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Time passes strangely in the ED. Hours can feel like minutes, while minutes feel like hours. Everything is an intricate dance of rushing and focusing, bodies ebbing and flowing. Sometimes, when it gets quiet (something you quickly learned to never say out loud), you’ll take five minutes on the roof to remind yourself what daylight looks like, to look out over the city and remind yourself why you’re there.
It’s one of those days where the world feels like it’s spinning around you faster than you can keep up with it. You’ve jumped from patient to patient with barely enough time in between to catch your breath - first a kid with a fractured collarbone from falling down the stairs, then an elderly man after the residential home’s morning checks, then a burn victim, then an accidental overdose. Hours have passed by in a flash. You’ve sat with every single one, performing their initial assessments and helping to talk through their treatment plans, before either providing them medication or passing them along to one of the doctors. Being a nurse is so fulfilling, but there are times when you wish it wasn’t quite so exhausting. The coffee you’ve managed to grab in a rare thirty seconds of peace (or is it five minutes, who knows) is scalding against your tongue.
“Hey, uh,” a voice breaks through the mental fog, and you glance up to see Whitaker hovering on the other side of the desk, “is anyone available to help with a patient? Please?”
You smile to yourself. He always takes the time to be polite, the same way you’ve noticed he always takes the time to offer extra comfort to his patients when they seem like they could do with the company. Beside you, Princess and Perlah mutter something to each other. It’s in Tagalog, as usual, but you’re pretty sure you hear your name.
“You’re up, honey,” Dana appears behind you with a hand on your shoulder, and you turn to see her giving you a knowing, almost mischievous grin. Goddamnit. You should have known that one offhand remark about him being cute when you first started in the Pitt a couple of weeks ago would come back to bite you on the ass. Since then you’ve worked with him a few times in passing, giving him patient notes or running into him when the two of you get pulled into helping in a trauma bay, but this will be the first time you’ve ever actually teamed up.
“Sure thing,” you say with a hesitant smile. The way he lights up makes your knees go weak before you’ve even made it out of your seat. You throw Dana an embarrassed, faux-irritated look as you follow the student doctor down the hallway.
“Miss Gibson, Cadie, this is one of our RNs,” Whitaker greets the patient in North 3, gesturing for you to move into the room and pulling the curtain shut behind you. You’re met by a young woman, most likely in her late teens or early twenties, dressed in a bloodied cheerleader uniform with her blonde ponytail a mess and clutching an ice pack to her face. She seems thoroughly uninterested in the introduction. He continues, “She’s going to give you some stitches while I go and check on your, uh, friend.”
The girl’s face twists into a snarl. “That bitch isn’t my friend.”
You try not to recoil from the acidity in her voice. Luckily, Whitaker explained the situation on the way over: a failed manoeuvre during cheer practice had left the other girl with a sprained or broken ankle and a goose egg of a bump on her head, but in a fit of anger and upset on top of the pain she’d lashed out at her supposed friend, who she blamed for not catching her properly. The two had scuffled, leaving both with scratches and Cadie with a black eye and a deeper cut on her forehead. He just needed someone to treat this girl, keep her distracted, while he went and looked after the other.
“Not to worry,” Whitaker assures her, “she’s being treated as far away from you as we can manage.” He leans in to whisper to you, out of earshot of the girl, and his warm breath tickles your ear as you become increasingly aware of how close he is. “She’s in South, so I’ve got Olsen waiting in Central in case either of them try anything. Shout if you need him or, you know, me. I’ll help in any way I can.”
You smile, watching him fidget self-consciously. “Thanks, Whitaker. I should be fine.”
Cadie, who has heard none of this, pipes up from the bed. “Yeah, you better keep her away - she fucking bit me!”
Whitaker’s eyes widen, his fingers tightening on the tablet he’s been holding all this time. “You didn’t mention that when I was checking your injuries, Miss Gibson.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls up her top to reveal two semicircles of red welts on her side. You feel the boy beside you start, but you reach out a hand to fend him off, to silently tell him I’ve got this, go do what you need to do. Unintentionally, your fingers brush across his chest, and you both freeze.
He clears his throat nervously. “I’ll check back soon.”
You try to make polite small talk with the girl, but you can feel the blind rage boiling in her veins every time your hands meet her skin. The conversation fades, leaving the hubbub of the department outside behind as you begin to patch her up, cleaning out the scratches on her arms and the bite on her side before moving your attention to the gash on her head. In the distance, you hear a call for assistance in one of the trauma rooms, and Whitaker’s voice. You could pick him out no matter how loud the crowd is, you realise. There’s no time for thoughts like that. You turn back to your patient. Her head is not as bad as it looked at first, there was just a lot of blood but now that you’re sure it’s stopped you wipe that away to reveal a cut that can be held together with butterfly stitches. You’re just reaching for them on the cart when you hear the curtain slide back and Cadie tenses.
“Whit-” you start, turning to face a petite redhead in a matching bloodied uniform. Your heart plummets. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is a private treatment area.”
“Yeah, fuck you, Kira,” Cadie spits. You whirl on her, begging with your eyes for her to back down until you can de-escalate this.
The other girl hobbles into the space, her ankle braced but still usable. “No fuck you, you useless bitch. How am I meant to go for the scholarship now?!”
“Hey now,” you soothe, trying to position yourself between them, “let’s keep things calm.” You allow your voice to raise, not enough to aggravate them but hopefully enough to catch the attention of one of your fellow nurses outside. “Can someone grab Olsen, please?”
Cadie scoffs. “You’d never have got it, you can’t even get the routine right.”
Everything happens at once. Seconds feel like minutes. Minutes feel like seconds. Time races and stands still.
The redhead, Kira, lets out a banshee screech of pure hatred and launches herself forward. You step purposefully into the space in front of her, one hand on her chest to hold her back, but behind you the other girl leaps off the bed and surges towards you both with nails outstretched. She claws at the arm grappling over your shoulder and you turn to try and keep her away before she can do any damage to the girl or to you. Your foot catches awkwardly between the two of them and you stumble ever so slightly. Both seize their opportunity: Cadie swipes harder, her nails catching the side of your neck, while Kira takes a blind swing. You can only assume she thought you were going to move or fall out of the way, but in your attempt to stay on your feet and keep them apart her fist collides with the side of your nose. Your senses are flooded by the metallic scent of blood and a sudden awareness of how bright the fluorescent lighting is. The impact causes you to stagger back, hands to your face. Cadie gives you a final shove to clear herself a path to attack. You fall. Hard. Spots dance across your vision as your head collides with the cart on your way down, and you slump against the wall. Both girls are at each other’s throats, and for a moment you think Kira is about to rip Cadie’s ratty ponytail out by the roots when a white-shirted figure bursts into the room and pulls them apart, restraining one. Dr Robby is hot on his heels, holding back the other girl. You can’t tell who has got who, only that they’re both screaming and kicking and it’s only the frenzy of the situation that gives you enough power to dodge the blood-spattered white trainer swinging towards your face. Someone else stumbles into the room, hesitating on the threshold.
“Whitaker, get her out of here!” Robby barks.
The third figure is at your side in an instant, a blur of sandy brown curls as an arm wraps around your waist and helps you to your feet and past the curtain. Neither of you stop until you’re in the break room.
The quiet engulfs you, broken only by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and behind your eyes and the laboured breaths of panic coming from the boy still clutching your side. The seconds stretch to minutes. His hand still doesn’t move. You let it stay there.
“Shit,” Whitaker mutters, as much to himself as to you, as he helps you sink onto the sofa and scurries around to find tissue and an ice pack for the blood streaming from your nose. “Are you okay to stay here for one minute?”
You groan as you press a wad of tissue to your nostrils and the ice pack to the side, certain that you’ll have no trouble following that command. With the way your head is spinning, you’re not going anywhere. He nods, his hand slipping from your waist to your forearm and delivering a reassuring squeeze before he leaves. You sit forward, willing the blood to stop. Not that it matters - it’s already all over you. Your nose probably needs checking, almost definitely if Whitaker and Robby have any say, but with the impact falling somewhere between there and your cheek you’re pretty confident it’s not broken.
The door clicks again, and through the haze you hear his voice. “Hey, just me.” His face, doe eyes wide and brow tight with worry, returns to your field of vision along with an armful of supplies: painkillers, a few cotton pads, a bottle of clorhexidine and some butterfly stitches for the gash on your forehead - the irony of that isn't lost on you. You knock back the tablets with the cup of water he passes you, while he soaks one of the pads. “This is going to hurt. I’m so sorry.”
You wince at the sting against your forehead. “‘S not your fault, not like you invented antiseptics.”
“No, I mean for all of it. I shouldn’t have left you alone with her, knowing what she was like. Did you get hit anywhere other than your nose and head?” With that hand that’s not pressing a second tissue to your nose, you reach up and tug on the collar of your grey scrubs to reveal whatever scratch marks have been left.
His fingers are gentle where they rove across your skin, and slightly calloused. In the heat of the moment, you hadn’t noticed he’s not wearing gloves. You resist the urge to swallow, knowing he would feel it. It’s almost a given that he’s detected your racing pulse, but at least you can blame that on the adrenaline spike and the blood flow that is finally starting to let up. “Good news, she didn’t break the skin. Unlike on the other girl.”
The huff of a laugh you let out burns at the back of your nose and you inhale sharply, scrunching your eyes shut. Whitaker apologises again. “You don’t have to keep saying sorry,” you say gently, “it’s okay. Hazard of the job. I knew something would happen eventually.”
“I know,” he sighs, “but on the first time we properly work together and I wasn't even there? I just don't want you to think I don't care.”
“I don't think that at all.”
“Good, but will you still let me check you out?” You make a small noise of amusement and his eyes widen. “Oh my god, I'm so- I didn't mean it like that, I meant can I check if you've got any other injuries? After I’ve sorted this one?”
When you nod, he leans forward, hooking a finger under your jaw to tilt your head towards him and the awaiting stitches. Your breath stutters at the gesture and the sudden closeness of his beautiful face and you speak before you can stop yourself. “Either works.”
His hand hovers over your forehead. “Um.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, aware of how hypocritical that is. “I don't want you to think I don't care either. I wanted to work with you, not just because Dana told me to. I, ah, may have told her I think you’re cute.”
The tips of his ears turn pink and he becomes very invested in the stitch he's applying. For a moment you worry you've gone too far, that he genuinely didn't mean the double entendre and really does just want to check for injuries, and now he's embarrassed about having to reject you. When you open your mouth to take it back, his gaze flickers to your eyes and then down to your lips.
Seconds become hours. Your breath stills. You’re convinced the moment has lasted so long that you’re going to suffocate under the scrutiny of those soft blue-green eyes.
After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat. “Could I get you coffee some time? Not from here, unless you want a coffee just now and I can make you coffee. But can I… take you out? For coffee?”
You bite your lip to hold in the smile that threatens to split open your entire face, watching the way his eyes drift to the movement again. “Coffee sounds great. Going out, not from here.”
“Okay, good,” he relaxes, finishing off your cut with his lips pressed into a small, shy smile.
“How do I look, doc?” you quip.
The blush extends from his ears to his cheeks and down to his neck. “As pretty as someone can look covered in blood. Want me to get you a fresh set of scrubs?”
When you nod gratefully, he turns his back while you strip down to your undershirt. It's deeply endearing how thoughtful and respectful he's being, but you can't help the urge to tease him. The opportunity is right there. “So much for checking me out.”
“I-” his gaze flickers back instinctively before remembering you're half-dressed and shooting towards the ceiling. One hand runs through his curls while the other reaches back for your soiled scrubs. “Sorry. I’ll be right back, and I’ll make sure nobody else comes in.”
You nod, dragging a cushion into your lap just in case.
The moment he’s gone, you fold. The rush of before gives way to a new sensation, lighter and warmer but just as exhilarating. You hadn’t meant to tell him you thought he was cute, hell, you’d barely even meant to tell Dana. The word still lingers on your tongue, blending into a potent cocktail with the tang of blood and the sharp clinical antiseptic and the soft vanilla of his shampoo so close you felt like you could taste it. He was cute, he is cute, and both are the same and different. The first time you said so, it was just because he has a nice face and that quiet manner about him that instantly puts you at ease. Now it’s because he’s gentle and caring and patched you up as though you were something precious and he looked at you so tenderly and god he asked you out for coffee. And you said yes. Before him, you’d have thought twice about going on a date with someone from work. These things have a tendency to get messy. But now he’s seen you scared and bruising and covered in your own blood. That’s messy, and he chose you anyway. The thought makes your stomach erupt with butterflies.
When he returns, it’s with neatly folded scrubs and a bashful smile, which only grows when he sees the cushion in your lap. “How are you doing?”
“Okay,” you shrug, tentatively lowering the tissue. The first one was soaked through in bright red, but this one is cleaner, already dry. You give a testing sniffle. Nothing but a slight ache. “Getting there.”
His eyes crinkle a little as he crouches, offering you the scrubs. He doesn’t need to say anything, you find you already understand him enough to know. Slowly, you unfurl your legs, carefully adjusting to keep yourself covered, and his fingers skim over your bare skin to check for bruises. When you receive a satisfied nod, you offer him your arms. He checks those with just as much diligence, then takes your hands and helps you to your feet, already averting his gaze before the cushion falls away. You feel heat creep into your cheeks, not an unwelcome sensation. Once your new trousers are on, you give him a gentle nudge. He turns, and you roll your undershirt up as far as is decent. Nothing there. He reaches out, hesitating, until you nod and he shifts the neckline. There’s a small bruise blossoming on your collarbone from being shoved, but it’s nothing too serious. His fingers brush against it anyway.
“You done checking me out, Whitaker?” you ask playfully. The words aren’t supposed to come out as low as they do, but there’s a lump in your throat that you’re not ready to shift even if you knew how to.
To your surprise, he raises an eyebrow. “Not even close, but for now I think you’re okay.” His hand settles on your waist again, more confident this time, as he helps you to sit again. He knows you don’t need the help. You don’t stop him. He turns for a moment, soaks one of the cotton pads in the sink, and returns to sit beside you. Gingerly, like he’s afraid of breaking you, he brings it to your face and pats away at the column of blood running from your nose to your neck. He falters over your lips, watches the way they part with a breath not taken.
“Can I…” he begins, trails off, tries again. “Is it okay if…”
“Yes,” you exhale. It doesn’t matter what the end of the question is.
The pad slows as it glides over your mouth, above and below the lips before bridging the gap. Of all the absurd thoughts you could have in the moment, you find yourself wondering how badly all this has messed up your lip gloss. The cotton moves away, replaced by a thumb gently running across your bottom lip.
“Whitaker,” you urge.
“It’s Dennis.” His voice is as soft as his touch. “Can I kiss you?”
Words fail you. You nod.
His lips are softer than you expected, and not at all forceful. The kiss is sweet, patient, unhurried. The seconds fade into minutes which fade into seconds. When he pulls away, it feels like it’s been forever and still not long enough. He looks at you with pupils blown wide, and you feel yourself melting into his admiration.
He takes your hand, fingers weaving through your own and thumb rubbing circles across the back. “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll leave you to finish getting cleaned up and changed. I should probably go update Dr Robby.”
The corner of your lip quirks up into a cheeky smile. “I’d wait a minute, if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re bright red.”
He somehow flushes even more. “Oh. Right. Good plan.”
Shakily, he reaches for another cotton pad to help clean the remaining blood from your neck until his own drains away to somewhere other than his cheeks. You know for a fact that he can feel your heartbeat thundering, but you don’t care. You want him to know. So you say nothing, you just sit with his ministrations and think about blue-green eyes and vanilla-scented curls and soft lips and coffee, for however many minutes or hours it takes.