Work Text:
7:00 AM
Whitaker sips his lukewarm break room coffee. It’s better than the instant stuff but not by much. He glares up at the patient board as he tries to blink away the sleep in his eyes, his fitful night of rest having led to three missed alarms, a rushed shower and breakfast, and a fast-paced walk to get to the hospital on time. But he is. On time, that is. And he isn’t happy about it.
“God, who shat in your cereal?”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Whitaker drawls. “You could’ve at least driven me here, asshole.”
Santos knocks his shoulder with hers. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, Huckleberry, this is punishment for your lack of discipline. As your superior, it’s my job to help our newest resident learn from his mistakes,” she lectures, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I hate you,” he grumbles, tired eyes now staring into the abyss of shitty black coffee.
“Nah, you love me.” She turns his face towards hers to pinch at his cheek. “God, you look rough. Coffee isn’t gonna fix that.”
Her eyes stay fixed on the dark circles under his eyes as he bats her hand away.
“Let’s just get through the day. Only twelve hours left, how bad can it be?” Whitaker sighs.
“That’s the spirit,” Santos says warmly before turning back to the patient board. “Ooh, perfect!”
“Wha—”
His words die in his throat as Santos disappears to attend to her first patient of the day. He gulps down the rest of his coffee and almost chokes on it as an unwelcome presence suddenly makes itself known.
“Good morning Dr. Whitaker!” The kid practically jumps up and down like a puppy. Whitaker is vaguely aware that he’s actually twenty-five but his annoyance is enough to make him ignore that fact.
“Morning.” There's nothing good about my morning.
“You ready for our first patient?”
Our? Whitaker breathes heavily through his nose and starts counting backwards from one hundred in his head as the Pitt's freshest new MS4—James Ogilvie—rambles on about how happy and excited he is to be at PTMC for the third morning in a row. His frown deepens as he wonders how a person can have this much energy at 7AM—or at all—and why he of all people has been chosen to bear the brunt of it. He glances at the human personification of sunshine next to him and decides that he hates the sun. And laughter. And joy.
Whitaker looks back up at the board, picks the first available patient he sees and books it, hoping to lose Ogilvie the same way Santos lost him mere minutes ago, but their difference in stature works to his disadvantage. Despite his best efforts, Ogilvie catches up to him quickly and starts firing away questions on the way to their first patient. Whitaker passes him his empty coffee cup and regrets ever being born.
•••
9:00 AM
Whitaker hears Princess and Perlah giggling to each other and knows instinctively that they’re gossiping about him and Ogilvie in a language neither of them can understand. Not that he can blame them—the tall blond med student whose name neither of them has memorised yet has essentially been glued to his side since the start of his rotation—but it does nothing to improve the bad mood he’s been stewing in since his rude awakening this morning.
He honestly doesn’t understand what the kid finds so fascinating about him. If anyone, he should be following Dr. Robby around. He has more years of experience than Whitaker has had birthdays. At least he could teach him something useful, unlike Whitaker whose med school graduation ceremony was literally a month ago.
“Where to next, Dr. Whitaker?” Ogilvie asks eagerly and Whitaker has to crane his neck to look at his face.
God. He really is unreasonably tall. Sure, there are other tall people in the ED. Dr. Robby is tall. But there’s a line and this guy has crossed it—vertically. Not to mention how he keeps standing so close to Whitaker that it hurts to look at him too long. How inconsiderate. Whitaker thinks he’d prefer not to look at him either way, what with the infuriatingly childlike wonder in his eyes.
“Dr. Whitaker!”
He looks away from Ogilvie’s stupid face to see Dr. Robby striding towards him. Thank God.
“Dr. Robby, what’s up?” he asks, which is a stupid thing to say but it’s all his tired brain can muster.
“You still hanging in there? I heard from Dr. Santos that you had a rough night. It’s not my business what you get up to outside of the Pitt,” Dr. Robby says carefully. “But you need to make sure you’re ready to come to work and save some lives, even after a night out.”
Whitaker’s stomach drops. “I didn’t—”
“Like I said, it’s not my business.”
“Dr. Robby,” he sputters, intensely aware of Ogilvie’s voyeuristic gaze on what should be a private conversation. “I don’t know what Santos has been telling you—”
“She didn’t, but I know the signs.”
“You went out last night?” the kid rudely interjects and Dr. Robby frowns as if he’s just noticing he’s been here the whole time.
“No!” Whitaker narrowly avoids telling him to “fuck off and die” in front of their boss.
“I don’t know how you had the energy after the shift we had,” Ogilvie chuckles.
Whitaker can’t help but roll his eyes at the audacity. You have no idea how bad shit can get in here you fucking imbecile. He refocuses his gaze on Dr. Robby, who’s still looking at the kid in confusion.
“It was just a bout of insomnia. I do know better, I promise.”
Dr. Robby meets his pleading eyes and sighs. It feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.
“Alright, I believe you. Just take a breather in the break room. We need you out here, can’t have you falling asleep on us.”
Whitaker struggles give him a reassuring smile. It probably looks more like he’s constipated.
“Of course, Dr. Robby. It won’t happen again.”
Dr. Robby settles a hand on his shoulder and he feels like he can breathe again.
“It might, but it’s okay, we’ve all been there.”
He gives Whitaker’s shoulder a squeeze before gently pushing him in the direction of the break room. Unsurprisingly, Ogilvie takes that as his cue to follow him.
“Ogilvie! Not so fast.” Dr. Robby calls out. "I have a patient in South 20 who’s a perfect learning opportunity for you. Come with me.”
“Oh. Uh, sure.” The kid gapes a little but nods obediently and Whitaker heaves a sigh of relief as he goes after Dr. Robby.
He notices the ghost of an amused smile on Dr. Robby’s lips that’s gone just as quickly as it came, which he chooses to ignore in favour of watching the lanky med student go in the opposite direction of the break room. Finally some peace and quiet.
•••
10:00 AM
The quiet doesn’t last long. The team rushes to treat two trauma patients and Ogilvie somehow manages to glue himself back to Whitaker’s side in the midst of the chaos, watching attentively as Dr. Garcia coaches him through the best way to remove a bullet from their patient’s thigh. It makes a clattering sound as it hits the metal pan.
“It’s intact.”
“Nice work, Dr. Whitaker,” Dr. Garcia praises. “We can take it from here.”
The corners of Whitaker’s mouth perk up slightly. “Thanks,” he says bashfully. He tries to take step back and bumps into Ogilvie, who’s been peering over his shoulder during the entire procedure in a way that reminds Whitaker of his younger cousin Owen and his obsession with watching him play Mario Kart when they were kids, drooling all over his shoulder as he tried to get a glimpse of his Nintendo DS. Ogilvie thankfully isn’t drooling yet, but if he keeps this up he just might start. His mouth drops open as if to apologise, but Whitaker just pushes past him as surgery preps to bring the patient up to the OR. The kid still follows him out of Trauma 1, and copies his actions as he throws away his gloves and sanitises his hands. The same old dull routine. Whitaker already knows what he’s going to say before he says it.
“That was awesome!” There it is. “I could never do what you just did. Like, woah.”
“You’ll get there someday. It’s my job to teach you,” Whitaker reminds Ogilvie, and himself.
The kid beams. Behind him, Whitaker can see the curtains in Trauma 2 are still drawn, and he worries that the other trauma patient wasn’t as lucky as theirs. A few seconds later, his fears are confirmed when Javadi comes out of the room looking defeated. She meets his gaze and they share a mutual understanding. There’s nothing we could do. Whitaker nods his head towards the trauma bay doors and Javadi gives him a grateful smile. He retrieves his pack of cigarettes from the nurses station.
“You know smoking is bad for you,” the blond nuisance says unhelpfully.
“Yes, he knows, Ogilvie. He’s a doctor,” Javadi quips, before leading Whitaker through the automatic doors and out of his sight.
Once they’re outside, Whitaker lights a cigarette and takes a long drag, exhaling slowly.
“I hope he doesn’t follow us,” Javadi grumbles. “That’s mean, but that kid just pisses me off.” She perks up as Whitaker passes her the cigarette and they share it between them. “Always yapping and in the way. I’m just glad I’m not you. He’s been shadowing you right?”
“If you can call that shadowing. He’s more like a drooling puppy,” he complains.
At that, she snorts out a laugh. “Oh yeah, drooling is definitely the word. He’s so obvious.”
“Obviously annoying.”
She falters. “Well, yeah. But there’s also the other thing.”
“What other thing? His clear lack of understanding of personal space?” He inhales more smoke.
She opens her mouth to say something and then seems to change her mind.
“What?” he asks, nonplussed.
“It’s nothing.” She takes the cigarette left dangling between his fingers and ashes it onto the cracked concrete before bringing it up to her lips.
“Is there something you’re not telling me? I know Princess and Perlah have been gossiping about me, what have they told you?”
“Nothing! Geez, Whitaker, you’re acting paranoid. He’s just—” She pauses. “Tall?”
“Tall. That’s all you were going to say?” he questions, but a part of him is giddy.
“Yeah, and hard to miss. Wish I could forget he exists but he’s too tall to ignore, you know?”
And I’ve been saying this! “Yes! It’s so obnoxious of him. I’m glad you agree. It should be illegal to grow past a certain height,” he jokes.
She giggles. “Tell that to Dr. Robby.”
“He’s not that tall.”
“They’re basically the same height!”
“Yeah, but he’s our boss, so he’s allowed.”
She gives him a knowing smile. “That literally makes no sense.”
“Sure it does,” he responds and he finishes the cigarette in lieu of explaining any further.
•••
2:00 PM
The next few hours pass at a snail’s pace. It’s more of the same : patients, charting, Ogilvie doing his best impression of glue and saying whatever bullshit comes to his mind, still with that happy-go-lucky attitude he’s become known for and Whitaker trying his best not to let it get to him. Rationally, he knows it’s not this kid’s fault he’s the most annoying person he’s ever met. Irrationally, he thinks he should be allowed to punch him in the face twelve times—once for each hour of this never-ending shift.
“Where did you grow up?” Ogilvie inquires before taking another bite of his egg salad sandwich—that’s another one of his many annoying attributes, he’s fucking nosy.
“Nebraska,” Whitaker responds dryly.
“I’ve never been to Nebraska, is it nice?”
“Sure.”
Whitaker chews his own sandwich and hopes that’s where his line of questioning ends. It’s not.
“Did you grow up on a farm?”
“Yes.”
Whitaker tries to focus on charting instead of this inane conversation.
“That’s so cool, I’ve always wondered what it would be like! I think I’d like it because I love animals. I almost went to veterinary school instead of med school,” Ogilvie overshares because of course he does. “Can you even imagine me as a vet?”
“Sure.”
“Really?” This kid has got to be the least socially aware person in Pittsburgh—and that’s saying something. “That’s nice of you but I’m actually allergic to cats! It’s whatever though—I always liked dogs more anyways. Are you more of a cat person or a dog person?”
Their conversation is mercifully interrupted.
“I see you’re continuing your long-standing tradition of getting crumbs on my workstation.”
Whitaker looks up to see Dr. Robby looming over him—which would be menacing if it weren’t for the soft smile gracing his lips.
“Sorry,” he mumbles in response and starts carefully brushing said crumbs into the palm of his hand before discarding them in the small trash can next to the desk.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” His eyes flicker up to Ogilvie before flickering back down to Whitaker. “In private.”
“Yeah, of course.”
Dr. Robby leads him away from the hustle and bustle of the ED and into the stairwell with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not in trouble again, am I?” Whitaker asks.
“No. I just wanted to know how you’re holding up. It’s only your third day back in the ED, you’re our newest resident, how are you handling everything?”
“It’s good, it’s great.”
“And last night’s bout of insomnia—was that work related?”
“No, not at all.”
“It has nothing to do with a certain MS4 who’s been following you around like a duckling?” Dr. Robby asks gently.
“Oh. You noticed that?”
“Did I notice the newest member of your fanclub?”
Whitaker feels his face flush and can only hope his cheeks haven’t turned bright red at the implication of having a club dedicated to adoring him.
“Fanclub?”
“At this rate he’s about to become its president.” Dr. Robby laughs. “But on a more serious note, please do tell me if he’s been bothering you.”
Whitaker deflates. “He has been a little bit clingy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Dr. Robby looks at him expectantly and reassuringly.
“He’s just not the easiest person to be around, that’s all,” Whitaker admits.
“You find him annoying,” Dr. Robby supplies.
“Yes.”
Dr. Robby raises an amused brow.
“Sorry,” Whitaker murmurs.
“You don’t have to apologise, Dr. Whitaker. We’ve all been there. It’s admirable that you haven’t let it get in the way of your teaching.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that…”
“I do. I know today has been rough for you, but you’ve been answering his questions, quizzing him throughout the day, showing him the same techniques I taught you. You’re doing a good job. And you’re demonstrating immense patience. You can be proud of that,” Dr. Robby says warmly.
If he wasn’t blushing before, Whitaker certainly is now. The words echo in his mind. You’re doing a good job.
“Thank you,” he stammers. “That really means a lot.”
“If there’s anything I can do, just let me know. This is a teaching hospital, but we all have our limits.”
“I will.”
“Good. Let’s get back out there, we wouldn’t want to keep the fans waiting.”
Whitaker huffs out a laugh, still slightly red.
“It’s called building anticipation,” he banters, and it gets a chuckle out of Dr. Robby, who steers him back towards the ED with a firm grip on the back of his neck.
Once they’re through the doors his hand glides to his shoulder to give him a final soothing squeeze.
“Dr. Whitaker, you’re back! I wasn’t sure what to do while you were gone so I just, uh. Waited,” Ogilvie flounders. “But our next patient is in North 3 if you’re ready now.”
Whitaker has to hold back a groan, but Dr. Robby gives him a reassuring nod before letting go of his shoulder, and he can feel his bad mood dissipate slightly as he remembers his earlier words. You’re doing a good job. He decides that he’s determined to keep doing that. He watches Dr. Robby retreat before clearing his throat and turning to Ogilvie.
“Alright, tell me about our patient.”
•••
3:00 PM
“Where’s your boy?” Santos teases as she leans up against the desk Whitaker is typing away at.
“He’s not my boy. He’s not my anything,” he bristles.
“He’s your med student,” she points out, but he doesn’t take the bait, which is concerning. “I’m just fucking with you Huckleberry. Are you still pissed about this morning? I’m sorry, okay?”
“Thank you for the apology,” he replies robotically.
“Why are you worse than this morning?” When he doesn’t respond she looks to Perlah across the room and calls out to her. “Perlah! Why’s he worse than this morning?”
Perlah responds with something in Tagalog and looks at Whitaker with pity as he charts his most recent patient and tries to ignore Santos.
“Ah. Broke the streak? You were doing so well.”
She edges closer to rub his shoulder through the newly dispensed scrubs he had to change into.
“Shut up.”
“I’m trying to be nice! What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Dennis.”
“Trin.”
“Come on, just tell me. If you don’t, Perlah will just tell me all the juicy details herself.”
He groans and looks at her in defeat. “Patient came in with a fever and a stomach ache.”
“Oh no.”
“Then she said she felt nauseous.”
“Oh no.”
“I knew what was about to happen and I tried to back up but fucking Ogilvie was standing right behind me and essentially used me as a human shield against the spray.”
Try as she might, Santos can’t stop the laughter that spills from her lips as her brain processes this new information, doing absolutely nothing to improve her roommate's mood.
“No!” she says in disbelief.
“I wanted to kill him.”
“You should be applauded for not killing him! Where is he now?”
“Dr. Robby sent him to triage.”
“That’s probably for the best,” she amends and ruffles his hair despite his protests. “No wonder you look like an angry kitten.”
“Not helping.”
“Sorry.”
Whitaker can’t help but continue to look angry-kittenlike as he finishes charting.
“So how long’s he gonna be in triage?” Santos asks him as he stands from his desk to check on the patient board. She joins him and focuses on not cherry picking cases as much as usual.
“The rest of the day, I think. Dr. Robby and I talked and I told him about my feelings or whatever.”
Santos looks shocked. “Feelings?”
“Yeah, so he said if the kid keeps bothering me, to just let him know. Next thing I knew I was covered in vomit. So, yeah, I let him know.” Whitaker heaves out a long sigh. “I’m just happy he’s off my back for the rest of the day. He’s been following me around all day everyday since he got here. He has no concept of personal space. He asks so many stupid—and often personal—questions and when he’s not doing that, he’s yapping about random shit that I don’t give a fuck about.” He’s clearly getting worked up. “He’s even been dressing like me, did you notice that?”
She scoffs. “You mean wearing the scrubs we all wear?”
“Fuck off. You know what I mean,” he says, rolling his eyes.
She does. But still, it’s her duty to humble him and she takes it very seriously.
“Let up a little, Huckleberry. So the kid has a crush, you were the same with Dr. Robby, remember?” she teases.
“What are you talking about?”
She gives him a deadpan look to rival his confused one.
“You can’t be serious.”
His confusion seems to deepen. Santos lowers her voice significantly, as if just now learning discretion, and shifts them further away from the Central Hub into the less populated corridor between South and Trauma.
“You know, Ogilvie’s big gay crush on you,” she hisses. “Why do you think he’s been following you around so much? No offence, but you’re not that competent.”
The stray she throws at him stings but he knows she’s right.
“Okay, but that doesn’t necessarily—”
“You said yourself, he follows you around everywhere, asks you personal questions, dresses like you and—and this is just me adding my personal contribution to the list—he looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Whitaker concedes that based on the evidence presented, she’s either right, or the kid is stupider than he thought and that “hung the moon” look is because there’s really nothing going on up there. Unfortunately, the former seems more likely.
“Fuck. I need to talk to Dr. Robby about this. I don’t know how to handle this,” he laments.
“Well—Maybe Dr. Robby isn’t the ideal person to ask,” Santos says hesitantly. “Because of—” Whitaker’s frown deepens even more if that’s possible. “—your own little—okay big—gay crush on him.”
She stuffs her hands in her pockets and averts her gaze, settling it on a speck of dried blood on the floor. She sways back and forth waiting for his reply, but it never comes. When she chances a glance up at her roommate he appears to be short-circuiting.
It all starts coming together.
He’s so obvious.
Newest member of your fanclub.
Big gay crush.
So the kid has a crush, you were the same with Dr. Robby, remember? He does remember. The touching, the staring, the oversharing. He remembers following him around everywhere, standing too close to him, asking too many questions.
“Oh God.”
“Dennis?”
“Oh fuck.”
His vision blurs. He stumbles into the wall behind him as his breathing quickens. He squeezes his eyes shut and Santos’s hands come to rest on both sides of his face as she attempts to get him to match her breathing.
“Open your eyes, Dennis. Five things you can see.”
He forces his eyes open and they’re brimming with unshed tears.
“Do you think he can tell?” he asks, completely disregarding her attempt at grounding him.
Santos tries to reassure him but he easily reads between the lines.
“No!” Yes. “Of course not!” Absolutely.
Tears drip down his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut once again.
“He must think I’m so annoying,” he cries and he mentally reassigns every insulting thought about Ogilvie to himself. Clingy. Annoying. Stupid.
“Dennis, it’s okay. I’m sure he doesn’t—”
“But I would! God, I’d hate me if I were him.”
“Please just breathe. I’m sorry, thought you knew!”
“I’m not typically very aware of my own feelings, Trinity!”
“That’s just because you’re a repressed religious freak, Dennis!”
Whitaker tries to stifle a laugh but soon he and Santos are both uncontrollably giggling like two badly-behaved school children.
“I’ll never be able to look him in the eye ever again,” Whitaker sniffles after their laughter finally dies down and Santos comes to rest her back on the wall next to him.
“Hey, it could be worse,” she offers.
He side-eyes her. “How could it possibly be worse?”
“You could drop a dirty scalpel on his foot in the middle of surgery.”
"Don't give me ideas."
The both dissolve into giggles once again.
•••
7:00 PM
Whitaker finishes handing his cases over to the night shift and goes to retrieve his belongings from his locker. By the time he notices Dr. Robby, it’s too late and the senior attending has already spotted him. He offers him a meek smile and tries to contain his blush.
“Long shift, huh?” Dr. Robby remarks.
“Yeah,” Whitaker chuckles, then doesn’t know what else to say so he busies himself with punching in his locker combination.
“Listen, Whitaker—” He perks up at the continued attention. “—take it easy tonight. Try to get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
It’s a normal thing to say, but the “sir” sounds weirdly dirty.
“We’ll figure out something to do about your situation,” Dr. Robby continues.
Behind the open door of his locker, Whitaker tenses up, mortified. So he has noticed?
“I’ll try to redirect Ogilvie’s energy a little bit. Take a load off of your shoulders.”
Oh. That situation. In the midst of his panic, and with Ogilvie helping out in triage for the rest of the shift, he honestly forgot about the kid. After grabbing his things and closing his locker, he accidentally makes direct eye contact with the object of his newly-discovered, wildly inappropriate crush. Dr. Robby gazes at him fondly.
“You did good today, considering the circumstances. You’re dependable and capable. That’s just what we need in the Pitt,” he says. “So thank you for being what I—what we need.”
Whitaker struggles to give Dr. Robby a casual, grateful smile in spite of his obvious blush which is only made worse when one of his large hands lands on his bicep—a move that should be completely normal, but Whitaker’s sudden awareness changes his perception of it entirely. He silently wishes that Dr. Robby would touch him more and in other, more intimate places. The thought sends a jolt down his spine.
Santos slams her locker open next to them, grabs her belongings, and slams it back shut before marching towards the exit.
“Let’s go, Huckleberry!” she calls out without bothering to check if Whitaker is going to follow her.
“Good night, Dr. Whitaker,” Dr. Robby says tenderly.
“Good night, Dr. Robby,” Whitaker replies and then he scurries after Santos, already missing the warmth of his touch.
“Ugh, gross. I can’t believe I had to spell it out for you,” she says once he manages to catch up.
“I’m so unbelievably fucked.”
Santos grins and ruffles his hair. “Come on. I want Thai food.”
“I love Thai food!” Ogilvie pops up seemingly out of thin air. “Can I come?”
Santos gives him a calculated once-over.
“No,” she sneers. She hooks her arm around Whitaker’s neck and pulls him out of the Pitt, leaving the blond nuisance in the dust.