Chapter Text
If you must ruin yourself, taint your tongue with me.
He walks out, leaving the weight of the shift behind him, and he’s almost, almost floating. It’s the best part of the day, the release. But it doesn’t trump the feeling of saving a life and knowing a patient will go home alive—Whitaker has morals, after all. Whenever he feels the exhaustion creep over him, it’s the fact that he knows he’ll do anything to help people that keeps him afloat.
The air is cool, neither too hot nor too warm, nor too humid or too dry. The perfect in-between. It’s the way city air feels when it’s transitioning from spring into summer. He noticed the difference a while ago. It’s different from the country air back home. So different.
He thinks about Trinity’s teasing. She had never voiced her concern, but she didn’t need to. He sees it in her eyes when he bids his goodbyes, when he tells her he’ll be spending the night at Amy’s farm again. He wonders why she doesn’t like him helping her, and wonders why she can’t see that getting away from it all is helping him just as much. He wants to tell her that she’s escaping all the same by having Garcia over whenever she can.
He likes to go out when they’re together, not because he doesn’t support it, but it’s just that they’re… loud. And he doesn’t need to hear that, doesn’t need the image of his friend having sex in his head. Sometimes when he’s mad, he wants to tell Trin that Garcia isn’t going to stick around, that the more you try to tame someone like her, the wilder she’ll get. But he’s never mad at her for long, and Garcia seems to like her enough. Otherwise, he’ll let her learn the hard way. It’s the only way he knows.
So, as long as she keeps getting Garcia to come over, he’ll keep helping Amy out at her farm. It’s only fair.
He needed to get away from the concrete, away from asphalt roads and the echoes of the sirens and the beeping of vitals and the shrieks of flatlines. He needed to feel dirt beneath his nails and the rough braids of rope. The calluses on his palms were softening, and he had forgotten how much he missed their hardness. Like something sure, even when it hurt. Pain was a funny thing when it accompanied you your whole life. He thought that she would understand that better. He wasn’t blind. He could see how she was hurting, how they all were.
The night greets him like an old friend, and he’s glad that tomorrow is his day off. He needed to remind himself to message Amy again, wondering if she still needed him over. Other than that, his body yearns for sleep, blatant in the way his muscles ached; a massage wouldn’t have been all too bad either. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d even received one, if at all. He hasn’t been intimate enough with anyone for their hands to ease the knots in his muscles, and he was raised too frugal to pay someone for the service.
“Whitaker!” The sound of his name being called sends a jolt through his chest. He equates the feeling to touching a low-voltage electric fence. His brothers used to force him to do it; they had an interesting definition of fun. He would have worried if it were anyone else, but Dr Robinavitch did not scare him.
He turns around, already expecting the look on Dr Robby’s face, the gentle one he always wore when he greeted him.
What he hadn’t expected was the other man standing beside him.
He was taller than Dr Robby, just slightly, and Dennis doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen such a large man. He wants to tell Dr Robby to watch out, wants to yell a warning like the man is a rogue stallion who’s managed to escape his pen. Tall, broad and overwhelming and mere steps away from stomping him down. Whitaker’s lips part, the breath escaping him before any sound, and he nearly does.
Dr Robby beckons him closer, and his legs comply before he can even think. Dennis gazes carefully at the man he does not know, as if he could somehow read him and find out if he would be the type to bark or bite.
The man narrows his eyes, his head inclined upwards slightly, despite looking down at him. Like he’s judging every imperfection on Whitaker’s skin, the scar on his nose, his puffy eye bags, the self-pitying look Trin tells him he always has on his face. The man assesses him like a prize pony, watching his gait, the way he can’t seem to lift his chin as high in a defiance that doesn’t exist. The man’s nose is sharp, as are his jaw, his cheekbones and the rest of his features, really.
Bite, Whitaker decides.
Animals like him bite.
Dennis looks away from the man he does not know before he can give him a reason to sink his sharp teeth into his skin.
Dr Robby is the complete and utter opposite. His eyes are soft to look into, despite the hardness swimming beneath them. He excuses it. Nobody is completely smooth.
Dennis nods as he nears them. “Dr Robby,” he lets a small smile tug at the edge of his lip, but it doesn’t form into anything else.
The older man shakes his head, a gentle chuckle escaping his chest. “Just Robby, please, Whitaker,” he says kindly. He’s reminded him too many times to count, but he forgets anyway. “We’re out of the office.”
Whitaker nods, a flush creeps up his neck, and pools heat in his ears. He hopes the darkness of the evening doesn’t betray his reddened skin. “Sorry, Doc—Rob—Robby—” he winces, running a hand over his eyes. He had to tell someone their brother died today. “Sorry.”
Dr Robby—Robby?—chuckles again, and Whitaker wonders if the place he keeps them stored in his chest is hot, because the sound makes him feel warm all over. If the man he does not know shows any reaction, Dennis doesn’t turn to look for it; his grave has been dug deep enough.
“Ease up, Huckleberry,” Robby smiles before turning to the man beside him. Dennis decides that it’s finally safe to look at him, too. Dr Robby clasps a firm hand on the man’s broad shoulder. “Whitaker, Brendon Park. Park, Dennis Whitaker.”
Brendon Park—Park, Dennis decides, since it’s what Dr Robby called him—grumbles. The sound is deep and low, something that reverberates thickly in the air. Like a heavy gale that could blow him off his feet, keep him shielding for cover on the ground. Dennis wants to squirm.
Park doesn’t say anything else, but Dennis watches carefully as his masseter tenses, the muscle feathering and making him wonder if he’s clenching his teeth or just stressed. Both, perhaps, if the dark bags under his eyes have anything to say about it. Nobody is completely smooth.
He speaks before he can think because Dennis doesn’t remember how to think when two men are looking at him like that. Like they each want such different things, and he does not know how to give anything. Both so vastly different, but making him spin all the same. It’s embarrassing because Dr Robby is sweet and ignorantly innocent, and Brendon Park is just… too conventionally attractive to act normal around.
“So you–you work at the hospital?” He manages to get out, trying to meet Park’s gaze. God, the man is tall.
Park looks at him blankly, and Whitaker wants to crawl into a hole and die, burrow himself beneath the earth and never bask in the warmth of the sun again.
“No,” Park is unamused when he speaks. Not teasing endearingly—though, Whitaker wonders if a man like him even has it in him to be endearing—but not necessarily irritated either. “I come here every day because I’m bored, genius.”
Well, okay then.
Dennis frowns; he doesn’t realise his lips are parted until another breeze washes over them and his mouth feels uncomfortably dry. He snaps it shut and swallows whatever remnants of saliva he can muster.
Park is watching him. Whitaker expects his eyes on his face, but they are trained somewhere else, down, just below his chin, to where his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
He tries to think nothing of it.
Dr Robby clears his throat with a chuckle. “Anyways, some of us are going to Gene’s for a few drinks,” he says, prompting Dennis to look at him. He knew this; Santos hadn’t been able to shut up about it all shift. He nods and looks between him and Park. Park is still staring. “You should join us, take advantage of your day off tomorrow,” Dr Robby finishes.
But Dennis wants to get home.
He wants to take a shower before the warm water runs out, put on his headphones to blast wind sounds and be asleep before Trin comes home with Garcia. His body needed the rest. He had it all planned out. So… why was he already nodding and opening his mouth to—?
“Yeah, sure,” he says. His lips press together at the smile that beams across Dr Robby’s face. Beside him, Park is very still. Dennis clears his throat and tries to ignore him. “I’m down. But I, uh, I don’t know where—I don’t have—”
Dr Robby brushes him off. He was putting on a helmet that Dennis had not been aware was attached to the side of his bag. “Don’t worry ‘bout that, Park’ll take you,” he turns to the man beside him, clicking the clasps of his helmet together. He raises an eyebrow. “Right, Shark?”
Whitaker frowns.
Shark?
Dennis turns his attention to the taller man, as if his gaze had been pulled towards him magnetically. Park’s eyes were already on him. He wonders if they had ever left. There was no way that this man would agree to help him with anything; they had just met, and he didn’t know why Dr Robby would even think that he—
“Sure,” Park says, the finality of the word further emphasised by his deep tone. Whitaker stills.
“Great!” Dr Robby claps his hands together. There was an unfamiliar glint behind his eyes, but it had left before Whitaker could assess it. He was already walking away from them, towards his bike parked with the others. “See you guys there!” He calls over his shoulder like he hasn’t just left his resident to the dogs—dogs that bite instead of bark.
And seconds pass as Whitaker watches Dr Robby start the bike. As the rumble of the engine and the rev of his throttle shake everything around him. If it weren’t for the sound of shoes clicking away, he wouldn’t have realised that Park had left him at all.
Dennis turns back just in time to spot Park’s retreating figure. His strides are long, and he has to jog just to reach him again.
“S-sorry,” Whitaker manages to say and wonders if Park had even heard him at all. He doesn’t know why he’s apologising so much again. He had buried that habit a long time ago.
Park doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at him as they make their way to his car.
…
Whitaker doesn’t remember the last time he’s been in such a nice car. It’s a BMW. He recognises the signature blue and white logo. Its interior and exterior are both black, windows tinted just enough to border on scandalous, and when he clicks the seatbelt on, it tightens automatically over his abdomen. It feels like an arm, holding him back, and he ignores the way his heartbeat has picked up ever so slightly. He hadn’t expected it, the force, the slight constriction of the safety device, and he draws in a sharp breath before he can clamp his mouth shut.
Park’s gaze snaps towards him like he’s said something sacrilegious.
He must have heard.
“Sorry,” Dennis murmurs quickly, slightly breathless as he tries to focus his attention on something other than the way his stomach flips. He sees his faint reflection in the window, his own stupid, self-pitying face staring back at him, and he wants to peel his skin off.
He hears Park work the clutch. The man twists the steering wheel with a single hand as he drives them out of the parking lot.
As they leave, Whitaker starts to realise that he doesn’t know much about where Gene’s is, how far it’ll be from the apartment, and—oh, God—how much the drinks will cost. He hopes the water will be free. He wonders if Santos’ll let him hitch a ride back with her and Garcia. He hopes they’ll let him; they’ll probably do. He’ll just have to endure their flirtatious banter, nothing he hasn’t done before.
He doesn’t know why it feels so hard to speak to Park, nor why he feels so nervous, but Dennis reminds himself that he’s a big boy and he’s done harder things. So, speaking to men should not be one of them.
“Do you know how far Gene’s is from here?” Whitaker asks as the car pulls onto the main road. He decides that it’s a pretty safe question to ask someone he barely knows.
Park doesn’t look at him, his attention focused on the ongoing traffic. Whitaker wonders if he’s somehow managed to do something wrong because Park’s voice is curt when he says, “Ask Google Maps.”
He frowns. “I, uh,” It feels almost shameful to admit. “I don’t have data.”
That gets Park’s attention. His eyes flicker over him briefly, as if he were checking to see if he was lying. He turns back to the road, and Whitaker catches the way his masseter tenses again.
“Ten minutes, seven when the traffic isn’t bad.”
“Thanks,” Whitaker mutters.
He wants to ask what was so hard about that, answering a simple question? But he doesn’t. Because you don’t talk back to dogs who bite unless you want to get bitten. And he didn’t feel like getting bitten today, not when he knows Park’s teeth are sharp.
They sit in silence for a minute or so, and Whitaker is glad. The hum of the engine is smooth, and he can tell that Park is the type of person to never miss getting his car serviced. He’s also a good driver, not slamming on the brakes when they need to stop, easing into the throttle so the car doesn’t jerk forward. Whitaker knows that he’s good because he nearly falls asleep in the passenger seat.
“Why did you agree to come?” Park asks suddenly, when they’ve stopped for a red light.
The sheer unfamiliarity of his voice jolts him awake. There’s that feeling again—his hand on the electric fence.
Park’s voice isn’t rude, even if the question is. He sounds genuine, like he’s honestly just curious, and if Whitaker was being honest, that was far more alarming.
He shakes away whatever sleep had tried to pull him under and frowns.
“Excuse me?” He says.
Park only looks at him, and Whitaker doesn’t need to ask to know that the man won’t repeat himself.
Whitaker sighs. “I dunno,” he shrugs, turning away. “I wanted to get some drinks, I guess.” You can’t afford drinks. “I’ve never been to Gene’s.” You don’t like going out. He clenches his jaw, as if the act could shut up the whiny voice coming from his head.
The car is moving again, and he sneaks a glance at the man in the driver’s seat. Park doesn’t look convinced. It’s written in the way his eyes are narrowed carefully, the way there is a slight furrow between his brows. Whitaker wonders whether his large nose improves his ability to smell bullshit. Apparently, it does.
Park doesn’t wait for the next red light to ask him another question.
“When did you start liking Robby?”
Whitaker thinks he’s going into shock.
“W-what?”
Park continues conversationally, completely ignorant of how Whitaker is coming undone beside him. He’s still not looking at him. “You like him, do you not?”
“What? No!” Whitaker says, his voice higher as he tries to deny. Deny what, Dennis? It’s not like he has a crush on his attending, and that he’s had one too many wet dreams about him to stay professional. “I don’t. I don’t like him, I mean, of course I like him—he’s my attending, and he’s a great boss, but I don’t like him like that—”
Did—Whitaker can barely consider it—Park know? There was no way he could—
“I’m fucking with you, genius,” Park says.
Whitaker looks at him desperately, but Park’s expression is blank, and there’s no snicker in his voice or a chuckle from his chest. He isn’t all too convinced that Brendon Park knows how to fuck with anything—not in that way, well, the other way, maybe—fuck, he doesn’t even know anymore.
The car slows. There’s some traffic in front of them. From the corner of his eye, Park finally turns to look at him, and Dennis decides that he needs to stop being scared of people’s eyes.
The expression on his face could have melted him into the seat, because Park knows.
He doesn’t know how, or why or when, but Park knows everything. And Whitaker would have broken down crying in a stranger's car if he hadn’t grown up nursing strays, hadn’t grown up bandaging cuts and bites and learning that tears did not fix problems, that love is tough because there was no other way for it.
He regrets ever getting into Park’s car, regrets ever agreeing to go to stupid Gene’s, regrets his crush on Dr Robby and having to like men at all.
Park had spent barely ten minutes knowing him; how the fuck could he have known?
“Please,” Whitaker is surprised by his own voice, so quiet and soft like something barely there. He doesn’t know why he thinks Park will listen to him at all, but it was the way to speak to animals that were baring their teeth. He had never been one to beg.
They’ve just met, but Park knows everything about him because everything about him is what he hides. And Park has torn down that sheet and uncovered his secret, and he’s tearing holes through his walls, and he wants everything to stop because he knows nothing about Park. And somehow, that is supposed to be fair.
“Please, don’t say anything,” Dennis says. The phrase sounds too intimate for someone you’ve just met a few minutes ago, for someone whose hand he hasn’t even shaken. It’s all too intimate.
Park is silent, and the car moves again. Always moving because to stay still is to die. Because to keep moving is how you live without suffocating. The older man glances at him like the looks are stolen, like he knows he belongs to another man, and he really shouldn’t be taking what isn’t his.
It’s quiet for a moment, save for the faint echoes of the traffic outside. Whitaker feels like his head is underwater, like the world is numb and distant but perpetually there and ever-consuming.
He hears Park take a deep breath.
“He won’t give you what you want,” Park says, his voice tight. All too fucking intimate.
Whitaker frowns. He can’t believe what’s happening. Maybe he actually just passed out somewhere in the break room with two hours left of his shift, and this is all just a bad, bad dream. A weird, messy dream. Maybe it’s his subconscious speaking again, fabricating Park from the hundreds of faces he’s seen today. What kind of corny nickname is Shark, anyway? Then again, Trin calls him fucking Huckleberry.
So, Dennis speaks, because in dreams, you can say anything. Because in dreams, you are endless.
He won’t give you what you want.
“And you will?” Dennis says.
He watches Park’s reaction carefully, the rough swallow he takes, the sharp breath of air he breathes, the way his jaw tightens. His eyes travel to where Park’s hands are on the steering wheel, knuckles white, fingers clenched like any harder, and anything he holds will turn to dust.
They’re silent for the rest of the car ride, and for the second time after meeting him, Whitaker is glad.
…
The car is parked, and Whitaker steps out as soon as Park unlocks the doors. The air is warmer compared to inside the car, and the difference makes it feel like the world is hugging comfort into his bones. He makes a promise to himself that he’ll never get into Park’s car ever again.
Gene’s is a shoddy little establishment, at least from the outside, Whitaker notes. Its neon sign flickers pathetically above a door, like it no longer cares whether or not people frequent it anymore. He hadn’t known what to expect, but Park’s sleek BMW parked on the curb is a juxtaposition to say the least.
He spots a familiar bike—Dr Robby must have already been inside. A few people crowd in front of the entrance, taking long drags off cigarettes, and the smoke makes his eyes water. Their scrubs peek out of their jackets as they clutch them closer to try to steal more warmth.
Behind him, a car door shuts. Whitaker takes it as the sign to start walking inside, and he’s about to push open the door when a long arm from behind does it for him.
He can feel Park’s presence, like the hum of a truck being warmed up against his back. He’s standing too close, all too fucking intimate, and it doesn’t help that Whitaker doesn’t move.
When the door pushes open, the sound of conversation and laughter filters through, along with the smell of booze and cheap pub food and salty sweat of people who’ve been standing on their feet all day. He’s absorbed by it, drifting in the whirlwind of air, trying to find a reason for why he’s even standing there in the first place.
It’s only until a hand presses against his lower back that he remembers who’s standing behind him, who opened that door. A flurry of goosebumps rushes to his neck, and again, the jolt of the electric fence to his heart. Whitaker doesn’t know why he doesn’t move.
With his hand still on his back, Park urges Whitaker forward, the force minimal, guiding, like a small nudge he’d give a hesitant calf to move along. And that’s exactly what Whitaker does when he takes a step inside.
“Thanks,” he mutters over his shoulder. The ghost of Park’s touch lingers on his spine, the warmth prickling against his skin like his hand is still there. Whitaker doesn’t look back because he knows that to whisper anything of substance to him would mean that they would be too close. Too much for someone he doesn’t even know. So he lets the room consume him, lets the noise of the bar and conversation take him away.
He doesn’t see Park’s gaze following him, doesn’t catch the way the older man’s hand squeezes into a desperate fist. Park tries to pretend the loss of warmth doesn’t affect him, tries to relax his breathing and ignore the way his lungs are still chasing the air for the scent of him. He didn’t know someone could experience withdrawal so quickly. Whitaker is already too far to hear the shaky sigh he lets out, the ghost of a curse just below his breath.
…
“Huckleberry!” Whitaker hears Santos’ voice from somewhere beside him. He curls into himself when a few eyes turn towards him. But they look away when someone turns up the music, Duran Duran blasting from an ancient jukebox as a few people cry out, ‘Girls on film!’
“I thought you were gonna go home!” She shouts over the chatter, even though it isn’t really that loud. Trin pulls him into a hug, and he can smell whatever drink she’s had that’s loosened her limbs enough to pull him into an embrace. He lets himself savour it, even when she lets him go quickly, like she’s finally realised herself. Trinity doesn’t hug people often. When she slings her hand over his shoulder, guiding him towards the bar, he lets her.
He tries to look around the room, as subtly as searching for someone would let him. He doesn’t spot Dr Robby yet. He’s probably in the restroom or something, or maybe he’s one of the guys singing by the jukebox. Whitaker doesn’t hear a word of what Santos is rambling about until she asks the question.
“—Wait, how’d you get here?”
He stills.
“Uh,” Whitaker spots the complementary salted peanuts on the bar and stuffs a few into his mouth. He hopes his chewing will distract Santos long enough for her to drop the subject and—
“Uh?” Santos leans closer to catch his gaze—one of her eyebrows raised. Fuck. “What do you mean, uh?”
Whitaker decides that it’s probably best to just tell her. It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. “I hitched a ride,” he shrugs. It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal. Santos waits for him to continue. He turns towards the bar, avoiding her eyes. “Dr Robby convinced me to come and he—”
“You came here with Robby?” Trin gasps, a devilish smirk pulling at her lips. Whitaker snaps his attention back towards her, frowning like the heat in his glare could give her third-degree burns. Unfortunately, they don’t. “Wait, then why didn’t I see you when—”
“Park,” he forces out before Trinity can ramble on any more. She instantly clamps her mouth shut. Dennis looks over his shoulder like the fact were a government secret. It’s not a big deal. But he can’t seem to convince himself. “I hitched a ride here with Park—”
“Park the Shark?” Santos says suddenly. Surprise, confusion and excitement coalesce into one on her face, her smile twitching like it’s unsure of what to become. “Like Brendon Park? Ortho bro Park?"
“He’s not an ortho bro, what are you talking—?” Whitaker sputters.
Trin snorts and brushes him off. “Come on, Huckleberry,” she rolls her eyes. “He’s in ortho, and he drives a BMW. Ergo, Ortho bro.”
He shakes his head, “How do you even know—?”
“Garcia mentioned him,” Trin says before Dennis can finish the question. “Says he only looks like a douche and that he’s actually not that bad once you get to know him. That’s why they call him Shark, I think. I dunno what the correlation is, but whatever. Was he nice?”
Whitaker coughs. There had been nothing nice about the conversation they had in his car. Nothing nice at all. He doesn’t know why he tries to lie, “Sure.”
And if Trin isn’t convinced, she doesn’t show it.
“Right,” she drawls. Her attention is suddenly past him, somewhere farther down the bar. She claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll catch you later then? We definitely gotta debrief on this,” She leans down so that she’s closer to his ear when she whispers, “You still like Robby, right?”
Dennis recoils from her like the words are toxic. His gaze snaps all around them like she had just screamed the question instead of whispering it. The flush that consumes him burns around his neck. He can feel his pulse in his ears. When he glares at her, Trin only laughs, throwing her hands in the air innocently as she slides past him to return to Garcia’s side.
The sound of someone clearing their throat in front of him grabs his attention.
“Gettin’ anythin’, kid?” The bartender asks. He’s an older man, with a long grey beard tied in a neat braid that nearly reaches his chest. He smiles patiently, making the corner of his eyes crinkle.
“Uh, yeah,” Dennis nods quickly as he straightens. “A glass of water? With ice?”
“Sure thing,” The man grumbles as he goes to prepare the glass.
Dennis thanks him when he receives his drink. He decides to move away from the bar. A few people have begun to crowd around it, and someone had accidentally nudged him with their elbow. He looks around the room, searching for a quiet little corner he could escape to, ignoring the burning cold of the drink in his hand as a droplet of condensation trickles over his fingers. There are a few familiar faces, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to converse with anyone at the moment.
…
He settles into an empty booth. It’s too dark to tell whether the shade of worn-down leather is red or brown, but he likes the dimness. It could swallow him whole if he leaned back and stayed still for long enough.
Whitaker doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he hears someone slide into the seat opposite him. He can’t bring himself to face them. Maybe if he continues to stay still, they’ll leave him alone.
The darkness is better than reality. He doesn’t remember when he stopped fearing the dark; maybe it was when his first patient died. He knows that was when he started fearing reality.
But, if med school had taught him anything, it was to face your fears and that, no matter how hard you tried, you cannot run away from reality.
Whitaker opens his eyes.
Park is already looking at him.
“So,” he says lowly, and Whitaker tries to ignore the way his stomach flips. He’s much easier to face in the dark. He doesn’t expect the deep chuckle that escapes Park’s chest.
“Your idea of ‘some drinks’ is a plain glass of water?”