Chapter Text
Do you remember running?
The purity of the air around
Braiding willow branches into a crown
That love is all I want
*
4.32
Dennis leaves the house before the sun is up on the day of his mother’s birthday, slipping out the door with his beat-up trainers clutched to his chest to make sure Trinity doesn’t wake up to the sound of his steps. He shivers as he sits on the steps outside the apartment, tying his shoes into bows. They turn out crooked no matter how many times he tries.
He isn’t sure about where he’s supposed to go until his feet move on his own. The morning’s first light-grey hue blurs the sky, but stars are never visible in Pittsburgh anyway. Not like how they were back home. Not his home anymore.
A few times he stops by a wall to lean and catch his breath. Soon, he will have to take the bus that will take him to the Pitt, and soon, Trinity will wake up and grill him about where he’s been, but for now, the streets are quiet and Dennis is alone under a starless sky.
*
One time, Trinity finds Dennis in the kitchen, five in the morning, hand-whipping a box of cream. “Whittaker,” she says, half-asleep. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Dennis looks at the can of crushed pineapple and lime jell-o in front of him. “It’s– it’s–” He can’t bring himself to continue, to explain to Trinity why he’s about to sob over some maraschino cherries and nuts.
Wordlessly, Trinity grabs a spoon and dips it into the whipped cream. “What kind of white people concoction is this?”
“It’s a Midwestern jell-o salad,” Dennis says lamely. He doesn’t add this was what he’d have for his birthday every year as a kid. He looks down as he speaks. “It’s– I had a dream. About back home.”
Trinity is quiet. Dennis can only imagine how hard it must be for her to reign in a quip about how it isn’t a salad just because it is green, but she does it anyway. Without him having to tell, she knows. It’s like the times when she locks herself in her room and has a screaming match with her mother on the phone, how when she comes out Dennis has the popcorn ready and a chick flick lined up. How they sit side by side, quiet. She just knows.
“Alright, farm boy,” she says, a gentleness in her voice only audible to Dennis, “get back to it. The cream isn’t going to whip itself.”
She sits on the counter and speaks until the sun is up. Until Dennis can breathe again.
*
A lot has changed since his mother’s last birthday. Dennis is a resident now. A real doctor. He lives in a nice two-bedroom apartment in Pittsburg with Trinity Santos, a mean, evil-spirited woman who also happens to be the funniest, smartest, most generous person Dennis has ever met. He would never admit it, but some nights before he goes to bed, when he can’t help it, when he is on his knees begging for something he cannot understand, he adds Trinity’s name to the prayer, begging for her happiness to a God who stopped answering.
A lot has changed. The scars on his back scabbed over, then over again. Once, he saw Mohan almost cry over the identical marks on a child’s back as she called Kiara in, marks Dennis could draw from memory. How the child still cried for his mother when the CPS agents came. Dennis kept it to himself when he thought, but what if she truly loved him?
A lot has changed. He forgot what her mother’s arms felt like around him. He went to a gay bar (or two). He kissed a boy in a bathroom stall and it felt good. He stopped repenting every night, or at least he tries not to. He learnt to extract the bad stuff from the good, like how his mother brushed his hair before they walked to the church, and how when he sneezed during sermon his father smashed his against the pew.
Still, some things stayed the same, like the empty night sky. Like how even in the busiest hour of the ER, even with Trinity sitting next to him on the couch, even with more names on his phone list then there ever was, Dennis is truly, utterly alone in this world.
*
I'm a child humming
Into the clarity of black space
Where stars shine like tears on the night's face
With a cool wind
*
7.32
He manages to avoid Trinity until they find themselves arm to arm, working on a young dock worker who was impaled by a loose rebar from a crate. Trinity is gracious enough to postpone hounding him until they stop the bleeding and transfer the case to one of the new med students. “What now, did you join a morning running club?”
“No,” Dennis says quietly. He wonders if the thin splash of blood on his black scrubs is acceptably hidden to keep wearing them.
“You have a sneaky link I don’t know about?”
“No.”
Trinity catches his arm, effectively stopping him from disappearing into the waiting room crowd. “Your pathetic attempts to evade me only makes me more curious, Huckleberry. What is it? Underground fighting ring? Are you buying drugs, because that one’s already been done before, and look how well it turned out for Langdon over there–”
“It’s my mom’s birthday,” Dennis cuts her off, decidedly too exhausted to keep lying to her. A lot of things are easy with Trinity, like sitting side by side to eat dinner or what a stupid film or discuss medical articles. It's easy to ask her for advice on residency and patients and cases. Talking about back home is not one of those things. It's not easy with anyone. Dennis has now been away from home long enough to confuse what was it that went so wrong. Sometimes, he remembers moments from his childhood and cannot tell if it's entirely made up. It's easier to talk about everything in the present tense -- I am from Broken Bow, I have three brothers, yes, my parents must be proud. So, he doesn't lie and he doesn't want to. Sometimes he craves Trinity to grill him with such ferocity that he can't help but spill everything, just so he has another witness. Instead, he gives her half-truths.
“Yeah, that will do it,” Trinity decides.
Luckily or unluckily enough, before she can ask him anything else, they are distracted by Dana’s voice announcing four victims from a stabbing incident being brought in. “Whitaker, you’re with me,” Robby tells him as Langdon, Mel and Trinity head to the second gurney carrying a teenage girl.
“Unidentified male, approximately 40s, brought in by EMS—found unresponsive with knife wound to the lower arm and a head laceration, possible concussive symptoms, tachycardic to 140s, no ID, GCS 11, airway intact but unprotected.”
Just as Dennis is checking his pupil's reaction with a penlight, Mohan shouts for Robby’s name, asking help with the third victim. “Go,” Dennis reassures him. “I can handle this.” He certainly needs a CT scan, but the bandage on his arm is holding on and the head laceration is only trickling blood now. Robby gives him a nod and rushes out of the trauma room.
It all happens so quickly.
Dennis should’ve known evading Trinity wouldn’t be enough. He should’ve known there is always retribution, always a consequence, always punishment. He should’ve known things have been going a little too well recently. What has he done to deserve salvation? Still, he is surprised when he leans to get a closer look at the cut, and suddenly, so very suddenly, finds himself flailing in the air. No. That’s not how it goes. First, something in his face, something heavy and hard. He can taste blood almost immediately. Then, like a flash, like a camera cut, he is in the air, stumbling or flailing until he falls flat on his ass, his head colliding with the open drawer of a medical cart.
Perhaps it’s all an illusion, but he can swear he hears his own bones crack. He feels the flesh at the back of his head tear at the corner of the hard plastic. He feels the scrape of a nail inside his head. His scrubs are ruined again.
Then, it stops, the blood filling his mouth and the scraping and the crash and burn of his body. All noises stop and his vision reduces to a slit. That’s bad. Dennis knows that’s bad, because Dennis is a doctor. He’s almost sure he is, or something like it at the very least. Still, from the tiny slit, shrouded by dark spots and blood, Dennis watches as the now very-much-alert guy on the gurney swings for the other side of the bed, where the 19-year-old, fresh-faced nurse who started work last week stands perfectly still like a statue. Dennis might not really have a leg to stand on here, but damn it, the kid looks like he was born yesterday, and Dennis just– he just moves on autopilot, clumsily reaching to the patient’s wrapped arm, clawing and clasping to distract him.
It has the intended effect. The man howls in pain and faces away from the nurse, and instead hones in on Dennis’s form in the ground. The world spins and spins as he slides from his seat against the drawers to the floor. His head hits the linoleum with a thud that echoes through his spine. It hurts, he realises, though through a curtain, it hurts like it hasn’t done in a long time. Like no matter what he does, Dennis will succumb to it and it’s easier to sleep when he knows this. He wishes for a few things in quick succession, some more embarrassing, like someone to hold his hand so he knows he’s not alone, and some more practical, like a fucking dose of morphine until the explosions in his head stops.
He hears voices, quite a lot of them, and he isn’t sure whether it’s been seven seconds or seven hours since he fell to the ground, but before he can decide, the entire weight of the man lands on his chest. Like he’s been waiting for this moment all along, Dennis stops—
Stops–
the stars tonight–
7.49
“Holy shit,” someone yells in his ear, or perhaps it’s a dream. “Whitaker. Huckleberry. Do you hear me? Dennis? Dennis?” He feels as though he might know this voice, yet all sounds and language feels too unfamiliar.
Dennis tries to say he’s okay just so the person can stop shouting by his ear, but there is blood everywhere, on his nose and his lips, and the lights hurt his eyes and he doesn’t like being on the ground, and he tries to see where Kai-the-nurse went, whether he’s alright–
7.49
There is a flash, then someone’s pressing on his chest again.
“Come on, kid,” someone says, rubbing his sternum with bruising fingers. Dennis desperately tries to swat the hands away, the bone already sensitive from the weight of the patient from just moments ago. “Open your eyes, Whitaker, come on. Look at me. Open your eyes.”
He twitches, his limbs flexing in odd and tight angles as he tries to expel the memory of the pain. He tries to speak, not to answer the question but to ask for help, anyone, anyone at all, his mom or one his brothers or the youth pastor who gives him bandages when no one is looking, just, God, please, please—
The best Dennis can manage is a deep gurgle from his mouth.
*
Mama, what happened?
I never thought we'd go this long
Now 31 and I don't feel strong
And your love is all I want
*
7.49
Earlier that summer, when Robby is presented with the new residency applications and Dennis Whitaker comes up, it’s an easy decision on his part. The twitchy, mouse-like boy somehow carved himself a place in the Pitt, and Robby knows that no matter where he goes, he will be a good doctor– he is talented, compassionate and smart. Hell, Robby can’t remember if he’s ever seen a theology major from community college get as stellar grades as the kid.
Like he expected, Whitaker fits right in. Still a little twitchy, a little unsure at times, but he works hard. He kneels to speak to kids, he volunteers for the kicking and screaming psych patients, he goes out with the Street Team. Robby thinks he would've had a future in psychiatry. So, when Whitaker says he can handle the stabbed patient alone, Robby trusts him.
He’s only just found where Dr Mohan’s voice is coming from when he hears the commotion. His head snaps back, but he can’t pinpoint the location, until just a second later where he hears the shrill voice of someone unmistakably calling for help. “Go,” Garcia tells him, who just appeared next to Mohan. “I’ll handle this. Go.”
Robby runs back to where he just was, and finds a scene that he knows will stick with him for a long time. One of the new nurse hires is standing on top of two tangled figures on the floor with an empty syringe clutched between his fingers, heaving with shuddering breaths. On the ground, Santos is trying to lift the now sedated body of the patient from on top of somebody else, who is obstructed by everything else.
Then, Robby sees him, Whitaker’s blood-stained face, as the lax hands of the patient unravel from the boy’s throat. “Shit, shit, shit,” Santos says, her fingers pressed to Whitaker’s pulse.
“The patient suddenly awoke when Dr Whitaker was cleaning the head wound,” the nurse stammers, “he first headbutted him, I think he hit head on the way down.”
Robby looks at the blood painting the white plastic of the medicine cabinet, slowly dripping down the corner. There are little splashes everywhere, along with a small puddle forming underneath his skull.
He sinks to his knees next to the body. “Santos, move,” he spits before shouting through the curtain. “I need a gurney and security in here.”
He turns to the nurse. “Do you know how long he's been strangled for?”
“A couple of seconds at most,” the nurse responds quickly. “I— I tried to get him off but—“
“Get me a C-collar just in case.” He cups the bloody cheek with one hand. “Whitaker. Do you hear me?” Behind the closed eyelids, he sees twitchy movement in the pupils. “Open your eyes, Dennis.” He hears the smallest sound from the resident, something between a mewl and a gurgle, but his eyes remain closed. He rubs his knuckles against Whitaker’s sternum, feeling defined ribs beneath the scrubs. The movement causes the boy to raise his hands weekly. “He– the guy was sitting on his ribs,” the nurse provides when Dennis tries and fails to swat Robby’s hands from his chest. When he stops, Dennis goes still.
Santos stands perfectly still, her voice rigid. “Male patient in his twenties, no known history of allergies or medical conditions. Presented with blunt head trauma, fractured nose, possible bruising on the ribs, the airway is clear–”
“Santos, get out of here. You can’t treat friends and family.”
Her voice sounds increasingly frantic. “The patient has uneven pupils and is responsive to pain. We need a CT–”
“Dr Santos, get out,” Robby repeats, struggling on the thin line between compassion for a concerned relative and frustration for a headstrong resident. “Go and alert Dr Whitaker’s emergency contact please.”
“I am his emergency contact,” Trinity shouts, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“All the more reason why you cannot treat him. Now leave,” Robby repeats, then shouts into the corridor. For a little while, he buries the uneasiness about this newfound information deep in his brain, and focuses on the body in front of him instead. “Where is that fucking gurney?” The commotion of the ER is blurred by the sound of his own heartbeat.
Finally, two EMS come in white a gurney, followed by a frazzled looking Langdon. “The stabbing victim is stable and on her way to the OR, what’s happening here–”
Robby watches as his voice trails on the sight in front of him. “I need you to take over the patient,” he says in a strained voice. “And I need you to get Dr. Santos out of here, right now.” This must be the longest sentence he’s said to his once-protege since the day of the PittFest. To his surprise, Langdon nods mutely, then wraps a gentle hand around Santos, who, for once, seems speechless.
As they finally raise Dennis to a bed, Dana suddenly appears next to him. “What do you need?”
“Contact Dr Roy from neurology and say we have one of our own heading upstairs for a CT and MRI, a concussion and possible neck trauma as well. 7 on GCS, pupils are unequal. I don’t want anyone here if they cannot keep their cool, but especially Dr. Santos.”
Dana nods and scutters off, though Robby sees the stagger in her step, the need to stay and look at the boy herself, to make sure he is okay.
Now raised to the bed, Dennis lies perfectly still except for the scrunched up face. Robby rolls his scrubs up to look at the bruising around his stomach. The ribs seem intact, but Dennis groans again when he prods around the bottom two. “I know, I know,” Robby says soothingly. “Just bruises, Whitaker. You’ll be fine. You’ll be just fine.”
“Heart rate is slightly tachy at 104 bpm,” the young nurse reports. “BP 120/70.”
“Come on, kid,” Robby insists, speaking to himself more than anyone else as he plasters some bandages over the cut at the back of his head, still steadily leaking blood. With the pressure, Dennis moans once again. “I know, I know,” Robby says, “I’m sorry. You’ll be fine. You are fine, alright?”He is surprised to see that his hands aren't shaking, that his knees still keep him up, that he isn't crouched in a corner hyperventilating. Instead, he works methodically, cleaning the wound and assessing his response. He doesn't think of Adamson, slowly choking to death. He doesn't think of how he should've been there, right there.
Dennis raises one hand, and Robby thinks he’ll try to swat him away again but instead he clutches onto the older man’s scrubs. “You’ll be fine, kid,” Robby keeps muttering. He holds the boy’s clenched hand. “We’ll fix you up in no time. You will be as good as new.”
With that, Dennis’s eyes open just a fracture, tiny little slits. His trembling fingers relax and clench again around Robby’s palm. Before Robby can take a breath thinking he’s gaining consciousness , the bleary, uneven eyes travel around the room, landing on a nurse elevating his bed. His voice is a moan. “Mom?”
“Whitaker, look here,” Robby tries to get his attention. “Hey, Dennis. Look. Look at me. Do you know where you are?”
Dennis keeps blinking. “Mo–” his voice cuts off with another gurgle, and it’s the only warning they get before he starts vomiting. Robby recognises the sound easily enough to turn the young resident on his side before he can choke.
7.54
The lights blink in and out. In and out. A blonde braid catches Dennis’s eyes, and he tries to remember the last time her mother’s hair was blonde, but the lights flicker in the black sky like stars.
When he throws up all over himself, the stars glow so bright inside his skull that he thinks he’s going to heaven. Is it time? Is it finally time? Is it over? Is it—
*
When I was seven
I saw the first film that made me scared
And I thought of this whole world ending
I thought of dying unprepared
*
7.58
Robby watches as they wheel him out of the room to get a head CT. The blood on the ground is still fresh. The overhead lights look blinding. He would like to go up to the roof and test the boundaries of his willpower around the railing. Instead, he turns and faces the crowd, watching him with matching concern in their eyes. He feels nauseous again at the pairs and pairs of eyes in the weirdly quiet ER, looking at him with pools of fear and the knowledge that it only takes one hit. One good blow to the head. Robby saw younger, healthier people die from seemingly less serious blows.
“Dr. Robby,” Mel says gently, as if to soothe him, “all the stabbing victims are stabilised and waiting for beds upstairs or the OR.” Robby watches the way she clenches and unclenches her fingers despite the calm voice.
“Thank you, Dr. King,” Robby manages to say after a moment. He takes a shuddering breath. “I know you are all worried about Dr Whittaker. He was– he sustained a head injury while helping a patient, along with some possible facial and rib bruising. He’s currently heading up to the neurology department for a scan.”
“But he’s going to be okay,” Mel says, more like a question. She’s facing the two med students, both of whom look like they are on the verge of throwing up.
“He was unresponsive,” Trinity responds. Her voice is void of emotion, but he can see the muscles around her neck twitch from exertion. The forced disinterest in her face, the overly-schooled tone is so familiar that Robby feels his heart break. “Uneven pupils. He threw up once–”
“We’ll know more once we see the CT,” Robby says, trying to keep his voice equally void of emotion. “Right now, he’s in the best hands–”
Trinity continues. “He might have a subarachnoid hemorrhage, brain contusion, subdural hematoma, cerebral edema–”
“He might not,” Mohan tells her as she grabs her shoulder.
As he speaks, Robby feels increasingly like Gloria, like he’s trying to negotiate a deal. “I understand this is difficult for everyone here. Dr. Whitaker is a colleague and a friend. If anyone needs to take a minute to themselves, feel free to do so. You know where Kiara is if you need her.”
“Robby,” Dana calls out from the desk, a pinched expression on her face. “Dr. Whitaker woke up in the scan and started freaking out.”
“I’ll go,” Trinity blurts immediately. When he sees the look on Robby’s face, she amends. “Not– not as a doctor. Just to calm him down.”
Robby concedes, and they jog to the staff elevator. As soon as they are in the corridor, Robby starts hearing the sharp cries emanating from the room. He feels Santos tighten next to him. “If he continues, we’ll have to restrain him,” the radiology tech warns them as soon as they enter the door.
Trinity beelines for the bed. “Hey, Huckleberry, look at me. Calm down. You are okay. You hit your head. You are okay.”
With that, the screams cut off, but Dennis keeps writhing in his place, his lips moving too fast.
“He’s speaking in fucking tongues,” Trinity shouts, horrified. “Fuck, Huckleberry, I thought you had a thick skull–”
Robby comes closer, leaning until his ear almost presses to the boy’s face. “It’s not tongues,” he says quietly, “he’s reciting a prayer. Isaiah 40.”
“What are you now, a fucking priest?” Trinity shoots back.
Robby ignores her and looks down. “Hey,” he says, soft and sweet, almost like a whisper. “Hey buddy. It’s Dr. Robby. Listen. You can hear me, right?”
Behind his deliberately squeezed shut eyes, Dennis shows no sign of recognition. His lips move minutely as he shakes and twitches. “Listen, you hit your head pretty good, but you’re safe and you’re okay. Santos is here with me as well. We just need to take a CT of your head, and you’ll get you up and back to the Pitt in no time, alright? It’s okay. You can sleep now. Let go, kid. It’s alright. It’s alright.”
Santos leans forward to speak in a similarly hushed tone. Robbie wonders whether Dennis can recognise the subtle hitch of her voice. “If you stop acting like you’re possessed I’ll let you choose what to watch for movie night this week, okay? I won’t even complain about it. I will get you all the fucking lime jello in the world.”
Ever so slowly, Dennis’s limbs stop constricting and fall flat on the gurney. His eyes open just a slit. “ ‘rin?”
“I told you to not call me that, shithead,” Santos says, but she grabs his open palm with both hands.
“ ‘s’t over?”
“You’re safe now, Dennis,” Robby promises.
Dennis’s brows scrunch up a tiny bit, clearly unhappy with the answer. “Mom,” he then says, louder than before. “Where. Where’s–”
Robby looks up at Santos, who looks paler than usual and shakes her head. “You just rest and stay still now, Dennis, and we’ll get your mom, alright? Just, stay still with me for five minutes.”
His eyes are squeezed shut again. “In– the valley….” His voice trickles off, but his lips keep moving.
“Is that another prayer?” Trinity asks with a whisper.
“I’m not sure,” Robby says, then motions the radiology tech to start the machine again. Right before they leave, he turns and calls back to the kid. “Santos will wait with you, right outside the door, alright? You just have to keep very still for a few minutes.” Unresponsive, Dennis continues to mutter under his breath as he enters the machine again, the most desperate sound Robby's ever heard.
8.08
Dennis knows the end is near, that it’s too late now, that the body is gone but the spirit stays, that he can only beg, beg and beg. So he does.
Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me. Amen. Amen. Amen. A–