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The water was cold against his fingers. For a moment Dennis allowed himself to just squeeze his eyes shut—the running water from the taps a steady stream on his palm. His cheeks were red—for whatever reason inexplicable even to Dennis—the beginnings of a headache pounding at the back of his mind. His heart was thumping; a beat almost violent, and Dennis—
Dennis splashed the ice-cold water against his face.
He could hear Santos’ voice—muffled by the bathroom door—coming from somewhere nearby. Their shift was over soon; she was completing the last of her charts. And it had been not too bad of a day, all things considered. Dennis wouldn’t consider it a good day—for he doubted there was a good day at the ER—but it wasn’t one of the unbearable ones that leave his body fatigued and his mind a mess. It was an average day. And Dennis supposed he should’ve bene more thankful for that.
The bathroom door opened with a small click.
For a split moment he thought he was still in that spare room in the abandoned wing at the hospital. That it was Santos barging in—the mind was a wonderful thing, after all; and there were just far too many similarities between their first meeting and his current situation for his brain to ignore the association—into the bathroom. He jumped, terrified; body spinning around with his hands pressed against the sink and his hair wet still. The beginnings of a swear forming on the tip of his tongue.
Then he faltered. Robby closed the door behind him with a small, amused grin tugging at his lips. “Are you expecting anyone else?” he asked, and he sounded like himself—almost, Dennis corrected wordlessly. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and rubbed his face dry with them. The paper was harsh against his skin; he was pretty sure they’d leave marks all over it. They probably did. His face felt oddly raw with pain.
“Well,” said Dennis. He’d always been nervous around Robby; it mattered not that he was no longer the wide-eyed inexperienced intern that he once was a year ago. “I thought it was—”
He blinked. Robby’s smile dropped from his face. There were dark circles hanging under his eyes; his shoulders sagged in a way that reminded Dennis of the weariness he once felt another one of the nightmares of his. Some days it was Milton, then there was Teddy Miller; the faces of his patients staring back at him with their eyes wide opened and their hearts no longer beating. He’d had a lot less of those nightmares now—you learn to live with them somehow, said Santos, though he supposed it remained a learning process for the pair of them still: him with his screams and her with the lights on in her room during most nights. Sleepless. Restless.
Plagued with guilt.
He fumbled in his pocket. Robby’s house keys pressed against his thigh; a silent reminder of what was happening. He opened his mouth—once, twice—lips trembling for a bit before realising that he didn’t really know what to say to the man. Have fun on your sabbatical seemed a little too juvenile. I’ll see you around seemed wrong.
Robby was staring back at him still. “I’ll drop by,” said Dennis instead, his mind frantically searching for words so the silence would feel a little less awkward. He rubbed his fingers against the hem of his shirt. Then brighter, louder; as if he was trying to mask his nerves around the man—
“Have you decided where you are going next?”
“I’m still thinking about it,” was Robby’s response. Dennis waited—for the rest of his answer, perhaps; though there was nothing of such. His hands were now dry; he’d dried them on the paper towels then on his shirt. He could feel the beginnings of a flush creeping up his face; something that felt like embarrassment and more. He thought of Robby’s bike: a creature shiny and beautiful and dangerous; he’d seen enough accidents involving bikes of this kind to know that it was an ill-advised idea. Still he kept his mouth shut. Stubbornly, and perhaps with a touch of pettiness; that Robby would be gone and he’d be working at the Pitt without him and—
It made little sense. If Dennis was being very honest to himself—which he hadn’t been lately—he’d say half the things his mind was on about made little sense these days. There was something that terribly like resentment: a feeling towards Robby, maybe, that he was leaving and Dennis was among one of the last people to be informed about his departure. Then there was this feeling of unease that he couldn’t quite rid himself of: something like dread and horror; a sinking feeling in fear of impending doom. Yet there was no doom to speak of, and Robby was leaving for his sabbatical on that bike of his. Perhaps the trip was a little dangerous, and maybe a tad bit unwise; but it was Robby’s decision, and Dennis had no say over his life. He’d come back after a month with a flush on his face and his skin tanned from the sun. He’d be happy, his brows no longer furrowed; his lips quirked into a smile of sorts that Dennis had grown to adore. It’d be good for him, he told himself. Robby deserves a break.
Though there was something that felt terribly wrong still. His hands were clammy, almost ice cold; Robby’s glare fixed on his back, soft hum on his lips like he was trying terribly to pick out the right words—a speech intended to ease his worries. A declaration of sorts. He lingered at the bathroom, feet dragging out against the smooth tiles on the floor like he was waiting for Dennis to speak up. To stop him from leaving. To push and push and push until Robby would change his mind and stay. To swap out his bike for something safer like a car. Road trips were bad enough without a motorbike being thrown into the mix.
“It will be good to take a break of sorts,” Dennis allowed. “Just a few days. Think it through. If you want your house keys back you can always call me.”
He knew that wasn’t the right answer the moment those words left his lips. He shuffled, weight shifting from one leg to another. Mind racing to think of something—anything—to stop himself from feeling like a witness to a trainwreck waiting to be happen. His words were hollow; something that bounced off the walls of the bathroom and sat awkwardly between the pair of them. He had never been quite good at words. Santos was better at them—ironically—her senses sharp like a shark’s; Dennis sometimes swore she could smell the blood oozing from a wound miles away. But she was also gentle—the edge of her words aimed to protect instead of hurt—in a way Dennis wasn’t: her brows furrowing and arms crossed against her chest but she’s kind, and she’s better at matters like these than Dennis was, and he wished she was there instead of him. She might have—would have—known what to say to a man like Robby.
“It’s yours now,” said Robby. He smiled—a croaked, lopsided thing—and Dennis wish he didn’t. He wished he’d snatch his house keys out of the pocket instead of smiling like this encounter of theirs would be the last time Dennis was ever seeing him. He thought of the man’s comments—light enough to be pass off as jokes and dark enough for him to pause at times while horror crept up his spine—and the way he regarded Dennis: hands clasped around his with the kind of solemnity only seen on the faces of those who had made up their minds to leave. Dennis had seen enough to have the alarm bells in his mind going off: the sound growing increasingly louder until it was something almost unbearable—
There was something wrong with Robby. There was something terribly, terribly wrong with Robby.
Robby dried his hands against his sweatshirt. Glanced at Dennis once more before leaving, feet dragging behind him while the door swung shut with a loud bang.
Dennis jumped. He was alone in the bathroom once more, phone vibrating against his ass with messages from Santos demanding his whereabouts. She’s fuming, probably; between the pair of them she was the only one with a car. It’s been nearly half an hour past their working time, and he should’ve left the hospital without so much of a backward glance; arm linking with hers as they sneak into the bar that they had always frequented after a long day at work. Robby’s probably tired and twitchy and everyone’s a little odd after a long day of work. Dennis would’ve known that; he’s a textbook example of someone like that.
But he could’ve been wrong. He could’ve been wrong about everything and he’d have to live with the fact that he could’ve intervened in a terrible situation before it manifested. Or he was also wrong—but on the completely different side of things—and he’d have to live with the mortification that he’s been utterly wrong and Robby was going to be mad at him and the last thing he wanted was Robby being pissed at him—
They’ve only known each other for a year. Someone else would’ve spoken up—Dana, perhaps—if something was actually wrong. Someone who knew Robby better. Someone that wasn’t Dennis.
His heart fluttered. There was a lump in his throat. Dennis pressed the back of his hands against his eyes before taking a shaky, choked breath. He slipped out of the bathroom, only flinching slightly when he noticed Santos’ glare on him.
“Well,” said she, arms crossing against her chest while she leaned against the wall. “You’ve been in the bathroom for ages.”
Against his better judgement Dennis spoke up. A weak retort; arguing just because he could. “It wasn’t that long.”
“I’m starving,” continued Santos, who had decided to ignore his reply. “You are paying for dinner tonight. I want pizza.”
On a good day he’d laughed at her comment. Nose scrunching up in annoyance, the kind of affectionate-annoyance reserved for best friends who had the incredible ability of finding the best ways to irritate him. On a good day he would’ve bumped into the side of her body with his phone in his hands and a smile spreading across his face.
Instead he muttered—voice low and his speech rapid—
“I think there is something wrong with Doctor Robby.”
Santos straightened her back. The question of why and what on the tip of her tongue, but there must’ve been something on Dennis’ face that stopped her from interrogating him further. “He’s leaving right after his shift.”
“On his bike?”
“Yes,” he whispered. He dragged his hands across his trousers. “I don’t think—I don’t know—I am worried, you see, I think he’s not fine—”
There it was. Santos’ eyes widened as the implication of Dennis’ words dawned upon her.
“You could be wrong.”
“I could be wrong,” admitted Dennis. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do—”
“Gosh,” murmured Santos. She bit down on her lips, brows furrowing the way she always did when she was fighting an unseen battle of sorts in her mind. Finally something must’ve won, because there’s something on her face that Dennis had grown to recognise as the beginning of a terrible plan forming. “He cannot leave.”
“Maybe for one night—I don’t know, should I speak to Doctor Abbot about it? They’re friends; he probably knows Doctor Robby better than we do.”
“Well,” said Santos, her voice dangerously calm. There was a sharp edge to her words; her calmness the kind of suffocating silence that was usually followed by something terrible. She straightened her back; there was a determined glint in her eye. “We can always destroy his bike. Then we speak to Doctor Abbot.”
She pulled a scalpel from her pocket. Perhaps he should’ve asked her where it was from. Perhaps he should’ve turned a blind eye towards it. But at this very moment—with Robby’s matter a pressing issue in his mind—he chose to stay silent.
Robby was nowhere to be seen. They moved quickly: Santos shielding him while Dennis slashed the tires of the bike. I’m sorry, he muttered wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut and lips moving like he always did when he’s saying a prayer. I’m sorry. His palms were sweaty; hands shaking so violently he was worried—almost—about the scalpel sliding out of his grasp. Robby was going to kill him. He’s a terrible person. And he might be very, very wrong—
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Santos pulled him to his feet with her palm upturned and her lips pursed. “Go back to the hospital,” said she. “Talk to Doctor Abbot. I’ll take care of the scalpel.”
Her grip on him was steady. Dennis walked, steps unsteady still; body shaking like he’d just participated in a marathon. Then he turned—steps picking up pace until his walk turned into a run—to make his way back to the hospital once more.