Chapter Text
Usually, Trinity gives Dennis a ride home from shifts they work together. But today was her day off, which is how Dennis ended up here, after a grueling day shift, standing at a bus stop in the pouring rain. He’s daydreaming pretty extensively about what he can make for dinner out of his and Trinity’s measly pantry when he feels a tap on his shoulder through his winter coat.
When Dennis turns his head, he’s startled to see someone standing right next to him, much closer than he expected. It's a young man in a black sweatshirt, a beanie pulled down so low over his forehead that Dennis can just barely see his eyes. He looks nervous, kind of shifty, like he's getting ready to make a run for it. Dennis can sympathize with the feeling, having just recently been the kind of person who hung out at bus stops with nowhere to go, always ready to run if someone looked at him weird for too long.
“Are you a doctor?” The guy asks, gesturing at the scrubs just barely peeking out through where Dennis’s coat doesn't quite zip up all the way.
The guy’s voice is quiet, wispy and hard to hear, especially with the sound of rain falling around them. He’s quiet enough that Dennis shuffles another step closer to him to be able to hear him properly, turning his whole body to face him.
“Uh. Yes?” Dennis replies. It sounds more like a question than a statement to his own ears. “Well, sort of. I’m--”
Dennis doesn't quite get the words I'm only a student doctor out of his mouth before he feels a heavy blow to the back of his head, and everything goes suddenly and shockingly dark.
*
Dennis wakes up in a dimly lit room.
It’s cold.
Dennis lifts his head like it weighs a thousand pounds. It certainly feels like his head weighs a thousand pounds, anyway, his neck straining with the effort. He did his fair share of hard labor on his family’s farm when he was younger, so he’s not unused to the feeling of strained and overused muscles, but right now it feels like he’s run an entire marathon. His limbs feel bruised. His core hurts. His whole body aches, like he was banged around a good bit on his way to wherever he is now. Someone took his coat off of him, and his arms prickle with goosebumps in the chill.
It’s still nighttime, he thinks. There aren’t any immediately visible windows he can see as he surveys his surroundings with slightly blurry vision. Where the hell is he? What the hell happened?
A cursory scan of his surroundings, once he gets his eyes to focus the rest of the way, tells him that he’s sitting upright on the ground. His head is pounding, his eyes hurt, it feels like they’re pounding along to the rapid beat of his heart. He probably has a concussion from that blow to his head, the last thing he remembers properly. But it’s weird, he remembers it like it happened to someone else somewhere far away. Nothing quite feels real about his situation. Like he fell asleep, and he’s still just dreaming.
Dennis should feel panicked, but he doesn’t, not yet, at least. Bullshit is always happening to him; whatever this is might as well happen to him as well.
Dennis tries to raise a hand to clutch at his head, but he’s stopped by a tug to his wrist and the sound of sharply clinking metal. Oh man -- one of his hands is handcuffed to a bare industrial radiator next to him. This is all starting to feel very stereotypical, on top of being ridiculously inconvenient.
It appears that Dennis has been kidnapped. What the hell does even do now?
*
Dennis drifts off to sleep. His body is too tired, his head hurts too much, to stay awake and alert on the cold ground.
He wakes up to the sound of a door opening, the heavy sound of metal clanking against metal as the door bounces off the wall. The loud noise makes pain bloom behind Dennis’s skull, amplifying the already insistent pounding between his eyebrows.
Footsteps shuffle towards him as Dennis blinks heavily, trying to scooch himself upwards until he’s sitting a little straighter, no longer slumped the way he was when he fell asleep.
A man stops in front of Dennis, peering at him with hard eyes. It’s a different someone than whoever helped abduct him from the bus stop. He’s taller, for one, broader. He looks older, definitely older than Dennis himself. Younger than Robby, maybe. Dennis isn’t sure.
The man doesn’t say anything.
“Uh,” Dennis starts, voice gravely, probably from lack of dehydration. “Hello?”
“You’re a doctor?”
Dennis blinks. “Uh. Yeah? I guess so?”
The guy nods and gestures at someone or something beyond where Dennis can see without twisting his whole body to get a better look. Something about this guy’s presence warns Dennis that twisting to get a better look would not be received well, so Dennis refrains.
There are more footsteps, more shuffling. Three more guys come into Dennis’ line of sight, two of them supporting a man between them, his arms slung over their shoulders.
The limp guy in the middle’s t-shirt is soaked through with blood at his abdomen. Ah. Okay. This is why they needed a doctor, then. Limp-man is settled on the ground - lying flat on his back, his chest heaving with labored breath - about a foot away from Dennis. One of the guys who was helping him advances towards Dennis, which makes him flinch in sudden frightened anticipation, until he realizes that all the guy has in his hand is a glinting metal key. The cuff around his wrist clinks when it’s unlocked, bouncing against the radiator.
“Uh--” Dennis says, sitting still in confusion.
“He was shot,” The first man who came into the room says, his voice gravely and low, menacing compared to the dry, frightened croak of Dennis’s voice.
“Uh -- okay? Do you have, like, medical supplies? Gauze? Was it through and through?”
“Not through and through,” the man supplies. “We got the bullet out ourselves. We need someone to stitch it up for us. Supplies are there,” He gestures with his head towards a white first aid kit.
“Right,” Dennis says, “That’s it? Just stitch him up?”
The man nods in confirmation, then shifts the long coat he’s wearing to reveal what Dennis is very sure is a shotgun sitting at his hip. Right. No funny business from Dennis. Message received.
Dennis moves very slowly and carefully, deliberating broadcasting his movements before doing them, like he’s dealing with skittish wild animals, liable to attack at any moment.
The wound, when Dennis is close enough to take a good look at it, gingerly moving the blood-soaked shirt out of the way, looks pretty simple, all things considered. Too simple, actually. Why the hell did these guys go through the trouble of kidnapping a whole person for some stitches?
They must be pretty bad guys, a voice in Dennis’s head whispers, if they were so worried about getting caught at a hospital that they kidnapped your sorry ass instead. The thought is a little nauseating. Dennis swallows heavily against the rising fear.
Dennis’s head is pounding, but by now the action of stitching up a wound is monotonous, almost mindless. It’s a pretty shallow wound, as far as Dennis can tell in a less-than-medical setting. Any internal bleeding or nicked organs are well beyond what Dennis can do anything about at the moment. Dennis keeps that thought to himself.
When he’s finished, he sits very, very still as the two men advance on him quickly. They pick him up by the arms, half-dragging and half-carrying Dennis back to his radiator. They have him handcuffed again before Dennis can even protest, the panicked “wait” dying on Dennis’s tongue before he can get it out of his mouth.
It’s deathly quiet as everyone files out of the room. They leave Dennis nearly alone again, except for the guy with the gun, who stood very close next to him the whole time Dennis was stitching up his patient. Dennis doesn’t know what happens now. Surely there are no more bullet wounds that need tending to. Surely Dennis has fulfilled his purpose now.
“Listen,” Dennis says, trying his best, most placating voice, unchained hand held out in front of him. “I fixed up your friend, right? All you need to do is check for infection and keep the wound clean. You don’t need me anymore. You can let me go. I won’t -- I won’t sell you out or anything. I won’t tell anyone anything. Just let me go. Please.”
Dennis has a split second to think that maybe describing himself as no longer useful wasn’t the best idea. Definitely not his best work, conversation-wise.
The man looks at Dennis, nothing but disdain in his eyes. He bends down, grabs the back of Dennis’s head, fisting his hair tightly, and slams his head back against the radiator. It hurts. It hurts so badly. But the only thing that comes out of Dennis’ mouth other than a completely involuntary groan is “Oh come on.”