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It’s almost too cliche, the way he thinks that the dark alleyway will hide him. Dennis has never been that lucky at all.
He’s effectively a sitting duck, waiting for his own demise. No control over what happens when it comes.
“Dennis Whitaker.” He scrunches his eyes shut at the sound of the voice, as if it will make him disappear.
It doesn’t work.
“You promised me, hand on heart, that you’d quit smoking.” Dana, he thinks, would be a fantastic bounty hunter if she ever wanted a career change.
He opens his eyes, wincing at the guilty picture he paints. Cigarette in hand, slowly burning down towards his fingers.
“Look,” he starts with his hands out in front of him, “I haven’t technically paid for any cigarettes, so I pretty much haven’t lied.”
She will hit him if she feels like it, and it will be deserved.
“No.” Dana smiles, sweet as pie. “Instead, you’re filling your lungs with toxic smoke from one of my malboros.”
“Danaaaaaaa” he groans, pulling the stolen box and lighter from his pocket. He hands them back over to her, not surprised as she pulls one out herself and lights it quick as a flash. She exhales in silence, the comforting smell of smoke settling his skin.
“Dennis.” She says, serious tone pulling that comfort straight back from him. “It’s time to quit smoking before smoking quits you.”
“Dana, do you really think something as menial as lung cancer would kill me?”
“No, I think you’d take one step out of the hospital after beating the odds and get hit by a bus.”
Dennis sighs, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his shoe.
“That was my last one.” He vows, crossing his heart as he turns to head back inside.
“I’ll try to believe you.” She calls from behind him. She counts her cigarettes, and she knows about the one still stashed in his pocket.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s a relatively uneventful day, not that he’d ever say it out loud. Pneumonia, pneumonia, the nursing home parade etc. He queries sepsis on one woman, but the diagnosis actually ends up being impressive stage makeup and a psych evaluation.
Long story short, Dennis is feeling jittery.
The coffee isn’t to blame, he knows that for sure. He’s only jittery after one cold brew and he’s had at least three today.
He treats patients. Charts. Moves to help in chairs until chairs is practically bare. Types for Trinity while she dictates her charts to him because sitting still for too long sends her loopy. Victoria labels bones and arteries onto his arms between feeding him cafeteria fries.
He teaches a little girl waiting on a bed upstairs how to make a paper airplane, along with a handful of nurses and Mel. It becomes a competition down a corridor that Mel wins with glee.
By 2pm, Dana starts distributing menial tasks out to everyone. Dennis prays for a major incident to disturb her. He ends up reorganising pamphlets in the relatives room to be in alphabetical order.
He’s still jittery. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes his way back to central, fingers brushing over the stolen cigarette. Perfect. He swings by Trinity’s locker on his way up to the roof, stealing her jacket and lighter to combat the chill of being up in the sky.
The first drag is like coming home, if home wanted to slowly kill you through suffocation. It’s delightful, and grounding, and he doesn’t feel even a little guilty about lying to Dana because she’ll never find out. Not while he’s wearing Trinity’s jacket so his doesn’t smell like lies.
Sweet smoky freedom. It feels too good. Too easy.
From his spot on the roof, he sees an ambulance racing towards the hospital, hopefully bringing him something more interesting than admin and pneumonia. His cigarette lands beneath his foot, a fond but violent farewell, as he steps back into the stairwell.
He races down the stairs, anxious in a good way. It seems strange to admit, but an empty ER is far more unsettling than a full one. His pager beeps as he’s one set of stairs away from the action.
Dennis tries to shrug off Trinity's jacket quickly, not wanting to jump into a trauma smelling like an ashtray.
It’s at that moment that the world decides Dennis’ day has been too regular.
His arms get stuck in the jacket, tangled impossibly behind him as he reaches the top of the staircase. He yanks them, aware of his pager still buzzing where it sits on his scrubs. He yanks again, desperate to be free of his zip up prison.
Naturally, he falls forwards. Arms still trapped behind him. No way to catch himself.
Every one of the fourteen steps hits and hurts as he tumbles down and into darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s times like this where Dennis feels that his swift death may have actually been kinder.
Waking up feels just as bad as hitting the floor had. His arms are still trapped behind him, shoulders fiercely aching. His face throbs, and opening his eye doesn’t seem to be the right move.
On account of the way that his eye won’t open.
Uh oh.
Dennis can’t even push himself up. He just lies in a puddle of either blood or drool, brain refusing to decide what to do next.
Squeaking hinges let him know that the door to the stairwell has been opened. He cracks his good eye open, noticing Langdon before Frank notices him.
When Frank finally does, he stops at the sight of him.
“For the love of a god I don’t subscribe to.”
Langdon turns in a full circle, hands covering his eyes. Maybe he hopes that Dennis is a figment of his imagination, and spinning will make him disappear.
All it actually does it make Dennis even dizzier.
“Okay. This makes sense.” He says, seemingly to himself. Frank pulls his phone out of his pocket, holding it up to his ear before Dennis can make out who he dialed.
“Call off the search party. I found him in the stairwell.”
Someone answers back on the other side. Low voice, so probably not who he wants. Samira wouldn’t laugh at him. Mel wouldn’t either. Victoria is 50/50, he thinks.
“Are you in one piece?” Frank asks suddenly, phone slightly away from his ear. It pulls him out of his thinking spiral, reminds him that none of his preferred friends are coming because they don’t have low man voices.
Dennis scoffs as best as he can, which is more of a bloody spit across the floor. “Nobody’s in one piece, Frank. Do you know how many bones we have?”
Frank just stares at him, open mouthed, for a few seconds. Is he slurring?
“Tell her to bring a collar and a gurney?” He suggests back through his phone, before hanging up.
Dennis relaxes back into the floor, content to pretend that absolutely none of this is happening.
It’s his own fault for wishing for something to happen today. He should know to stop gambling with fate, they are not friends.
Frank lies himself down on the floor, face to face with Dennis in a way that would probably confuse him if he were coherent.
“Dennis,” he starts slowly, as if he’s talking to little Sadie with her paper airplane. “We’ve been looking for you for 30 minutes. Didn’t answer your page or your phone. Missed a trauma call.”
Dennis groans softly into the ground. “Was coming down.”
Frank has produced a penlight from seemingly nowhere, shining it into his good eye. It hurts and it’s rude. Is Dennis not injured enough? Why is Frank trying to take out his one good eye?
“You hurting anywhere else?” He asks, still using that strange soft voice. Dennis shrugs as much as he can, whimpering at the familiar pain in his shoulder. Shoulders? It could be both, and it probably is. Lucky!
If Frank can’t figure out that his face is hurting by looking at him, then Dennis isn’t about to help him.
They’re interrupted by the door opening again, squeaky hinges that could really do with some oil. Dennis might even have some in Trin’s car when he gets a spare minute.
“Dennis, are you back with us?” Frank has at some point been replaced by Cassie, causing Dennis to mentally cheer.
He loves Frank, but Cassie isn’t gonna laugh at him. She’s an angel. If he were a mother, he’d want to be Cassie.
She smiles at him, in that really nice way that she does, as they secure a collar around his neck.
“Okay buddy, I’m pretty sure that we’re gonna have to cut that jacket off.”
“Noooo,” he slurs again, “It’s Trin’s. Can’t cut it.”
“Whit, both of your shoulders look very dislocated. Pulling it off is gonna hurt you.” She tries, running a hand quickly through his hair. It’s so comforting, but she’s 100% checking his head for any cuts or bumps.
“Just do it fast.” She looks at him like he’s crazy. He’s not. Whatever Trinity will do to him if her jacket is ripped is far worse than the pain of pulling it off may be.
As usual, he’s ignored. Someone cuts through the material from wrist to back until he’s released from the jacket that suddenly decided not to fit him anymore. They lower his arms very carefully, as the dislocations become as obvious to him as they were to everyone else.
There’s no nurses around to help, Frank and Cassie deciding to save him the embarrassment this time around. He’s gradually rolled onto a board, wincing as hands make contact with his ribs.
“Ribs too?” Frank asks, gently probing them.
“No I think there’s like, eighteen of them.” One of his teeth feels a little loose, and he’s too busy poking it with his tongue to see the twin looks of astonishment sent his way.
“Okay.” Cassie breathes as they lift him onto the gurney. He’s wheeled through the doors, assaulted by the artificial bright light of the ED before people descend on him like pigeons on a crumb.
“What the hell did you do to yourself now? You get in a fight with the stairs?!” Dana asks, tutting as she brushes the bruise forming under his eye.
“I lost.” He tells her solemnly. She raises an eyebrow, glancing at him for just a second before moving away. “I’m gonna get Robby for you.”
Fantastic. That’s exactly what he wanted to happen.
Either Dana has a time machine or he loses time, because suddenly he’s in a room, and there’s significantly more people around him.
And he’s missing his shirt.
“Hello again Whitaker.” Robby calls from beside him. Someone’s stuck an IV into his arm without him noticing, which seems strange.
“No IO?” He mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. He hears Robby chuckle.
“Not necessary, but I’m glad that some of your brain is awake.” He must be on Dennis’ bad eye side, he can hear him but can’t see him at all.
“So, head CT is next. I’m thinking you’ve avoided any orbital fracture but zygomatic is looking mighty likely. How’s it feeling?” Robby asks him. Fingers press gently against his cheekbone. He doesn’t do a very good job of holding back his wince.
“Tender, I’m guessing?” Dennis tries to nod, stopped by the collar still around his neck. He sighs, attempting to move his arms enough to unstrap it. They’ve made this a bigger thing than it is.
“Stop with the tantrum.” Langdon is back in his line of sight, holding his hand back down with barely any effort. “The collar stays on until you’re cleared. You fell down the stairs, it’s protocol.”
Oh, if Dennis could stick his tongue out right now he would.
“Dennis, your face is so swollen right now. Stop trying to glare at me.” Frank warns him. He rolls his good eye, wishing that his hands felt less tingly so he could at least flip Langdon off.
He gets a clear cervical spine, and the offending collar is removed just before they wheel him down to CT.
Robby, Cassie, and Frank all accompany him to his CT, though he’s sure that’s not what normally happens. Cassie tells him that he’s a special case, which he’s definitely heard before with a different undertone.
It’s Robby that shows him the scan, grinning. He’d probably slap a hand on Dennis’ shoulder if they were in the correct places.
“Lucky boy, we can do a closed reduction!” Dennis doesn’t feel anyone should be happy about that. Sure, he’s avoided the surgery, but hands in his mouth again? Far more invasive.
“Frank doesn’t want to touch my tongue.” Credit to Robby, he lets the sentence roll straight over him.
“Good to know, I’ll do it to avoid Frank having to touch your tongue again.” Langdon nods at Dennis, looking glad that he remembered his preference to having his fingers in Dennis’ mouth. It’s kind of hard to forget.
He floats through x-ray, floats through being wheeled back to his room, and keeps floating until a hand hits his hair again.
“Hey Whit.” Cassie smiles at him. He tries to smile back but his mouth is not happy to be opening anymore.
“We’re gonna have to sedate you for a little while, to reset your shoulders and fix your face. I’ll stitch your head up while you’re out, and you’ll get to see us again under a beautiful morphine haze.”
Honesty? It sounds really good. An enforced nap that no one is allowed to wake him up from? It’s everything he wanted and more.
He doesn’t see the sedative go in, but he feels it. It drags him down into the mattress, softer, softer, softer, and then gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The beautiful morphine haze that Cassie promised is delayed. He wakes up with his heart slamming in his chest, entire body pounding like he’s the speaker at a rave.
His monitor begins to beep like crazy, drawing whoever was outside of his room back in but on his blind side.
“Hey huck.”
Oh fuck no. Put him back under.
Trinity makes her way around the bed, pressing the magical button that makes his body turn to velvet.
“So,” she starts, “Maxillofacial fracture. Head injury. Concussion. Two dislocated shoulders and a cracked rib.”
Yep. He felt all of that as it happened. No need to remind him.
“Corticosteroids, antibiotics & some painkillers. You’ll have a hell of a headache for a while. And physical therapy.”
She isn’t finished. He can tell. Like a shark circling prey, she’s biding her time.
“Denny… my vintage carhartt jacket that cost me over $100 is in pieces in a bag.” Dennis revisits his earlier wish for a swift death.
“Look, I was defending myself against Dana because they put a bet out on me smoking and if I wore my jacket she would smell it so I took yours-“
Wait. He might actually be able to fix this.
“Trin.” he asks. “Did you put a bet on me quitting smoking?”
Please let Trinity Santos have lost faith in him.
“I bet that you wouldn’t but would tell Dana that you did.” Bingo. He smiles as much as his face will let him.
“You’re gonna win enough money for a new one.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I cannot believe I lost this bet. It was my cigarette!” Dana laments as she hands her cash to Trinity.
“C’mon Dana, he’s gonna do something stupid again soon. You’ll win it back.” She soothes, counting notes in her hand.
“You’re right.” Dana groans, staring through the door where Dennis is seemingly asleep again.
“Put me down for Whitaker comes in with a utensil inflicted injury.” Her bet is noted, and stuck up onto the board. It draws a few looks her way.
“What?” She asks, defensive. “Santos is gonna have to spoon feed him for a few weeks - you think he’s gonna make it out alive?”