down, laughter already forming in the stomach. "Christ—" he actually is laughing then, pushed up and head tilted so far back it looks like he's wishing on a star or something. Something. "God, I love you—"

And he does look like he's at the alter right then and there, ass to Dennis' shins and palms to his own thighs. "The nurses," he answers between the sheer audacity, between the quiet of the roof and the stars nobody else is looking at.

"You're gonna rip it apart aren't ya baby?" He's red in the face, age falling so fast that it makes sense why he calls Dennis his daddy. "It was— I don't know— someone, someone's— birth thing. Peds, morning shift. Blonde girl." Girls just wanna have fun. "I got cake."

Below him, his junior resident lay completely flat again, his hands the only thing able to prove any form of life as they trace even more years away. "And you didn't get daddy any?"

"Den—" Robby's looking back up to the sky, expression priceless and unseen even by Christ himself. "Fuck, need to get you home," he holds soft left cheek with the open of his palm, lets his eyes close like he's finally clocking out and heading home. "You sure you okay though, Den? You usually don't let me get away with so much—"

"Yeah." The answer comes so fast that it feels like Robby's being cutoff. But he doesn't expect the u-turn after. "Yeah, I—" Dennis doesn't look very daddy in the moment either, though not because he's not thinking like he thinks a daddy would think like. He hasn't been able to shut it off since William asked for yellow and he knew it was a fucking lie.

"Wanna talk about it?"

And Robby's not laughing anymore, not doing anything but looking down at his partner with soft eyes and an expression that knows all too well the pain that these four walls can bring.

"No." Dennis says it quietly, after the song is over and the tiny little iPhone is slinging another track into play.

He's thought about a lot of things yeah, like his missing lunch and how he's pretty sure he forgot to pay the car insurance this month, but even though he knows he's probably thought about one particular thing at least forty-six times today, he finds that he doesn't want to talk about anything at all. "No. Daddy doesn't—"

He's not worried about his patient with the broken wrist getting back to Amsterdam, not concerned if the kid's gonna tell his daddy about Skye from Paw Patrol. If he's gotten a hug or not, if he even made a fucking difference— "Just want you."

They kiss again, speak between numbers eighteen and nineteen only.

The flower crown is off the ground soon after though, nested on top of younger curls that show no signs of graying and ones that Robby can't keep himself from touching. They still show no signs of leaving either and the music keeps making the both of them feel silly things all over.

Traffic doesn't even exist right now, half a sandwich left on the ground.

Relief doesn't follow the physicians out when they do leave though, not like it (usually) does for everyone else. Instead, they leave that for the patients who need it most.

"Will you behave?" Dennis murmurs, fixated on the placement of the headband. "Such a mess."

Robby's in front of the junior, back to the stairwell door and eyes still not on a single star in the night sky. Music's going from deep within his pocket, belting out about the heart melting on the ground and how Leona Lewis thinks exactly like him: like he's going crazy and he doesn't care because he's—

"Love you, Den." It's said against forehead and flower petal.

And it doesn't follow them out either, but Dennis doesn't really think they need it to.

Still, he says it anyways. Just in case. "Yeah, love you too."