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The fluorescent lights of the Pitt hummed with their distinctive, headache-inducing buzz and squeaks of shoes on the ground, the early light of dawn cracking though the windows as Dennis Whittaker hit the locker room at 6:47 AM, seventeen minutes later than he’d intended, still damp from a shower that had been cut short by a blaring phone alarm he’d slept through.
"Shit, shit, shit.” He muttered, hopping on one foot as he wrestled his scrub pants over his hips.
He should have honestly been already dressed in them, but that was also something he had no control over this morning, having had to grab clothes from the laundry basket in the dark - feeling through most of Trinity’s usual chaos of discarded clothing mixed with his.
In his rush, he hadn’t looked closely at just what he was snagging, but now, standing in the attending physician locker room - because someone had taped over the 'Resident' label again - he felt the unmistakable realisation that something was…definitely not right.
Instead of his normal underwear sitting on his hips, the fabric rode high. Higher than it should. There was also distinctly less of it.
He twisted, trying to see his reflection in the stainless steel locker door. A flash of crimson lace peeked back at him from above his scrub pants, his blood running cold for a spilt second.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”
Trinity’s thong. The red one with the little black bow.
To be fair, he was lucky he made it out of the house without Trinity seeing it, but his current problem was that he didn’t have backup underwear. The ER was already short-staffed and he was a resident - if he wanted to get written up, going home to find himself some decent underwear was a sure fire way to do it.
God, if someone saw this, the embarrassment might just kill him.
Split second over and shame settling in, Whittaker tugged at the waistband of his scrubs, pulling them higher over the top of his hips as best he could, keeping the lace concealed before his scrub top over Ed the rest and he plunged into the controlled chaos of the Pitt without a second glance back at the mirror.
By hour three, he’d almost forgotten. Almost.
Between a multi-car pileup, a cardiac arrest in Bay 3, and a psychiatric hold that required three security guards, the thought of the thing had faded into background static.
He was a professional. He could handle a shift while wearing his roommate’s intimate apparel. Hopefully.
"Whittaker!" The voice cut through the noise of the nurses' station like a scalpel, pushing him out of his thoughts as he turned his head.
Dr Robby stood by the trauma bay doors, charts in hand and looking annoyingly alert for someone who’d probably been there since last night.
It was clear to Whittaker he’d been on the roof again - hair mussed in that way that suggested he’d had a difficult moment with his PTSD again - but it seemed to be in control for the moment, hoodie zipper glinting in the sharp lights as he beckoned him over.
"Yeah?" Whittaker approached, reaching up to grab a suture kit that he could pass off to Samira when he caught her next. As he stretched, to his unseen horror, his scrubs shifted.
He heard it before he felt it. A sharp intake of breath that wasn’t quite professional. The crack of fingers suddenly clamping down on a hard surface.
"Is that..." His superior’s voice did something strange, dropping an octave, rougher than the usual clinical authority he wielded. "Whittaker, are you wearing-"
Whittaker froze, arm still extended upwards before following Robby’s gaze and looking down. The red lace, cheerful and obscene, cut across his hipbones proudly like a red river.
Fuck.
"Fuck, sorry.," Whittaker muttered, yanking his shirt down. "It's not, it’s, I, uh-“ He felt like his entire body was turning the same shade to match the lace. “Trinity and me. Share laundry. It was dark this morning and I was already running late and I couldn’t see-"
“Stop.” Robby’s voice was quiet, a wavelength under the noise around them, the attending physician’s gaze slightly glassy, tracing the line where the shirt covered the offensive garment. His throat worked, but nothing came out, a flush creeping up from his collar - not embarrassment, Whittaker noticed, but something hotter, darker.
"Red. Huh.” It wasn’t a question.
"Yeah, well, Trin likes bright colors." Whittaker stammered, eyes flickering between the nurses station, the floor and the senior doctor.
"You look..." Robby took a step closer before his jaw tightened and he arched back quickly, like he knew he was about to do something he shouldn’t. "You look good. In red."
Then he was gone, leaving Whittaker just standing there.
Mouth open and suture kit in hand, Whittaker stood, rooted to the spot for a moment before he heard his name being called and quickly scuttled back into motion.
Nine more hours. He could survive nine more hours.
Probably.