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“In short: I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but existential way.”
Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Approximately eight hours into his shift, Dennis jinxes everything by foolishly thinking to himself, “This is going well.”
Although faith has become even more of an undefinable entity than during his days as a theology undergrad, the hows and whys slipping further out of reach, Dennis will blame what conspires over the next hours on simply that; a strike of bad luck. One simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Everything had been going smoothly; too smoothly one overtly paranoid person might come to point out later. Dennis had been treating the surface burn of a ten-year-old boy, distracting him and his anxious mother with questions about school, his hobbies, if he already harboured plans for who he wanted to be when he grew up.
The kid, shy at first but opening up with every further inquiry, didn’t even flinch when Dennis carefully applied the bandage. He seemed positively enarmored by the chaos of the Pitt, looking this way and that - it is a thrilling place, not just for children but to Dennis and his adrenaline-fuelled coworkers as well. He doesn’t know if survival would be possible without feeling the rush of having saved another person or simply mending the pain, however mediocre it may appear.
“How long did you go to school for this?” The boy - Carmen, his file had said - asked, legs bouncing up and down with jittery energy. Dennis briefly looks up at the ceiling, adding up undergrad and med school, days where hunger and exhaustion paired with the ever-looming threat of failure had turned him into something not quite human.
“Eight years,” He responds, turning Carmen’s hand to inspect his work. Burns are a solid ten on many patients' pain measurement scale, and Dennis swiftly moves on to the boy’s elbow, where the tip of his sister's curling iron had grazed him.
“Really?” Carmen gasps, blue eyes widening with childlike wonder. He looks down to where Dennis is methodically rubbing in gauze, then adds, “That’s almost as long as I’ve been alive.”
It makes Dennis pause for a second, the implication of the kid’s words hanging in the air like a large pendulum, swinging heavily. He distinctly recalls being around Carmen’s age and having no sense of time whatsoever. Days used to blend together like a particularly picturesque sunset; he doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way someone must’ve kicked over the clock, told him to go, go, go. From now on, you will be painfully aware of the years passing and all the things that subtly change.
Dennis makes a noise, something between enthusiastic agreement and contemplation. He catches Carmen’s gaze, from where it's shifted to worriedly gape at the blisters forming over his burnt skin and improvises.
“Do you want to know a secret?” Dennis asks in a hushed tone, heart soaring when the kid’s expression lights up, nodding erratically. “I’m not even finished yet.”
Carmen’s shoulders slump forward, mouth hanging open. “Oh.”
“Uh-huh.” Dennis agrees, thinking Carmen’s tone says it better than he ever could. Somewhere down the hall he hears Dr. King patiently explaining a procedure to an unconvinced patient, and Dennis quickens his pace. “Is your arm still hurting you?”
“Yeah.” Carmen half-shrugs, the duh evident in his tone.
“You’ve been really brave.” Dennis tells him. Children are often so much more durable than what people give them credit for, capable of bouncing back up from where they fell down with a hunger for life that gets lost somewhere along the way. He tends to forget that. Turning to Carmen's mother, Dennis begins to explain aftercare instructions, mildly flustered at her incessant showcase of gratitude. He gets ready to depart the room, lifts his hand to bid Carmen goodbye, but the kid beats him to it:
“Is it hard?”
Dennis opens his mouth, but stops himself from speaking too soon. If he were truthful, he would tell Carmen that nothing in his life has ever made him feel as stupid as med school did. He can’t think of those years without re-invoking feelings of doubt that used to haunt him permanently - he had become so accustomed to defeat that Dennis soon took to greeting it like an old friend.
Which didn’t make it easier. There is some irony in wanting something badly enough that you’re poised to leave everything you know behind, only for that dream to deny itself so fiercely to you. Throwing sticks and stones, testing if the next hit will be the one to take you down permanently and crumble your resolve. For many months, stretching into years, Dennis had the paranoid idea he’d get dragged out of classes some day, after administration realised there’d been a mistake. Someone would turn their head at his name, put two and two together to come to the conclusion that he simply tricked his way inside.
More often than not, he’d felt like he was swimming somewhere far out on the sea, wave after wave trying to draw him under and sharks circling in. And the more exhausted he got, the sweeter the temptation to simply let them take him.
“Yes.” Dennis doesn’t remember if somebody ever asked him about his education with as much awe. "But it's also very fun."
With that he leaves them. As soon as he sets foot outside of the room, Dennis gets intercepted by a rattled-looking Trinity, Javadi in tow. Their patient apparently had a thing for telling his entire life's story to anyone willing to listen - which Trinity was very decidedly not. He bites his tongue and chooses not to remind her that most of the time, people are just terribly alone and not out to waste your time. She knows that; but her stress has been self-evident by the way she tends to nod off at her work station, complaining about charting more precariously than ever.
Dana, whose eyes cannot be evaded, notices their slacking and redirects them - through mere circumstance - into entirely different directions. The chart she pushes into Dennis' hand is accompanied by a friendly tap on his shoulder and the familiar honey-warm drawl of her voice telling him, "Room 15, kid. Chop, chop."
Sharing one last look with Trinity, smiling in what Dennis hopes to be an uplifting fashion but only results in him getting flipped off, he navigates the way to his designated patient. Courtesy of the wickedness that has inhabited his heart, Dennis can't help but briefly startle when he spots Robby near the entrance of the ER. He is crouched in front of an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair, calmly explaining a procedure in non-medical terms. There are a lot of things you need to study to become a doctor, but certain qualities you either exhibit or don't. To soothe your patients, with nothing more than a simple touch is one of them. Is Robby still aware of the effect he has on people?
Was he ever?
Dennis tears his eyes away and focuses back on his job, reading through the file getting clutched in his grip.
Lewis Thompson, 42 years old and coming in with complaints of severe jaundice and abdominal distension. No history of severe alcohol abuse, no hepatitis on the charts. This is all he knows as he pushes the door open, only to be met with the sight of slightly yellowed skin, hair plastered to a sweaty forehead.
"Hello Mr. Thompson," He closes the door behind him carefully and begins to bridge distance towards the bed. The man's glassy eyes are tracked on a point above Dennis' shoulder, reflecting the sterile white of the ceiling tiles. A barely noticable trembling of his shoulders dials up the alarm bells installed in Dennis' nervous system and he puts on a fresh pair of gloves. "I'm student Dr. Whitaker. It says on your chart that you're experiencing stomach pain?"
Nothing. No verbal response or other index that Mr. Thompson took note of his appearance. His breathing, at a closer look, is shallow and rapid, a ragged sound that fills the air.
"Lewis?" Dennis tries cautiosly, approaching with steady steps and when he receives no response, starts another attempt at contact, "Can you look at me, sir?"
If Dennis were a smarter man he might've called for back-up in those early moments of assessment; the gravity of Mr. Thompson's condition was painstakingly obvious. If he'd called for back-up, they might've come to the conclusion of rapidly approaching liver failure and the resulting toxic buildup in his brain before things turn volatile. If, If, If.
Fact of the matter is this; Dennis, in pure, practiced routinely motion reaches out, intending to gently palpate the distended, drum-tight abdomen. His fingers are just barely ghosting above the hospital gown, when Mr. Thompson's eyes snap to his face.
The manner in which the following events unfold are distored at best. All Dennis does recall is the panicked, delirious quality in Mr. Thompson's gaze, how he had lunged upward with pure, uncoordinated strength. He intended to move out of Mr. Thompson's way but before Dennis could break out of his surprise, two, sweaty palms slam directly into his sternum. The force of it is great enough that Dennis stumbles, once, twice and his heels snag on the wheels of a rolling stool.
The world tilts.
His skull meets the unmoving wall with a sharp, sickening thud that echoes inside his teeth and air - it's necessity only apparent when it's gone - gets vacuumed out of his lungs. Dennis marvels at the loudness of the crash and isn't sure if he managed to produce a single sound. That is how quickly it went down. Blinking up at the ceiling, he erratically concludes that this has happened to him before. Growing up with three older brothers has made him an expert at getting throw into immovable objects, to the ground, at the barn and trees. One or the other wall must've been there, too. Perhaps, it is his predestination to end up on the floor no matter how far he thought he'd come.
Breathing turns into a funny affair, after that.
He isn’t, really. Breathing that is. Dennis tries to suck one desperate portion of oxygen into his lungs, but his diaphragm spasms and someone in the room is making those terrible noises, as though they’re in an awful lot of pain. He turns his head to pinpoint if Mr. Thompson managed to hit anyone else - even though he's pretty sure he'd been alone - but fireworks go off inside his skull and he admits defeat halfway through.
“Jesus Christ-”
“-Robby!”
A lot of people are storming into the room, Dana and Princess, McKay, all of them talking over each other. Dennis wants to ask them what happened, can’t quite wrap his head around how he could’ve been standing up one moment and blink up at the blinding lights, half-propped up against a wall the next. He decides that’s the first thing he’ll do, once he can get his lungs to do their job again.
Years down the line, back in Broken Bow, Dennis had fallen off a picket-fence he’d recklessly climbed on top of. He’d been alone, as is the destiny of the youngest and not paid attention for one, split second. The lurch in his stomach as his foot slipped, dragging Dennis to the hard, unmoving lawn, he would forever come to associate with this particular afternoon in his childhood. A moment of carelessness could result in more pain than he knew what to do with. In shock, he’d lain completely still and tried to compartmentalize this lesson.
Instead of Nebraska’s clear summer sky, Robby’s face comes into view. It evades Dennis, how the man could’ve gotten here this swiftly.
“Easy, Whitaker,” He says, loud and clear but it nevertheless feels like they’re light years apart. Something is roaring in his ears and all those years of med school and student debts truly pay off when some distant part of his brain tells Dennis that it’s probably his blood. Two large, heavy hands land on the point where his head is attached to his neck, cupping his jawline. “Easy. Take a deep breath in for me.”
It’s cruel, the way Robby phrases it. For me. There aren’t a lot of things Dennis wouldn’t do for him, he thinks. He also thinks that’s a dangerous line of thought to go down on. It stings even more when he realizes that he still can’t. A frustrated whimper tears through the room and Dennis shakes his head feverishly.
A door opens, swings shut behind them. Dennis would look, if it weren’t for the hands still grasping onto his face, anchoring his body and taking the fear that some part of him might’ve gotten lost during that fall. Searching Robby’s face, he thinks he spots a flicker of fear and panic before that is wiped away, too.
“Shh, it’s alright. You’re fine.” One of the hands moves down and Dennis mourns its warmth, before it comes in contact with his chest, gently massaging that deep cavity of nothingness. “It’s okay, sweet thing. Just got the breath knocked out of you, huh?”
Dennis must be hallucinating. Robby has been in a terrible mood all day, which he resolutely gave up on hiding from the rest of his colleagues around twelve, but Dana already warned Dennis to watch out for when he came through the doors this morning. He probably would have picked up on it the moment he caught sight of Robby, but refrained from telling Dana - her gaze is too knowing sometimes, when she thinks Dennis isn’t paying attention and it scares him.
But, yeah. Robby had been snappy and irritated, scolding Javadi for an oversight Dennis privately isn’t sure he would’ve caught himself and moving through patients at a speed that indicated he wanted nothing more than to get out of the Pitt as quickly as possible. Dennis doesn’t blame him, couldn’t, even if he tried. There is tragedy in the line of Robby’s shoulders, the way he carries himself - as though over all those years of working in the ER, an inscrutable amount of pain had been put on them and he is destined to carry it with him forever. Dennis can’t convince any part of him to think Robby would permit it to be shared, even if it were possible.
He has, more than once, attempted to breach the subject of what happened in pedes, back during PittFest. But words so often fail to convey what he wants to express - and this matter is no exception. Dennis has observed people trying to draw Robby out of his cave, watched him snarl and deflect until no one can be expected to keep trying. Every remark on his mental state, Robby turns into something ugly. He vividly recalls Robby finding him after all that chaos and his honesty had shaken up a part in Dennis, something that hasn’t quite steadied itself months later.
Don’t scare him off, he’d thought, drained and sticky. They’d met each other fifteen hours ago and that’s all Dennis knew to avoid. So he’d rambled his way through that confrontation and prayed it’d be enough to instill the slightest piece of trust in Robby
They never spoke of it after that. Dennis isn’t sure how much of that is due to his lack of finding the right words or the primitive fear that if he would confront Robby with it, his attending would push Dennis out of his orbit, somewhere he can’t ever reach him again.
Dennis had tried to stay out of his direct path, today. Only when directly called to the trauma room did he dare to catch Robby’s gaze, but was promptly re-focused on the task at hand. Orders were said stiffly, questions asked with cool detachment and Dennis caught Dr. King and Javadi exchange more than one tentative glance.
It is that version of Robby which collides with the one currently holding Dennis’ head; detached, surgical, horribly irritated and sad Robby against soft-spoken, soothing Robby and dear God, is he ever-so gentle. That’s what’s making it so hard to believe this is real and not simply a dream, one Dennis will wake from in a manner of seconds, sheets twisted and bathed in cold sweat, mouth dry.
“Nn-“ he manages, panicky, but the encouraging, softening expression he receives from Robby, paired with his attending’s thumb drawing grounding patterns into the point where jaw meets ear is enough for Dennis to concentrate all his effort into inhaling.
“There you go,” Robby- Robby praises, as if he just came up with a marvelous innovation for modern medicine and Dennis stutters through his next breath like he’s been drowning. “Good. You’re doing so well.”
He certainly doesn’t feel it. The world is swimming in and out of focus, which is why Dennis reflexively reaches out to grasp, steadying himself on Robby’s wrists. They still have to let go of him and it will happen - very soon, Robby will retreat back into his own shell. Dennis feels like a stone that has been dropped into the ocean, free-falling and sometimes, miraculously landing on edges of shipwrecks, only to ultimately be torn further down by the current.
He thinks that Robby must know, to some extent. Dennis has tried to conceal it, but is probably doing a terrible job of it right now. His skin is clammy and cold against Robby’s warm hands, some of the mushy grey in his vision clearing up.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” He babbles, voice wrecked and indicator for the terrible ache spreading from his chest to legs, head to heart. “It’s fine. Thank you. I’m fine, sorry.”
Robby tuts disapprovingly, unaware of the deep, shattering shame re-emerging in Dennis now that he is aware and capable of breathing again. They’re closer than they’ve been in months and Dennis is probably concussed to some degree, because if this is what it took for Robby to lay his hands on him again he would’ve run straight into a wall on his own devices. Cracked his head open with a sledgehammer, for good measure.
He’s very far gone.
“You don’t apologize.” Robby scolds softly, reaching for something in his pockets and then there’s bright, excruciating light in Dennis’ eyes. He bites back on the embarrassing whine crawling up his throat, soothed only by that hand, moving from jaw to pat at the curls at his nape. He’ll have to remember thanking Trinity for making him grow it out. Robby is asking him something, but Dennis only catches half of it. “-day is it?”
“Huh?” He truly is pathetic.
The light disappears and Robby’s strong face reappears. His hand, still entangled in Dennis’ hair, tightens firmly, “The date, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Oh, indeed. Is this- Is Robby aware that he’s doing this? Dennis is aware. He is very much aware and would preferably like to be a little less aware. “June 10th, 2025.”
“Perfect.” Robby reaches up to his head and Dennis makes a garbled noise of surprise. Steady, quick fingers trace his skull for potential swelling. “And can you tell me where you are?”
“I’m with you.” Dennis says, for that is all he knows to be true. It leaves him a little too slurred for Robby’s liking, judging by his raised eyebrows. He adds, coyly, “In the Pitt.”
“Beautiful, okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Are you with me, kid?” Dennis nods sluggishly and his eyes have a hard time keeping up with how quickly Robby is starting to move his hands. “We’ll get you on your feet and then you’ll go on a quick trip upstairs to get a CT scan.”
Dennis opens his mouth, frowning. “I don’t need a CT scan, sir.”
“Uh-huh.” Robby hums unconvinced and what follows is a long, stretched-out moment of silence in which they’re both looking at each other rather stubbornly. Dennis wants to sink into the floor at the scrutiny.
“Dennis.”
“Yes?”
“You were pushed by a patient. You fell. “ Robby laughs, but it’s wholly unamused, that exhausted huff which slips out when parents argue even though their kids don’t have that precious time or people they could’ve saved die because they came in too late. “You fell into the wall and couldn’t breathe.”
“I fell.” He echoes, eerily detached from time and space. Oddly enough, he feels like nothing much has changed. Dennis was standing, then he was not. He couldn’t breathe, now he can.
“Yes. And I don’t know if you passed out, because I wasn’t here-“ Dennis’ heart clenches at Robby’s tone, self-deprecating and loathing rising to the surface and all he knows is that he wants to reach out, to fix.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” He says, softly and unsure if it even reaches Robby, because he’s still going at it. “I didn’t pass out.”
“-and I need you to get checked out.” If Dennis didn’t know better, he’d think Robby was pleading. A little. They’re back to Robby’s grip clutching into his shoulders and it’s a little painful but simultaneously the most tangible Dennis has felt in a while.
Dennis weighs up the pros and cons of having to go through that entire ordeal, leaving day shift one resident short and waiting for results he already knows won’t show anything against removing the frown lines on Robby’s forehead. It’s not a choice that needs much leveraging at all, in the end.
“Okay. Okay, yeah,” He nods, throat dry and pushes his bunched-up fists to the floor in an attempt to rise. A sudden onset of vertigo cuts that attempt at proving himself independent short.
“No, no, no, Whitaker, come here,-” Is all the warning he gets, before a broad arm wraps itself all the way around his waist and he isn’t sure if the reason the dizziness won’t subside can be linked back to that. Robby’s grip feels like a hot iron on his skin and he’s brought to his feet through no effort of his own. “Up you go.”
“Your back,” Dennis protests, aghast and pushes weakly against Robby’s arm, unbudging. The look he receives in response makes him cease all efforts and he sags into himself.
“My back is fine.” Robby reprimands and pushes them - for that is the only manner in which Dennis can think of this now, so close that they are practically conjoined - towards the door. “Worry about your head.”
“My head is fine.” Dennis mutters back, brattily and gets the undeserved gift of a wheezy chuckle.
“You can show me on that scan,” His attending deadpans, pushes open the door with one hand and then they’re out of their quiet haven of serenity, back to earth, all the terrors and beauty it inhabits. Dennis is acutely aware, even with the pain thudding away in the back of his skull, that they must make a most unusual sight.
Dana’s double take at their reappearance only serves to dial the itch under his skin to almost painful heights. She rushes over to them, blonde strands of hair framing her worried expression and she puts a careful hand on his bicep. “You alright, Whitaker?”
At Dennis’ hummed confirmation, Robby tightens his grip around him and he is a weak, weak man for not fighting to break free any harder - potential head injury or not. “I’m taking him up to get a scan. No one saw what happened, if he passed out or not-“
“Didn’t pass out.” He re-establishes but nobody is listening to him.
Dana’s clear eyes flicker back and forth between Robby and him, looking for something she clearly doesn’t find, for she claps her hands together once.
“Alright, we gotcha’.” Dana waves Robby off, pointing to the elevator. “Get going.”
It's slow progress, the manner in which they're moving towards the lift and if Dennis were feeling a little less sloshed, he would have the decency to feel more shame than in all his years of religious practice combined. The rhythmic squeaking of his sneakers feels like a siren drawing too much attention and he wants nothing more than to spare Robby of the potential questions this could cause.
Psalm 51:5 "Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me."
Dennis bites his tongue and urges himself not to speak, watching the countdown of floors the closer the elevator gets. This endeavor lasts only until the doors slide shut, hiding them from view.
"Mr. Thompson," His voice bursts into the silence, grabbing, probably too tightly onto Robby's fleece jacket. How could he have forgotten? "Where is he?"
Robby's jaw tightens, a barely detectable muscle hardening, but Dennis spots it nonetheless. "He's getting treatment for Hepatic encephalopathy in Trauma One."
The words fly over his head. All that matters to Dennis, is that Robby knows, "It wasn't his fault."
Robby doesn't grace him with an answer. It does nothing for the guilt boiling away white-hot in his stomach and immediately regrets looking at Robby, eyes cold and detached.
Don't you believe me?
They arrive in radiology with an unceremonious ping and Dennis shifts on his aching feet . Robby has to release him, soon, soon he will-
***
The scan comes back clear. There is no evidence of intracranial hemorrhage, mass effect, or midline shift. Ventricular system is unremarkable. No calvarial fractures identified. Visualized paranasal sinuses and mastoid air cells are within normal limits. It was all nothing but a lot of hot air; Robby had still insisted on pain medication and a room. Which is where they're currently stationed, Dennis listening to Robby reading the results of his scan to him.
“I told you.” Dennis grins up at furrowed brows and crossed arms. He feels childishly giddy and snatches the image of his brain out of Robby’s hands.
“Still very important to check.” Robby chides gently, drawing a plastic chair closer to Dennis’ bedside, where he sits on the edge. Their knees are almost touching. This is completely irrelevant. After a while, he says, “You are very stubborn.”
Dennis looks up. He doesn’t expect to be regarded so intensely and hopes his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. Deflecting, he responds, “Look who’s talking.”
At that, Robby laughs, good-heartedly. It only lasts a moment and then it’s over. Something serious flickers over the corner of his eyes, crow lines retreating.
“Are you working tomorrow?” He asks and Dennis shakes his head, no. His plans had involved laying on the couch and binge-watching the latest episodes of Love Island with Trinity. It sounds even more seductive now and Dennis longs to put a blanket over his head, simmering away in a dark room until he rots.
“Good. I suppose I don’t need to tell you not to overdo it.” Robby glances down to Dennis’ lap and when he doesn’t look back up, he is forced to follow his gaze. Only then does he notice his hands trembling, thousands of tiny earthquakes causing his muscles to shiver uncontrollably.
He moves to sit on them, ashamed, but is stopped by Robby taking them into his own. The movement is so fluid - like second nature - that Dennis can’t tell if Robby contemplated the potential risk of holding his residents' hands carefully enough. He feels clumsy, like whatever he might do will disrupt this moment, which Dennis wants nothing more than to frame in the back of his mind.
“That was scary.” Dennis swallows roughly, not knowing what else there is to say and watches Robby rubbing warmth into all that has turned numb. He is good at that; calming people, making them believe that the world doesn’t end with this horrible day, that the sun will still rise again tomorrow.
“I know. It was scary for me, too.” Robby replies earnestly and succeeds in shocking Dennis all over.
“Really?” He laughs, dumbfounded and a little disoriented.
“Of course. Didn’t know what happened to you and when I saw you laying there-“ He breaks off and stops caressing Dennis’ hands, that have stopped shaking either way. They could let go of each other now, but neither of them make any moves to suggest they are going to.
“It’s okay.” Dennis whispers, when he sees Robby struggling. He’s sitting hunched over and the corners of his mouth are twitching downwards. “I’m alright.”
All is still, after that. They co-exist in that vulnerable space of silence, shielded from any outside noise and Dennis fights against his eyes falling shut on him. The streetlights are the only thing illuminating the room in a cool gleam, dark shadows highlighting the strong arch of Robby’s features. For the first time since Mr. Thompson pushed him, Dennis can feel his heart slowing down into a stable rhythm, chin dropping dangerously close to his chest before he snaps his head up again.
“You’re exhausted.” Robby observes and Dennis can’t find the energy to argue - even if he would, there’s no possibility of Robby letting him return to finish his shift. Which is over in half an hour. He shrugs and receives a playful shove to his shoulder. “Santos coming to pick you up?”
“Uh- yeah. Yes, she should be here soon.” He had texted her briefly after the scan, reassuring her that all was well. Robby insisted on Dennis asking her to keep an eye on him for the next day, lest he wants to be put on a 24-hour watch. He had hesitated, the idea of disturbing Trinity’s well deserved day off posing as a heavy weight in his gut. The no-nonsense stare Robby had bestowed him with was all it took for Dennis to sheepishly request her to come get him.
“You should probably go, too.” Dennis thinks to say. Robby must be just as tired as he feels, from the shift, the terrible mood plaguing him and one of his residents falling out. There is nothing left for Robby to do; Dennis is fine, simply a little dozy from the meds they gave him and the general shock slowly but surely leaving his system. Once he hits his futon back at Trinity’s place he’ll pass out like a light.
“Nah.” Robby waves him off good-heartedly, but his tone leaves no room for arguments. “Need to make sure you get home safe and sound.”
“Oh-kay.”
That’s that then. Silence settles back over the room like a weighted blanket and Dennis is so far out of his depth here. He glances over at Robby hesitantly and fights against dropping eyelids, all whilst wrangling with the urge to call Trinity and beg her to get herself upstairs to free him from his torment.
“I-“ Dennis starts, something blocking his airway and he clears his throat. “Thank you. I’m sorry,”
His voice cracks halfway through and Dennis wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. Robby’s gaze makes him want to bury himself six feet under, so that he won’t ever cause another person anguish again.
“You said so earlier.” Robby points out and succeeds in making Dennis feel like an even greater fool. “What is there to be sorry about?”
Of course he’d say that. Dennis looks away, to the pain metric scale plastered on the wall and his vision swims at the heat stinging in his eyes and no- absolutely not. Blinking furiously, he wonders where this would land him.
A seven, surely. Perhaps an eight.
“For scaring you.” His breath hitches and the sound of his voice is too loud in this contained space. Dennis is too much of a coward to watch Robby’s reaction and adds, “I never meant to.”
Then, his shoulder is gently shaken and engulfed in what feels like the first rays of sunshine after a long, freezing winter. It’s rubbing up and down the length of it, accompanied by Robby preaching, “I was scared for you, Dennis. As was everyone else.”
“No, no, I know that.” Dennis stumbles over his words and claws at his knees with bitten-down fingernails. The ache that has been blooming somewhere beneath his ribs is building up to its inevitable climax, ready to burst forth. At the end it’s all horribly simplified to, “It just feels like I messed up.”
He barely hears the sharp breath Robby sucks in over the effort he puts into biting down on his cheek. Dennis is pretty sure this is a new low, even for him - worse than being found by Trinity and getting soiled by all kinds of fluids or all the stuttering, awkward moments in his life combined. If he could take it back, he would.
“Look at me,” Comes from above and who is Dennis to deny him anything, when Robby rarely asks for something so directly? Kind eyes are all that await him upon lifting his head. “Nobody thinks you messed up. You did your job. These things happen, unfortunately, to everyone, no matter how good their heart. We’re very lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you. In my ER.”
His father used to call his heart something similar; bleeding, when Dennis sat hunched over a dying bumblebee on the gravel when he was eight years old. He’d made it into his job to stand watch over her weak body, a tiny spot against the stone.
For all his faults, that’s something his father got right. Dennis has never ceased to feel like something was oozing out of his body, a sickness that dripped a trail after him wherever he went.
Robby doesn’t look like he needs Dennis to warrant him with a response. Instead, he throws a quick look over his shoulder to check the time and as though he has an instinct specifically designed to sense out when people are starting to act out, presses Dennis back to the bed, onto the mattress with gentle force once he tries to get to his feet.
“But, Robby, don’t you have to go-“
“Ah-ah-ah. Let me stop you right there.” And Dennis feels his resolve crumble, pudding under Robby’s hands that are still on him. “I’m right where I need to be by making sure you don’t wander off after getting assaulted by a patient-“
“I didn’t get assaulted.” Dennis crosses his arms and meets Robby’s dead stare head on this time. “And I don’t wander.”
Robby frowns and clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You were listening so well to me earlier. Did everything I told you to do. What do I need to do to make you go back to that, hm?”
And oh. That’s just not fair. Dennis feels his entire face catching fire and twists in the sheet, partially embarrassed at the reminder how docile he’d acted around Robby and partially-
If Dennis ever felt trapped it is nothing compared to Robby’s commanding gaze on him. No sensation has ever felt more fundamental, cutting to the bone and very marrow of him.
Never has he felt more like a chewing toy.
“I am tired.” Is all he manages, spoken weakly into the dark. Dennis has always been morbidly fascinated by the phenomenon of how giving voice to your thoughts can make them sound so much worse. It’s why, for most of his life, Dennis has preferred to never say much of anything - it will keep you from revealing too many parts that you’d rather keep hidden.
As with many things, it’s different when it comes to Robby. All these walls have surrendered, without Dennis’ explicit permission.
“Go to sleep, Dennis.” He thinks he can hear Robby say, already halfway drifting in unconsciousness. “I’ll wake you when Dr. Santos arrives.”
Once asleep, he dreams of nothing at all.
***
“-fuck, Huckleberry. Work with me here.”
He’s being shaken quite profusely, by the owner of the angry voice not quite yelling into his ear. A groan escapes Dennis and he drags one hand over his face before he opens his eyes, staring up at Trinity.
She looks as beat as he feels; ponytail disassembled and strands escaping, a glassy sheen over her sharp eyes, shoulders curling forward. Dennis rises up to meet her reflexively; like magnets, that have been apart for too long and can finally snap together once more. The night is ink-blue around them.
“Hey.” He says, feeling warm and scratches his ruffled hair awkwardly. How long was he asleep for? The bedsheets are wrinkled underneath him and he feels terrible for occupying the space.
“Hi.” She gives a curt nod, arms crossed in a manner that tells Dennis he hasn’t heard the end of it yet. “Cleared to go?”
“Oh, uh. Yeah.” He hops off the bed, head swerving around to look for his backpack.
“Robby gave it to me already.” Trinity pipes in and Dennis stops dead in his tracks, completely inconspicuous.
“Really?” His voice is way too high for the whole this-is-all-fine act he had planned to enforce. Clearing his throat, he tries again, “When did you get here?”
Trinity sighs, drops his things into his arms and doesn’t try to pretend she isn’t all over his bullshit. God, Dennis missed her. He always knows where he stands with her, snarly and difficult as she may be at times.
“He had to leave for a code ten minutes ago. It was probably the only thing that could get him out of this room.” She is heading for the door, but stops short of grabbing the handle, hand in the air.
Then, she whirls around.
“Whitaker?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you ever do anything like this again. Do you hear me?”
Dennis is surprised enough he almost drops his backpack. “I didn’t-“
“I don’t care.” She cuts him short and only then does Dennis see the stiffness in her otherwise laid-back posture. “You don’t get to do this. To me or anyone else.”
It can be a very lonely thing to grow out of your old life and attempt to mold yourself into something new.
Dennis has spent many years tricking his brain into believing that all he needs to do is hang on a little longer; once he treats his first patient, is responsible for a fraction of less pain in the world, everything will have been worth it.
And it had been true. He didn’t think his sense of purpose could get greater than coming into work every day.
But Dennis’ loneliness ended when Trinity found him in his run-down, makeshift home. After that, it’d been evenings spent ordering pizza and gossiping and everything they’d missed out on in all those solitary years of not knowing each other.
“Okay.” He nods vigorously, watching her visibly relax. “I won’t. Promise.”
At that, she snorts and waves him off. “Oh, don’t do that, either. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
Dennis thinks that’s the best idea anyone had all day and lets her drive them home.
****
Trinity forces him to take another paracetamol and drink an entire glass of water, watching him like a hawk. Only then does she retreat to her own oasis. Dennis stumbles into his room and falls into deep sleep before he hits the pillow.
Very briefly, he thinks of Robby and whether he made that whole interaction in the hospital room up. It certainly feels dream-like in hindsight, blurry and washed-out in the dark. He wouldn’t be surprised if his twisted mind convinced him to believe it was real.
When Dennis wakes up the next morning, he is alone. Trinity must be on a grocery run, her louder than life presence absent from the flat.
It is only when Dennis opens his phone and automatically clicks on Robby’s contact info to check for new messages - which there aren’t, of course there aren’t - that it sinks in how truly fucked he is.