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Ogilvie finds Whitaker by following the sound.
And you might be wondering, what sound?
That's honestly a very good question.
It’s not that subtle, it's not even dignified, it's this kind of noise that crawls up the tiled hallway and grabs him by the ears.
It's this wet violent retching punctuated by a horrible choking gasp that makes Ogilvie pick up his pace whether he wants to or not.
"Christ," he mutters, pushing open the bathroom door with his elbow.
The smell hits first, antiseptic, sharp and clean layered with bile, something sour, and unmistakably human.
The hospital bathroom is too bright, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, reflecting off white tile and stainless steel fixtures.
There’s vomit on the floor, on the sink, and splattered up the side of the toilet bowl like Whitaker didn’t quite manage to commit to any single target in the room.
Whitaker is currently hunched over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain so hard his knuckles have gone pale.
His shoulders jerk as he throws up again, loud and furious, like his body’s personally offended by whatever’s inside him.
His dark hair’s plastered to his forehead with sweat.
There’s a smear of something unpleasant on his sleeve that Ogilvie decides not to look at too closely.
He stands there for a second, just taking it all in.
"Wow," he says finally. "You’ve really redecorated in here, HGTV would be impressed."
Whitaker doesn’t respond he just gags again, spitting something thick and stringy into the sink, then coughs like he might actually pass out this time.
Ogilvie steps closer leaning his hip against the counter next to him, he doesn’t touch Whitaker.
He knows better touching him right now would probably get him punched or thrown up on or possibly both it's honestly a gamble.
"Okay," Ogilvie says, peering into the sink like it might tell him a story. "This is either food poisoning, alcohol poisoning, or your body’s staging a rebellion against your internal organs."
Dennis groans it comes out rough, it's been scraped raw by stomach acid.
"Don’t even start," he says, voice barely there.
"Oh, I’m absolutely going to," Ogilvie replies. "You don’t get to sound like you’re auditioning for a horror film and not expect DVD commentary."
Whitaker lurches again bending lower retching so hard his whole frame shakes more vomit splashes into the sink and slops over the edge onto the floor.
Ogilvie watches head tilted like a dog, he's almost thoughtful.
"Huh," he says. "Good news, there's no blood, so that's a plus, means you’re not actively dying, maybe?"
Whitaker lifts his head just long enough to glare at him, his eyes are watery, red, furious and unfocused.
"Get out," he says.
Ogilvie smiles, it's not a nice smile.
"Can’t," he says. "Doctor’s orders."
Whitaker makes a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and what might be a sob, then dry heaves again gagging painfully.
Nothing comes up this time, his body keeps trying anyway like it’s stubborn and hasn’t quite accepted the reality.
Ogilvie glances at the clock on the wall. "How long’s this been going on for?"
"Since… last night," Whitaker manages, he swallows hard and winces. "Maybe earlier."
"Mm," Ogilvie says, "Persistent nausea, vomiting, hospital bathroom massacre, and oh any dizziness?"
Whitaker nods, it's a jerky motion.
"Fever?"
He gives a shake of his head.
"Headache?"
Whitaker hesitates, then shrugs weakly like he doesn’t even have the energy to catalog his own suffering anymore.
"I don't know, but you're about to give me one."
Ogilvie hums to himself as he contemplates, "Okay, so we’ve got a few options here."
Dennis closes his eyes, forehead resting against the cool porcelain, "I swear to God, if you say one more thing..."
"Stomach bug," Ogilvie counts on his fingers as he lists off. "Food poisoning, reaction to medication, stress induced gastrointestinal distress, oh and acute anxiety manifesting physically?"
Whitaker snorts despite himself then immediately regrets it and gags again.
"And," Ogilvie continues brightly, "pregnancy."
There’s a beat, a moment of peace if you will.
Then Whitaker retches so hard he misses the sink entirely and throws up down the front of his scrub.
Ogilvie steps back just in time to get out of the splash zone.
"Oh," he says, "There it is."
"Shut up," Whitaker chokes out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "That’s not..."
"Men can get pregnant," Ogilvie says mildly, "You know that, you're a doctor."
"I know," Whitaker snaps, then gags again. "That doesn’t mean..."
Ogilvie tilts his head, watching him closely now. "You’re late aren't you? I know this because all of us who aren't in active menopause are pretty much in sync with each other."
Whitaker freezes, hating him for putting that together, damn village mentality.
It’s subtle just a hitch in his breathing a pause that lasts a fraction of a second too long.
Ogilvie eyebrows lift, realizing he's actually right and he's got it.
"Oh," he says softly, "You are? That was just a guess."
Whitaker turns his head and glares at him again, his eyes going wild, "No, I've always been a little off and wonky. I'm not pregnant, I can't be pregnant."
Ogilvie considers him for a second, taking in the sweat, pallor, and the way his hands keep drifting to his stomach like it’s not quite his anymore.
"Okay," Ogilvie says. "Is that a no as in no, absolutely not, or a no as in please stop talking before I throw up again?"
Whitaker opens his mouth to answer.
But instead he bends over and vomits again.
Ogilvie winces then nods, "I’m gonna take that as a maybe?"
"Get out," Whitaker growls between heaves.
Ogilvie holds up his hands, "Hey, I’m just saying, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, and heightened emotional response to the suggestion alone, pretty classic."
"You’re enjoying this aren't you," Whitaker accuses hoarsely.
Ogilvie doesn’t deny it in the slightest. "Just a little bit."
Whitaker gags again this time bringing up nothing but bile his whole body shudders, when it finally stops, he slumps against the counter like his strings have been cut.
Ogilvie sobers a bit at that he reaches over and grabs a paper towel, dampens it under the tap and holds it out to him
Whitaker hesitates then takes it with shaking fingers wiping his mouth and nose, he looks absolutely miserable.
"I can’t be pregnant," Whitaker says quietly, "I’ve been careful."
Ogilvie shrugs, "Careful fails sometimes, biology's a bastard like that."
Whitaker squeezes his eyes shut. "I don’t even feel...I don’t feel like myself."
"That tracks," Ogilvie says. "Hormones’ll do that to you, your testosterone is currently lowering, well your estrogen is rising to accommodate little Whitaker in there for the next however many months you have left."
Whitaker groans and drops his head back against the wall. "You’re the worst person to be here right now."
Ogilvie smiles again, softer this time. "I know."
They stand there for a moment, the bathroom humming around them.
The normalcy of all this of it feels really wrong.
Ogilvie clears his throat, "Any abdominal pain? You could be pregnant but it could be a ectopic pregnancy or you could just be having on nasty period flu."
Whitaker frowns, thinking about it for a second, "Not pain, just… pressure, and cramps, I honestly thought it was something I ate."
"Mmhmm."
"And smells," Whitaker adds reluctantly, "Everything and everyone smells wrong, including you."
Ogilvie grin widens, "Oh, that’s a fun one."
Whitaker's face drains of what little color it has left, "Stop enjoying this so much."
Ogilvie taps the counter thoughtfully, "So, you're gonna need a urine test, blood work, and interior ultrasound if we need it."
Whitaker stares at him, "You’re already planning this like a damn party."
"Of course I am," Ogilvie says, "That’s my job."
Whitaker snorts weakly then immediately presses the towel to his mouth again like he’s afraid laughing might trigger another round.
"I hate you," he says.
"Strong emotions," Ogilvie says cheerfully, "Also classic tell tale signs."
Whitaker slaps a hand weakly against Ogilvie arm. "Don’t say another word."
Ogilvie laughs then sobers again when Whitaker sways on his feet.
"Okay," he says, tone shifting, "Sit for me, before you faceplant."
He guides Whitaker into an empty stall and down onto the closed toilet lid, Whitaker lets himself be moved shoulders slumping eyes half lidded with exhaustion.
Ogilvie crouches in front of him, studying his face. "So," he says, "We gonna take a test, or you gonna keep redecorating the bathroom?"
Whitaker looks at him for a long second, then swallows hard.
"...take a test," he says.
Ogilvie nods. "Good boy, and just for the record?"
Dennis sighs. "What now?"
Ogilvie smiles, annoying as ever. "That initial reaction was very telling that you've got a fetus attachment."
Whitaker groans leaning forward, forehead dropping onto Ogilvie shoulder.
"Shut up," he mutters.
Ogilvie actually listens to him for once.