Chapter Text
When they say they’re going to do everything they can to help you, it’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie. And you believing that is the bigger shame than what made you end up here in the first place.
So when they hold your hand, and bandage your arms, and offer you a little cup full of little white pills; you better not fucking believe them.
“Are you sure the pain isn’t localized anywhere else?” That question is starting to piss him off. The hands pushing into his abdomen have been anything but gentle and the lights overhead have been buzzing at a frequency that makes the hair on his arms stand up.
“No. Can you please let me fucking sit up again?” He doesn’t mean to be rude. Really. The medical student is just doing his job. He doesn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that he’s in pain. A lot of pain.
The medical student raises his hands up in surrender, and the bed raises back up slowly. The beeping of the monitor behind him is also pissing him off. The door to his room, which is now shut thank you very much, does little to hide the bodies that keep running past to help other patients.
“I’m going to order an abdominal CT just to be on the safe side, based on the rebound tenderness.” The medical student slips towards the computer, tapping their badge against it.
“You do that big boy.” The medical student doesn’t flinch at what he says. Instead humming, typing, and eventually excusing himself from the room, shutting the door promptly.
It’s not even a full minute before the door opens again, letting in a loud rush of voices, beeping, and wheels on the hard linoleum.
“Mr. Whitaker, my name is Dr Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Dr Robby, and this here is student doctor Santos.”
Fucking hell. Couldn’t they have at least shut the door?
The two people in front of Mr Whitaker, who hated being called that, that was his dads name, appear more tired than the patient in the bed. He stares, watching Dr Robby move towards the computer, and Santos widens her stance, hands going to her side almost defensively.
“Shut the door.” Santos’ eyes twitch, but her arm reaches out and pushes the door shut briskly.
“My name is Dennis. Mr Whitaker was my father.” Dr Robby logs into the computer, his hands flicking across the keyboard at a speed Dennis can’t even pretend to keep up with.
“Okay, Dennis,” Dr Robby lowers his gaze to the young boy in the bed, “wanna tell us what brought you in today?”
“Are you not looking at my fucking chart right now?” Dennis scoffs, folding his arms across his abdomen protectively, pain momentarily forgotten. Santos frowns, eyeing Dr Robby who merely lets a small smile spread across his face. Dennis’s anger stutters as he notices smile lines crinkle around the dark brown eyes. Dr Robby turns more towards Dennis, letting his hands pull the stethoscope from around his neck.
“Well if I went off of what your chart says we’d be spending the next 72 hours together, but I want to give you the chance to explain what happened this morning.”
Dennis lets the older doctor approach him, dropping his arms to his sides as the stethoscope meets his chest. Dennis doesn’t speak, instead letting his gaze stick to the doctor's face. He doesn’t flinch when Santos steps around the bed, boxing him in on either side, to fiddle with the blood pressure cuff on his arm.
“Wanna try again?” Dr Robby offers. Any other day Dennis would’ve taken that as a challenge, would’ve taken the bait, risen to the fight, and probably lost dramatically. But the meds are kicking in, that medical student knew what he was doing, cause Dennis can feel his mind going numb very slowly.
“So a guy can’t watch the sunrise on a bridge now? Is it a crime to enjoy the architecture of the city I’m destined to die in?” He swears he hears Santos lightly laugh at this. But a quick side glance from Dr Robby and the room falls silent again. The stethoscope is gone, and Dr Robby is taking a step back.
“Is this the first time you’ve found yourself watching the sunrise on unsteady steel?” Dennis frowns at the question. Why not outright ask him if he’s thought about killing himself before? Ask if jumping was his preferred method?
Dennis considered lying. Maybe that would get him out of this place sooner, out of these white walls that have been painted by more blood than Dennis carried in his body.
Dennis considered lying for maybe a little too long, because Dr Robby had looked back at Santos who had silently slid back towards the room's door.
“What would happen if I said no? Hypothetically.” Santos slipped out the door, shutting it behind her. Dennis swears he could see her sprint off. Maybe to grab someone else? Maybe to grab security to drag him out and let him die on the street corner or in the back alley where he would eventually end up anyway.
“Hypothetically…” Dr Robby said the word slowly, as if tasting where it sat on his tongue. Dennis nodded, letting his eyes follow the older man as he pulled the rolling stool over and took a seat next to the bed. Too close for Dennis’ comfort, far enough away he couldn’t smell his shampoo anymore.
“Hypoethetically.” Dennis confirmed. Dr Robby sighed, letting his hands rub roughly against his cargo pants.
“We’d keep you here for 72 hours, involuntary psych hold. Probably get you on a med regimen, a psychology referral, get you with a therapist to help you talk through whatever is making you crave the ugly metal of those damn bridges,” Dr Robby opens his mouth to continue.
“They’re not ugly.”
The room pauses again. Dennis has his hands clenched into the bedsheet. He’s still wearing his regular clothes, having refused to put on a gown when first roomed. His hands shake where his knuckles turn white from the force of his grip. He watches Dr Robby in real time realize that Dennis has spent an intimate amount of time with the bridges around this city.
“Okay. Not ugly. Wanna tell me your favorite? Feel like I should know which one you find the most pretty that it makes you spend more than one morning on it,” Dennis scoffs again, feeling his grip release slowly. Are doctors allowed to speak this way to patients? He’s unsure. Not like he fucking cares anyway.
“Fort Pitt.” He spits out instead. Dr Robby nods his head, letting his gaze flicker away from Dennis around the room slowly. Santos still hasn’t returned. That somehow makes Dennis’ anxiety worse.
“That’s a good choice, she’s a pretty bridge.” Dennis still feels numb, still feels the anxiety building in his chest. This place is too damn loud, too overstimulating. He can feel the fibers of the blanket rubbing against his fingers and it makes his teeth hurt. Where the fuck had Santos gone?
“Where’d the angry one go?” Dr Robby laughs softly at that. Dennis feels anger try to rise again, shooting Dr Robby a glare the older seems to ignore pointedly. Or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck.
“You seem more angry than she does today.”
“Are you allowed to talk to patients like this?” Dennis rips his hand from the blanket, letting his fingers find the hair at his neck instead. The grip and tug against his skin grounding him again in the bright room. Dr Robby seems to be watching the movement closely, but makes no move to correct or stop it.
Dennis is thankful Dr Robby makes no move to take his hand away; the numbness in his bones from whatever the fuck that ugly student gave him is making his control seep out slowly. The tugging remains patterned, slowly releasing, then pulling again, reminding his body to remain awake and alert.
“Listen, Dennis, you are safe here. Nobody here is going to hurt you, take away your dignity, or force you to do a test you don’t want. We just want you alive, breathing, and maybe rested, if you feel up to it.”
Dennis was beginning to hate this man.
This perfect, brown eyed, ruffled hair, smelling like bergamot, man. Who the fuck even looks good in mud green cargo pants? It’s literally a hate crime.
And more importantly, why the fuck does it seems like he actually cares?
Dennis doesn’t remember agreeing to stay. Nor does he remember Dr Robby tossing a gown to him, telling him to get changed, and leaving the room. He certainly doesn’t remember Dr Robby turning the overhead lights off.
“Fuck that man in particular.” Dennis growls to himself. He’s shed his minimal layers, folding them neatly on the counter beside the sink. He refused to take his socks off, the ER was too cold and his anxiety too high to allow him to be completely bare of his possessions. He also doesn’t remove the gold chain from around his neck, the cross bouncing softly against his sternum when he crawls back onto the bed, tugging the blanket up to his chin.
The room remains dark and quiet for a longer amount of time than before. Dennis is thankful for it. His scalp is aching slightly where he had tugged but it’s better than the numb that is spreading from his brain to his arms and legs.
And his abdomen. Fuck does his abdomen still hurt.
He curls in on himself, knees coming to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around his legs, blanket drawing up over his head. The pain is radiating, burning.
Maybe it’s a punishment for how much sin you carry in your soul, boy.
A full body shiver wracks him, but he refuses to cry. He refuses to break down in this room where others had died. His problems felt so small within these four walls.
Others are bleeding out, dying, receiving the worst news of their life just next door and here you are. Just a pathetic excuse for a Mormon.
Dennis is shivering, hands tapping an unrecognizable pattern against his calves, trying to will the sensation to return to his body. He really wishes he hadn’t taken those fucking pills. The anxiety is welling deep in his chest now, paired with the pain in his stomach Dennis really thinks he’s going to puke.
He’s lurching forward off the bed, gagging violently when the door opens, letting the noise from the ER rush in, slamming full force into Dennis' consciousness.
The vomit is not pretty. If he’s being honest, which he is at this point cause what’s the fucking point, it’s mainly bile and water. Dennis refuses to admit to the stunned doctor standing in the doorway that he hasn’t eaten in almost 48 hours. Doesn’t want to admit how fucking weak he is.
“Okay…okay hang on,” the door remains open causing Dennis to groan again and fall back against the sheets. Cold runs up his spine, causing his neck to jolt where he attempts to relax, body aching again.
Dennis doesn’t hear when the people enter his room, too focused on trying to drown out the shouting and machines bleeding into the walls of his once quiet room. His hands are shaking against the bed beside his body, too weak to reach up and wrap the blanket back around himself and in too much pain to curl back up around himself.
You’re fucking weak Whitaker.
“We’re taking you for your CT scan, Dennis, I want you to take this.” Another fucking pill is slid into his hand. Water held close to his face, too close, he can smell the sting of hand sanitizer which just makes his head ache more.
“Get the FUCK away from me!” Dennis throws the pill across the room, it makes no noise as it bounces to rest against the linoleum. He’s still refused to look up, to sit up against the bed again, letting the shaking of his arms keep him stationary. If he moves, the pain becomes real again.
“It’s okay, we’re going to start an IV, kid, just stay still.” The shaking in his arms continues anyway, body not recognizing the request for stillness. Dennis really wants to slap whoever the fuck just grabbed his arm to force it still. Who the fuck is manhandling him right now? Can they not see he is in pain? That his brain is louder than the goddamn man who is yelling out in the hallway and won’t,
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Dennis' scream echoes around the room and seems to take even the man standing outside his doorway off guard. He has shot straight up in bed, arms still shaking, abdomen still stabbing, his eyes immediately meet the gaze of a very shocked dark haired doctor.
“Just shut the absolute fuck up,” Dennis grits out again, watching the man in black scrubs grow more flabbergasted, before he disappears. His arm is stinging where the IV is pushed in, he can feel the cold of whatever they have decided to feed him crawl up his arm into his chest. The hands on his arm disappear, he turns to face the idiot who decided to grab him and recognizes Santos.
“Of course it was you, angry one.” Dennis scoffs. Santos actually laughs at this, ripping her gloves off quickly.
“It was either that or we shove the pill down your throat,” Dennis gaped at this, no way in hell they would actually do that…right? Santos shrugs before slipping out of the room, noticeably not shutting the door behind her.
“You done being mean to my doctors?” Dr Robby is crossing his arms across his chest, a scowl causing his brows to crease. If Dennis wasn’t still pissed he’d think it was hot. It’s not.
“Are they deserving of it?” Dr Robby sighs and uncrosses his arms, which makes Dennis uneasy. The large man's stance paired with the loud noises carrying into his room is making his skin itch again. Dr Robby doesn't seem to notice when Dennis starts rubbing his hands up and down his legs again, bending his legs so he can pinch at the skin around his ankles. Dennis would claim it was a self soothing mechanism, a minor pain to distract his mind from the cold sting in his arm. He’d be lying.
“Listen, kid, I’m sorry you’re here, but I’m glad you are deciding to stay.”
“It’s not for you, Dr Broody, it’s because this fucking stomach pain hasn’t gone away in weeks.” Dennis hisses out, his hands have stilled on his ankles, skin pulled taught between finger nails.
“Dr Broody?” A small smile graces Dr Robby’s face, and Dennis almost releases the anxiety he’s pulling from his skin. Almost.
“Am I still getting that CT?” Dennis asks instead.
“You’re next in line. Your labs also came back,” Dr Robby rounds the bed to grab the computer, wheeling it closer to the bed. Some tapping, a soft hum from the older man, and Dennis is still watching the large, sad, brown eyes flit across the screen.
“Okay…okay,” Dr Robby runs a hand down his face while scrolling, before turning to Dennis, who still hadn’t looked away. Dennis would’ve been horrified at being caught staring if it was any other day. But today he was feeling cocky, maybe a combination of the pain and drugs they had given him, but today he couldn’t give a fuck what Dr Broody thought.
Dr Robby, though, did care, and immediately looked away from the piercing blue eyes that seemed to be peeling back every layer of the older doctor.
“Your labs indicate malnutrition, and maybe a peptic ulcer,” Dennis flinched, his ankle skin releasing, “Your potassium and sodium were low, as well as your vitamin levels. Your blood cell count was flagged, and I’m concerned about your iron and protein levels being so damn low.”
The room remained quiet for a little while after that, interrupted by the sound of squeaking wheels passing the doorway and a voice carrying in. Dennis let his eyes drift from the warm brown to the desk across from his bed, where a blonde nurse sat typing.
“When’s the last time you ate, Dennis?" Dr Robby had care laced into his voice, maybe a little fear if Dennis chose to read into it. Dennis still didn’t look back to the man who basically had told him everything he was doing to try and stay alive was also killing him.
Funny, isn’t it? So desperate to die and yet so set on living.
“Dennis?” A hand moved into Dennis’ field of vision too quickly, too close. Dennis immediately felt his own hands shoot out and grasp at the body part that was entering his space.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” His voice was shaking, not very convincing in the moment that he actually wanted space. The person, Dr Robby, moved to step back from the bed, but Dennis’ grip remained attached to his forearm, nails digging in slightly.
“Okay, I wasn’t going to, you just went somewhere for a second there.”
Get away from me. Why the fuck are you still here? Still caring for me?
“Why are you all helping me?” Dennis groaned, letting go of the arm. His hands immediately flew up to the sides of his head, fingers digging into and ripping at his hair.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Dr Robby sounded tired, voice soft in the room beginning to be overrun again by anxiety and voices. “So are you going to tell me when you last ate?”
“Dr Robby?” A voice in the doorway that makes Dennis cringe and tug harder, “CT is ready for him, if you want us to take him up.”
The bed jolts as the brakes are unlocked, Dennis registers someone flanking him on his left before the wheels start moving. He’s still sitting there, hands hugging his head, fingers tangled in curls. Dr Robby…where’s Dr Robby?
“I’ll see you when you get back down, kid.” The voice carries from behind him, but Dennis doesn’t look up. Bright lights creep under where his palms press closest to his eyes, doing little to mitigate the overwhelming sensations of the ER.
“Dr Robby…” Dennis looks up before the bed makes it further from where the older man stands in the doorway. Dr Robby is still watching him be wheeled away, head cocked at an angle Dennis almost finds endearing.
Dennis croaks out “48 hours” before he’s curling protectively around his stomach again, IV tugging at his arm