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The music droning out through the headphones was staticky and clipped, but Dennis still found himself mumbling along to it with a quirk to his lips and cold water dribbling from his fingers. The water in the abandoned wing never got quite warm enough, but it was better than nothing. If anything, Dennis felt that the lukewarm water sputtering from a rusted faucet helped to soothe his racing heart, still racing from the shift rattling about his brain.
He’ll take cold water any day to scrub the blood from under his nails, matted in his hair, stuck to his skin. Even now, with night falling outside and exhaustion settling deep in his bones, in a clean room, the thick scent of blood hasn’t really gone away.
Dennis isn’t sure if it’s actually still there, or if it’s simply seared into the back of his throat after such a long shift. Or if the shake in his fingers is from the cold or lingering fear.
Regardless, he knows he smells of sweat and muck even after all the scrub changes, so a wash is necessary. There are no showers in unit, and he’s too afraid to use the ones down the hall, so a sink bath must suffice. A wring of his wrists shakes away the rest of the droplets as he shuts off the sink, and a hum leaves the back of his throat as he lets his voice lift in volume to follow along with the song.
No one else is here, so Dennis allows himself to decompress in a way that would be utterly embarrassing to anyone else watching.
A good old dance. He’s done it since he was little. His father used to scold him when he’d sing lyrics to himself or sway to music in the old farmhouse, but the habit has followed him far into adulthood.
Chaka Khan’s music is nothing like the chaos was he just subjected to, nothing like the thick scent of fear in the air and shoutings from his attendings that all blurred into one big sound that ricocheted around his brain until all he could focus on was the medicine, and the upbeat tune of Like Sugar is no expectation.
Dennis scrunches the side of his face to keep his outdated AirPod from falling out of his ear as he slides backwards out of the attached bathroom, letting his heel spin against the smooth tile, twisting his torso into a twirl that matches with the rhythm of the song. He brings his hands up to stick two fingers right behind his ears, lost for just a moment in the beat, and he faces the half open door of the room he’s sequestered himself in.
And instead of the flickering lights of the hallway, he finds himself face to face with none other than Dr. Michael Robinavitch.
“Holy shit!” Dennis squawks, his hands flying to his ears to yank out his AirPods, heart jumping skyhigh as he scrambles backwards, nearly colliding with the squeaky hospital bed as fingers curl into his worn blanket in an attempt to keep his laptop from smashing against tile.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
His voice is much weaker than he wants, squeakier, and Dennis can feel the heat flushing across his face and the horrible, horrible sense of pure panic start to curl in his belly. He blinks, again, again and again, praying to whatever God or Being might be listening that whoever is standing there, staring him down, is not his boss.
Unfortunately, the lack of sleep and food doesn’t seem to be creating any hallucinations.
The image of the man doesn’t fade even with his rapid blinking, his attending’s arms crossed over his ragged blue sweatshirt and bag slung from his shoulder, and Dennis wants nothing more than to grab a shirt and shield himself from that furrowed gaze. The elder’s man’s eyes are creased with an expression Dennis can’t quite discern, cheek chewed between teeth. Dennis splays his hands over his torso to hide himself.
He feels small, and he can’t quite get breath in his lungs.
“I should be asking you what the hell you’re doing up here,” Dr. Robby responds in that tired, gravely voice of his, tinged with that familiar irritation he regarded Dennis with when he found him eating that damned sandwich at his desk. His eyes remain boring, sharp, and Dennis can feel himself wilting. “Care to explain yourself, Whitaker?”
“I, uh,” A swallow cuts him off, and for a moment, he feels rooted to the spot. Anyone would have been better. Even fucking Santos with her stupid ass nickname and needling comments would have been better than his attending. “Just, just a second.”
He once again spins on his heel, no Like Sugar to urge him on as the room is overlayed in an oppressive, frightening silence. His trembling fingers (still shaking, always shaking) grab his shirt and force it over his head. It sticks to his body in a way that makes his skin crawl, still damp from his sink bath, and Dennis desperately tries to come up with a way to explain himself, with an excuse that could be somewhat reasonable, something that isn’t going to get him in so much trouble.
God, he is so fucked.
“Okay, okay, uh, sometimes,” he begins, resisting the urge to wave his hands about in frantic ramblings, instead flattening his palms towards the ground, and Dr. Robby is still there. Still staring, unmoving, not a lick of true expression Dennis can try and warp to his benefit. “Sometimes, I will, on occasion, after a long shift, crash here.”
He stares at him, praying that’s enough of an explanation to save his ass.
Silence.
Another swallow.
Dr. Robby’s head tilts at him, still not speaking, god, why won’t he just talk, and Dennis interlocks his fingers and sucks in another ragged breath through his noise.
“I—“
A raised hand from his attending cuts him off, and Dennis snaps his mouth shut so fast teeth cut his tongue. The taste of blood blooms in his mouth, and that familiar feeling of hunger makes itself known with a painful pang.
Dennis’ mouth is far too dry.
“This is your first shift.”
Fuck.
“Well, it's my first shift... uh, it's my first day of emergency rotation.” A pause, and the doctor looks utterly unimpressed. “I did internal medicine last…month.”
Dennis trails off as Dr. Robby finally has an expression other than annoyance, the crow’s feet by his eyes and lines on his face twisting into something that makes Dennis’ panic flare up in a jolt. His face feels hot, too hot, and he’s all too aware of the air expanding in his lungs, the spiraling of thoughts overlaying any sense of logic in his mind as his heart claws painfully at his ribs. It’s all too much too fast, his stomach twisting on itself, soft breaths puffing from between his chapped lips.
Is this how Dr. Robby felt curled up in the corner of the PEDS room when he found him? Dennis remembers the expression he had on his face. Eyes bugged out and red rimmed, distant and dilated, the utter grief etched into the cells of his face and the ragged sounds of panicked breathing. Is that what he looks like now? He wants to bury his face in his palms.
Dennis is no stranger to panic, to fear, fear lives on a farm as naturally as life and death, but by god, this is suffocating. Dennis feels like his knees might give out, fingers twisting into the hem of his tshirt, and the world blurs at the edge of his vision.
Like his attending, he wants nothing more than to hide away from prying eyes and huddle in a corner until his brain stops screaming and his heart stops trying to give out.
It’s all over. He’s going to get kicked out, written up, he’s going to lose his spot in school and fuck, he can’t afford to go back, he can’t afford another semester, he can’t afford to go back home half starved and tail between his legs and he fucked it all up, it’s all so screwed—
“I don’t think I need to tell you squatting in a hospital is highly illegal,” Dr. Robby forces him back to the present when he finally speaks again, voice terse. Dennis can feel that fear spark through his nerves as he founders under that analyzing gaze. “And by the looks of it, you’ve been here a long time.”
“Well, just a few—“
Dr. Robby waves his hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” he grouses, a little too sharp. “Do you actually have a place to live.”
Ah. Dennis chews at his already split tongue, using the pain to ground himself as he thinks of the best possible way to spin this in his favor. His stomach rumbles, and his cheeks burn with shame. There is no way he can think to spin this in his favor. He’s been caught.
Like a kid with a stolen sweet.
“Uh, I’m currently, between places.”
“Between. Places,” Dr. Robby drawls out. Dennis wants to shrink under that gaze, that sharp, scrutinizing gaze that makes his stomach hurt in a way that’s not from hunger, makes his throat feel tight. “The hell is that supposed to mean, Whitaker?”
For once, Dennis is aware enough to understand that that question is purely hypothetical. He shuffles his feet, cold against the dirtied tile, and starts to plot his new course in life. Kicked out of school, on the streets, homeless, a Pittsburgh winter freezing him half to death on the sidewalk, and that’s only if Dr. Robby doesn’t report him for squatting. Does squatting mean jail time?
God, he can’t go to jail. He can’t afford bail! He can’t handle time in jail! How can he be a doctor with a prior arrest?!
How can he be a doctor if he gets kicked out?!
Dennis wants to cry. His life is over. His throat burns, and he tries to disrectly wipe an eye.
He can handle a mass casualty event, but this is what gets him. This is what makes him swallow back tears.
Dr. Robby sighs. A deep, deep sigh that reminds Dennis far too much of when he’d break a glass or yell at one of his brothers and his father would look at him with such disappointment. A hand scrubs over his weathered face, over his beard, and Dennis feels like he’s four years old again, desperately trying to glue together a broken mug with bloodied fingers to avoid punishment.
“Alright,” his attending begins, measured and weary and Dennis braces himself for a harsh scolding, maybe even a raised hand and most certainly an order to pack his things. “I’ve got a room at my place.”
Dennis blinks.
“Sweet.”
“Goddamnit kid,” And now Dr. Robby sounds utterly exasperated, reaching for one of Dennis’ shirts on the bed. “The room’s for you. Pack your shit, let’s go.”
At that, Dennis blanches, and he scrambles to try and stop the man from shoving his shirt in his backpack. “Okay, wait, wait, that’s extremely generous of you, but I can’t, I can’t afford to pay you rent right now!”
Dr. Robby scoffs, batting off his hands as he jams Dennis’ shirt into his backpack. “Smart enough to put a tube down someone’s throat, but not enough to pick up on some damn context. Kid, I’m not asking you for rent. Pack. Your. Shit.”
“Dr. Robby—”
“Now.”
Dennis snaps his jaws shut. He’s heard that tone before, not just from Dr. Robby, and it means he needs to shut his trap and do as he’s told or risk something adverse. He starts to grab his clothes, tossed across the bed he’s been sleeping on far too long and tangled in sheets, stuffing them into his bag with split seams and taped straps. His fingers are still trembling, and if he looks close enough, lets his eyes linger long enough at his attending’s as he helps him pack, he can seem tremors there as well.
It’s easy to see how little he has when packing. A single pair of scrubs, a few shirts, and a pair of pants with holes in the knee.
“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles. Truly, what is he supposed to say to that? No rent? A place to sleep? An extra room? Is this a massive HIPAA violation? “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I owe you. For my moment of silent reflection,” Dr. Robby mutters gruffly, and he starts to zip up Dennis’ bag, but not before tossing something at him. Dennis catches a bundle of socks. “Put on your shoes.”
“You don’t owe me for that,” Dennis protests, though he listens, slipping on the socks and hunting for his ruined pair of shoes. There is still blood smeared on the torn soles. He rubs it with a thumb, and it remains stubbornly stained on the rubber.
“You need a new bag. This one is garbage.” His attending thrusts the bag into Dennis’ hands once he’s done tying his shoes, and Dr. Robby’s head tilts towards the open door. “Let’s go. I think we’re both beat.”
Wordlessly, Dennis slings his bag over his shoulder and follows his mentor out of the abandoned hospital room.
The walk out of the wing, down the winding stairs and through the hallways of the hospital is oddly quiet between the two of them. The ER is already filling, bustling with movement and mutterings and the scuff of shoes, but he tries to ignore it. Dennis worries his lip between his lips, eyes trained on the floor, mindlessly counting the tiles as his brain reels with everything that just occurred in the span of less than five minutes.
Like Sugar.
A sink bath.
Dr. Robby.
A place to live.
A place without rent.
The idea is still so baffling to him. He doesn’t know Dr. Robby. Not truly, anyway. Sure, he witnessed the veteran medical worker break down in the makeshift morgue during a mass shooting event, walked in on his private prayer to a God he doesn’t quite believe in, urged him outwards, but that doesn’t mean he knows him. And Dennis doesn’t feel he’s done anything worthy of Dr. Robby’s attention or kindness. Why offer a bumbling idiot that drilled an IO into a conscious patient a spot rent free?
Dennis knows he’s not the smartest student. He knows he’s clumsy and unsure and a bit too awkward. He’s not a Santos, a Javadi, and he’s certainly not a Langdon.
Plus, the idea of living with Dr. Robby is a highly intimidating prospect. He wonders if being a good roommate is going to factor into his clinical evaluations.
Fuck, this definitely feels like it’s going to be an HR nightmare.
“Oh yeah,” Dr. Robby finally says as they make it outside. The air is cool, but the area around the exit is still bustling with activity, and in the distance, sirens blare from an arriving ambulance. It makes his heart rate jump. “You like Jack, right?”
Immediately, Dennis racks his brain for a familiar face, grateful to break away from his ruminating. “Jack?”
“Dr. Abott.”
“The guy who was primary ER? With the military bag?” Dennis remembers the guy. A bit of a candle burning at both ends, right beside Dr. Robby when debriefing them before the mass casualty event. Dennis watched him donate blood from his leg while elbow deep in oozing wounds and skipping from one patient to the next.
The man rattles him a bit, if Dennis is being totally honest.
When Dr. Robby nods, he adds on. “Yeah, I like him. I didn’t really talk to him.”
“Good. I forgot to mention, he lives with me,” the man says casually, yawning as he scrubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. “I hope that’s not a problem. He had your room, but it’s open now.”
“Not at all,” Dennis shakes his head, though the idea of sharing living space with yet another attending makes his anxiety spike. He doesn’t work the night shift, but he could be shoved onto that in the future. “Are you two…?”
Dr. Robby shrugs. “In a way, I guess. Jack and I are what we are.” He pauses, like he’s debating adding more, and then shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”
“Right,” Dennis doesn’t pry. It’s not his business, and he thinks he understands, anyway. More than most might. “Is he gonna be okay with me being there?”
Dr. Robby snorts. Despite it all, it makes a smile tug at the corner of Dennis’ mouth. Just a little. “He’ll be annoyed I brought home a stray without telling him, but he won’t be mad at you. ‘Long as you stay clean, you’re already better than him.”
“I can muck a stall. I know how to stay clean.”
“Yeah, I ain’t worried, Whitaker,” Dr. Robby shakes his head, and for the second time all night, and maybe even the entire shift, since meeting the man that morning, Dennis can see the ghost of a smile on his face. Just like he did when he recited Isaiah at him after their talk. Like he’s endeared by his words.
A heavy weight settles over his shoulders, and it isn’t until he’s pressed against the man’s ribs that Dennis realizes he’s being pulled into a side hug. He pauses his steps as his attending gives him a little squeeze, and then moves his hand up to pat his head.
Once again, as an odd, yet familiar warmth blooms in his chest, Dennis feels like he’s four again.
“You’re too skinny,” his attending says as his hand pats his cheek, eyes crinkled as he glances over him before tugging him along. “I’m gonna have Jack order in. Got a request?”
Dennis shakes his head. “I’m just happy to eat anything that isn’t one of those cart sandwiches.”
“Fuckin’ sandwiches,” he grumbles, and Dennis lets himself chuckle just a little bit at the words.
The arm doesn’t leave his shoulders, and Dennis makes no comment as they walk along, allowing the moment to lapse into a silence that finally feels comfortable.
He can’t wait to sleep in a real bed.