Chapter Text
Jack knew pain, intimately and wholly, both personally and professionally. He also knew stubbornness, particularly in admitting the pain. Jack was going to tactfully ignore the fact that he was one of the stubborn bastards he was thinking of right now. Men and women who kept going until they dropped, insisting that they were fine, that ‘No doc, I’ve been better, but it ain’t that bad,’ said a particular private who had shrapnel through his entire side. So, Jack would say that his past experiences, both as a combat medic and someone with his own familiar history of pain, allowed him to see how much pain Whitaker was in.
That first shift from hell he had shared with Whitaker had kept him from noticing it, more focused on placing chest tubes and securing airways than assessing his colleagues, who, as far as he knew, were safe and uninjured. The following times he had run across Whitaker had been far less chaotic, and Jack was able to take a moment and assess the man.
Because he was a man, as much as his husband called him a kid. Whitaker was no kid, closer to thirty than twenty-five. He could understand how Robby could think of him as a younger guy, but Jack had seen plenty of nineteen-year-olds throw themselves into service and die for a country that didn’t care how old you were, as long as you could hold a gun and kick in some doors. No, it would be a disservice to call Whitaker a kid; that much was clear to Jack, even if Jack had a decade or two on him.
Jack had come to the conclusion that Whitaker was frighteningly similar to Jack himself, always in motion, bouncing from one case to the other, barely taking the time to reorient himself and chart his last actions. It was almost as if he was scared to slow down for even a second, as if his opportunity to be here would be taken away if he took a moment for himself.
Now, Jack wasn’t sure how accurate his assessment of Whitaker was; he had only seen him during the aftermath of Pittfest and at shift change. It made him curious, something he didn’t handle well, or at least that's what Robby had always claimed. Once he had an idea in his head, he was like a dog with a bone. If he wasn’t as distracted as he currently was, he was sure there was a joke in there somewhere.
He had stolen Robby’s prized student, yanking Whitaker from the day shift onto the night shift without discussing it with his husband and barely asking the man himself. It was a necessity; Ellis was out recovering from surgery, and they were already short-staffed. Ellis’s appendix had chosen a very bad time to self-destruct. Abbot had been tempted to snatch Santos; her rogue REBOA had become legendary to the night shift, but Garcia had threatened certain assets necessary to the function of his very active sex life with his husband that she would remove from his person if he so much as tried to get Santos for one night, let alone the 6-8 weeks she herself had banned Ellis from the ER unless she was a patient.
So, Whitaker, it was. Robby wasn’t happy - far from it. But Robby came around to the fact that Jack hadn’t exactly planned on Ellis’s appendix rupturing in the middle of her shift and putting her on medical leave for the foreseeable future; it was the only thing that saved Jack from a few nights on the couch. Even if Robby had made other suggestions. Santos turned down for reasons above, Langdon and McKay for needing to be there for their kids, Mel for her sister, and Jack was fairly certain neither Javadi nor Samira would tolerate the antics of the night shift well. Whitaker had no one who needed him on a regular schedule, as far as he could tell, and he was happy enough to move temporarily when Jack proposed the change. Jack still spent a few days getting the cold shoulder from his husband, which was fair; he hadn’t asked or even informed him of the possible change, both as the ER chief and his husband separately.
So, a long story short, Dennis was coming through the ER doors, looking eager and energy barely restrained, like a puppy. Jack absently noted, watching as Dennis beelines towards Santos, starting to chatter a million miles a minute, something about chili and not burning the apartment down? Jack wasn’t aware that they lived together, but he barely knew anything about the two of them besides the fact that Santos was fearless during procedures and Whitaker was often covered in various fluids, as Robby would fondly retell his shift and the messes Whitaker had gotten into that day. Santos was clearly disturbed by Whitaker's perky attitude, staring at Whitaker as if he were an unruly pediatric patient hyped up on sugar and a disregard for social norms.
“Hey, long shift?” Jack asks his husband, coming in close and clasping his arms around him. Happy to be grounded in his presence, even when that presence was exhausted, and his deodorant’s efficacy was fading slightly.
“Hmm, yeah, a senior citizen bus crashed. No casualties, but osteoporosis and a low-speed crash led to a lot of X-rays and broken bones. Radiology is just about caught up now, the poor bastards,” Robby chuckles, feeling pity for his colleagues and slightly bad about the sheer number of X-rays and CTs he had ordered alone, let alone the other doctors.
“Ouff, and let me guess, no one can remember any of the meds they’re on,” Jack asks, and Robby nods miserably.
“At least I can send the student doctors and residents on that particular word quest, a good review of pharmacology for them at least.”
Jack has to hold back his laughter at that.
********************************
Working with Whitaker was an exercise in patience, and Jack couldn’t help but feel more like a sergeant giving a good kick to a green medic to trust their instincts than an attending. Whitaker knew what he was doing; he knew it, and Jack knew it. What Whitaker currently seems incapable of doing is executing his treatment plans without getting assurances that he is doing the correct thing. Oh, sure, give the boy a trauma, and he’ll jump in no problem, but if you give him an eighty-year-old man who hasn’t had a bowel movement in seven days, he’ll run his way down five different diagnoses before settling on severe constipation, which he suggested as the cause initially, but felt as if he needed to check everything else before committing to it. Jack was going to train his hesitance out of him if it was the last thing he did.
It was one of the many things he noticed about Whitaker, but the most concerning fact was the pain he appeared to be in. Something Jack had initially noticed but written off. He was good at hiding it; it might have been easy enough to write off the occasional misstep he took for his general clumsiness, but the pallor of his face, the sweat that beaded at his hairline, and the way he always seemed to shift uncomfortably if he stood still for longer than thirty seconds gave away the fact that he was hiding something painful.
“Jack, if you’re going to stare at Robby’s boy, at least try to be subtle. Pretty sure the poor kid can feel you staring holes into the back of his head,” Lena snaps, diverting Jack’s attention away from said subject, forcing him to focus back on the true boss of the ER.
“I’m not staring, just concerned. Do you think he looks off?” Jack asks, not really doubting his own intuition but wanting to see if anyone else can spot the symptoms that are glaringly obvious now that he knows.
“It’s his first night shift, you know how everyone gets a little squirrely after 1 am,” Lena points out and Jack wants to snap back that yes, he did know how people start going off into lala land, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t it, when they are interrupted by the phone ringing, announcing yet another trauma incoming and pulling his attention away from Whitaker yet again.
It was a rather simple trauma: a 64-year-old woman who called due to chest pains and started coding. Dennis flung himself up onto the gurney seconds after it stilled in trauma bay 1, taking the place of the exhausted paramedic. Dennis maintained compressions while the rest of the room exploded into action, airway secured, and meds on board. Slowly, the fluids and meds did their job, and Mrs. Greenfield's heart started beating on its own again. She would be shipped off to the cath lab, but she was stabilized for the moment, and Dennis was able to dismount from her. It should have been simple, sliding off the gurney and onto his two feet. Should being the important word. For all the chaos that was in the room minutes ago, it had emptied except for Jack, Whitaker, and Mateo, who was focused on checking lines and flow rates. Jack was the only one present and paying enough attention to watch Whitaker's face twist up in agony and blanch when his feet hit the ground, a near-silent groan punched out of him as his knees buckled for a moment. He catches himself, thank god, because Jack was far enough away to be useless, and gets his feet back under him, breathing harshly. It could easily be exhaustion from the chest compressions, but that wouldn’t explain the pallor of his face, nor the tight lines that radiated from his eyes and mouth, as if he were trying to restrain himself.
“Whoa, Whit, take a moment. Are you good?” Jack can’t help but ask, concerned as another of his residents displays clear signs of pain. The last time burned only recently in the back of his mind, watching Ellis go gray before she dropped like a stone.
“I’m fine, just a head rush.” Whitaker’s voice was as tight as his face, carefully controlled in the manner Jack was all too familiar with.
“Go take ten, sit down, and get something to eat and drink.” Jack orders, still unhappy with how much distress Whitaker looks to be in, even when his head should have objectively cleared by now if that was what it was.
“I’m fine, promise. There’s a scalp lac in North 20 that I’ve been meaning to get to; no one else has dibs, and I should work on my suture work.” Whitaker quickly refuses, and Jack raises his eyebrows in surprise. He had never known a resident to be chomping at the bit for sutures. The only thing close he could compare to it was Dr. King and her gravel extraction, but he was pretty sure that was her own quirk and not something that should be applied to all residents.
“Fine, but take ten after that. I don’t think I’ve seen you sit down the entire shift. You have to take a minute at some point, or you’ll drop.” Jack scolds, and Whitaker nods, seeming slightly taken aback by his insistence.
***************************
Dennis could feel his heartbeat in his leg, pain radiating up and into his hip. His stomach was rolling with nausea as spots danced in his vision. His leg was acting up at the beginning of his shift, and as Dr. Abbot said, he hadn’t sat down in nearly eight hours. The socket didn’t fit; it had never fit properly, having never been sized for him, but with the weight he had lost in his last year of med school, the quick and dirty solution of extra liners was quickly losing its effectiveness and making its own problems in the form of sores and increased skin irritation. Dennis was barely managing to keep his skin from completely breaking down before he started his ED rotation. Now he spent most evenings carefully managing the already red and irritated skin.
After Pittfest, and he had noticed that Dr. Abbot himself was an amputee, he almost caved and asked the man how he managed to keep going on the long shifts. Jack himself seemed to have no issues with his own residual limb, so much so that Dennis never would have guessed if he hadn’t taken it off at the park. He quickly decided that was a terrible idea. He was carefully keeping the fact that he was down a leg a complete secret; he didn’t know how Dr. Abbot would respond to a med student asking how he stayed on his prosthetic so long, but he guessed it would not go well.
So, here Dennis was, dealing with the pain of his stubborn actions. Logically, he knew that he would face very few, if any, issues with fessing up about his leg, or lack of. He could get accommodations, or at least some grace when he is nearly going down from the pain. Kneeling on the gurney, while uncomfortable for his knees and physically exhausting, had offered a sweet release of pain when the pressure was somewhat lifted from his stump. Sliding off the gurney and back onto his feet was a rude awakening, the old pain flaring up once again.
Three hours, and then you can get home. Dennis told himself, setting off towards North 20, stomach rolling with each step. Mrs. Kim was waiting, and had been for hours. After she had initially been cleared of head trauma by a neuro exam and CT, she had been waiting for someone to stitch the bad laceration right at her hairline, caused by a sharp sheet of metal she had bumped her head into, however that happened.
Dennis patiently listened as the woman rambled, as he placed the suture kit down, apologizing at the appropriate times for the long wait and asking again if she was having any other symptoms. It was a decent-sized laceration, requiring at least ten stitches to minimize scarring as much as possible. It was routine at this point to snap on sterile gloves and go through the process of drawing up enough lidocaine to numb the area. Not for the first time, Dennis eyed it almost hungrily, mentally calculating how bad an idea it would be to slip the leftover vial into his pocket before ducking into a bathroom with a syringe. It wouldn’t be the first time Dennis had been desperate enough to self-medicate. The prescription-strength NSAIDs he had weren’t helping, and the gabapentin he had at home was completely off the table; he couldn’t work in the emergency department if he was stuck reacting a second too late and feeling like his head was stuck in the clouds.
Before he even noticed he did it, the vial was securely tucked in his front scrub pocket, hanging heavy with both the shame of stealing and of needing to steal in the first place. Dennis knew, intellectually, that it would be wasted. He wasn’t stealing meds from the patient, as Langdon did, and it could barely be called stealing from the hospital that was going to pitch it anyway. He told himself this, but he knew he was rationalizing. He was technically diverting meds, and he was technically stealing. But it wasn’t a narcotic, nothing that could be considered actually dangerous. A patient wouldn’t suffer from not getting their meds, and the hospital wouldn’t lose any money. Besides, it would get him through the rest of his shift and allow him to stay useful. More people would suffer, and wait times would be longer if he were slowed down or even stopped by his leg.
“Alright, Mrs. Kim, you should be fine to leave now. Keep the stitches dry and change the bandages every eight hours. You’ll need to either come back here or go to your general PCP in two days for a wound check. The stitches need to be removed in 7-10 days. Is there anything else I can help you with before I send in a nurse for your discharge?” Dennis asks, finishing up, and listens to Mrs. Kim thank him and basically demand to finally go home, which Dennis thought was fair; he wanted to go home too.
He had just stepped out of the room before Lena, the charge nurse, cornered him, looking concerned.
“Whitaker, Jack wanted me to make sure you get away from the floor for a while, and I gotta agree with him, kid. Take a sandwich from the cart and sit down before you fall down,” Lena orders, and Dennis nods before his thoughts catch up to him. He had no desire to earn the ire of the charge nurse, knowing from experience with Dana that they were the ones who really ran the show. Dennis had no delusions over the fact that Dana or Lena could get him placed in soft restraints if he refused to rest; Dana had threatened it more than once.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks, I’ll go grab one and be back in a minute.” Dennis agrees easily, knowing he needed the food and the minute to sit down, somewhere ideally private and quiet.
“Take fifteen, at least. We’re caught up here, and you look like you’re about to drop,” Lena orders, and Dennis knows better than to argue.
He goes off in search of the food cart, hand darting out to first grab an egg salad sandwich from the cart and then a small syringe, needles, and alcohol swabs, having decided that the necessity of getting through the shift outweighed any moral quandering he was up to doing at nearly three in the morning.
He knew exactly where he was going to camp out and hopefully catch his breath, the small single bathroom attached to the back of the mens locker room, which mostly went unused in favor of the newer bathrooms the hospital had only installed after one too many complaints one quarter and Dr. Robby very colorfully threatening to pee in Gloria’s office if they didn’t install more bathrooms for the employees.
It takes him a moment to jimmy the lock into place, another reason for the complaints, before he sits himself on the toilet, grimacing slightly as he yanks down his pants, boxers in place, to allow access to his lower leg. Right above his knee on the back of his thigh is red and swollen, skin irritated from the friction of the open carbon fiber socket, and Dennis is quick to release the pin locking system, his leg sliding from the socket and instant relief flooding his system. The pressure from the extra socks and liner was still there, but the uncomfortable, bordering on unbearable pain of being wedged into a socket he didn’t fit was no longer there.
The sandwich he had taken was tucked into his left scrub pocket, while the other supplies were tucked into his right. Slowly and carefully, Dennis started to peel the layers off, grimacing at the smell. It wasn’t the worst thing he had smelled, not even from his own body, but the moisture and warmth of his socket had made a concerning environment and didn’t alleviate Dennis’s concern about infection, both as the owner of the leg and as a physician who knew the dangers all too well. It was when he reached the last layer that he grew truly concerned. The pressure sores had opened and left red stains on the previously white sock liner, causing Dennis to release a carefully controlled breath.
Physically, his leg felt better, now airing out and exposed to the cool air. Mentally, Dennis was already cataloging the injuries and their possible dangers. The worst of the damage and pain was at the end of the stump, where the plate that attached the pin was located, dark red and purple, with streaks of blood where the skin had been pulled raw. It was ugly and painful to match its appearance. It was where most of his pain was daily, and Dennis shouldn’t be surprised to see how thoroughly he had wrecked his body and yet still was somehow.
It was easy enough to treat temporarily, inject around the base, and wait for it to kick in while eating. Simple enough to treat himself before shoving himself back out the bathroom door. It would feel weird, walking on the numbed limb, but nothing Dennis hadn’t done before. He would have to be more careful while walking and hiding his gait, but that wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.
The alcohol prep pad was cold on his bare skin, and he hissed as it made contact with the open wounds. Tears spring to his eyes, not necessarily because of the pain that he was familiar with, but because of the humiliation. To have his body so fundamentally betray him, showing in weaknesses in such an obvious way. It was a main reason he was determined no one would ever find out. He wasn’t a veteran who got hurt serving his country like Jack, just a stupid, distracted kid. His incompetence was blaringly obvious if you took into account how he actually earned himself the hardware.
His hands shook as he drew up the lidocaine, tapping the side of the syringe and ejecting the air and a small amount of the medication. It was nothing he wasn’t used to: the pinch of the needle and burn of the lidocaine before the site turned blessedly numb. Dennis had planned to be slow and methodical, trying to minimize further tissue damage, completely focused on the task at hand. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise as the door handle first jiggles and then gave way, the door knocking into the wall so fast it would have been comical if Dennis hadn’t lost every drop of blood in his face as the door opened, revealing a startled looking Jack Abbot standing stock still as he blinked, trying to reconcile the previous image of Dennis and the current one who was about to inject himself with an unknown substance he was faced with. Dennis couldn’t imagine how he looked, prosthetic off, stump bare, and beads of blood welling, needle in hand.
“It’s not what you think!” Is the only thing Dennis can think to blurt out, face drawn and noticing for the first time the way he was swinging around a very sharp, very long needle.
*****************************
Jack had to pee. He had had to pee for over an hour before the department quieted enough that he was finally able to slip away for a moment. After doing a quick round and Lena assuring him she had sent Whitaker for a break, Jack had relaxed enough to slip away for a moment of peace, trekking through the staff locker room, intent on finding the small bathroom there. It was quiet and tucked away, and practically the only place someone wouldn’t try to find him. The door was shut, which wasn’t unusual. Normally, the door was shut, allowing it to blend into the background, something Jack was thankful for when he needed a minute and a roof break wasn’t possible. It's second nature to grab the handle and push into the bathroom, noticing a slight resistance as the old latch protests as it usually does. What was not usual was his brand new resident, sitting on the toilet in his boxers, pants shoved to his ankles, and remaining left leg bent up, showing off the previously unknown amputation while holding a needle filled with clear medication, Jack hoped to god was prescribed to him or at least not a narcotic.
“It’s not what it looks like!” Whitaker shouts, hands flying wildly and causing Jack to become concerned beyond what he was already looking at.
The site was sadly too familiar, dragging up memories of the past. His own skin worn away and irritated, blood streaked on his own liners, and a persistent limp that refused to go away before Robby made him admit defeat that what he was doing wasn’t sustainable.
“Jesus Christ, Whitaker,” Jack blurts out, staring at what was left of Whitaker's lower leg.
It looked horrible, red and inflamed, dark bruises blooming where they shouldn’t. Blood was streaked along the end of the stump, beading up along the pressure sores that had developed and opened. It was bordering on looking infected, and it very well could be, and Jack just couldn’t see it. The air held a slight smell of sweat and buildup, a smell Jack recognized from taking off his own prosthetic when he had worn it for too long without letting it breathe. Jack knew from his own experiences that the damage hadn’t just happened; it had been building for a while to get this severe, to the point that Whitaker was about to inject it with god knows what in the middle of his shift in an unclean bathroom. Whitaker seemed to be as speechless as Jack was, staring at him with wide blue eyes that looked seconds away from crying. Santos was right; Whitaker really did look like a sad Victorian child.
“What is that?” Jack asks, nodding to the syringe Whitaker holds, deciding the unknown substance was the most important thing at the moment. It would change how he handled the situation depending on what it was, and he was almost afraid of Whitaker’s answer.
“Lidocaine, 1%, left over from North 20,” Whitaker answers, voice sounding on autopilot.
“Christ, Whit. How long have you been walking on that?” Jack asks, barely holding his voice steady as he takes in the extra liners stacked on top of each other on Whitaker’s other leg, too many to be comfortable.
“It doesn’t matter. Please, please don’t tell anyone. Just give me a minute, and I can get back out there. No one has to know; I’ll waste the meds, I promise. Just give me a chance, please,” Whitaker begs, needle falling to the side, pleading with his eyes as much as his voice. If Jack were a lesser man, he might let it slide. He knew all too well, treating himself, his backpack of goodies telling enough. But this was Whitaker, Robby’s boy. And he was destroying himself.
“How long has this been going on? This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, right?” Jack asks, uncaring about how harsh he sounds.
“I-I don’t know. Awhile. I just-it’s just to get me through the shift, I promise. This isn’t like Langdon; I’m not high, and I’m not stealing from patients. I haven’t started, and I won’t, okay? Just don’t tell anyone, please!”
Jack is struggling to catch up with the situation, with how badly they must have fucked up to have Whitaker hiding such critical injuries. He knew from his own leg that Whitaker’s own must not be fitting properly, the skin becoming irritated the longer Whitaker kept using the improper parts. Knew from experience how painful it could become, how stubborn some people were.
“Whitaker, Dennis, this isn’t about the lido; this isn’t safe. That leg looks like it might be infected; you know how dangerous that could be. I know you do. If you were your own patient, what would you tell them? Jesus, Whit, you need to be smart about this. What about this is smart?” Jack was still reeling and ignoring the hypocrisy of the statement, but at least he had learned from his mistakes.
“That isn’t important! I have shifts; I have a life. So what if it's uncomfortable? I can get through the day. You have to understand, right?” Whitaker’s eyes fall to Jack’s own leg, made of similar carbon fiber and titanium.
“That’s the problem, Whit; I do understand. I know that your skin shouldn’t get to that point. I know that your socket isn’t fitting correctly. This is not the argument you think it is, bud,” Jack bluntly points out, and it seems to sink in that this was not the gotchu moment Whitaker was hoping for.
“It works well enough, okay? I’m lucky enough to have this. No one knows; no one else can tell, so that means I’m doing something right. No one needs to know; you wouldn’t even know if you didn’t go breaking into locked bathrooms,” Whitaker grumbles, seeming offended at Jack's impromptu entrance.
“It does not work well enough if you are about to inject yourself with leftover lidocaine from a patient procedure. What would you tell a patient in the same position? What do you mean by the fact that you're lucky enough?” Jack prompts, looking at Whitaker and expecting a real answer.
“I mean that I’m lucky to get what I’ve got. It’s second-hand, okay? Limb Lab had an advocacy event when I was an undergrad. They saw that I didn’t have a prosthetic and offered to help. This was the best they could do: a custom socket with refurbished parts. I haven’t had my socket resized since then. It's enough of a miracle I’ve got this, trust me.” Whitaker’s voice definitely held bitterness, but Jack doubted it was directed at Limb Lab. He was familiar with the company, getting his own prosthetics through them. They had a smaller branch that did philanthropic work, donating devices and supplies to those who needed them but couldn’t afford the tens of thousands of dollars they cost. Both Robby and Jack routinely donated whenever they purchased something for Jack. An almost warm feeling settled behind his sternum, imagining that they had maybe helped Whitaker get his leg, as partially functional as it was.
“You need a new socket, at least. New liners, too. But that needs to be later. You need to recover first. No wearing your leg for at least two weeks while you heal, longer if your leg is actually infected,” Jack starts, and Whitaker blanches.
“Oh yeah, let me get right on that, Dr. Abbot. I’m not going to ask for more; the leg is more than enough. And I can’t afford to replace it myself. I can walk, function, and work. I don’t need anything more. And there’s no way I can just not wear it for two weeks; I have shifts I need to be at, patients to take care of,” Whitaker insists, stubborn and not at all listening to Jack.
Jack just stares at Whitaker and gets the feeling that he must be looking at him as if he’s grown a second head. It was like everything he was saying went in one ear and out the other. It had to be willful ignorance; there was no way Whitaker wasn’t competent enough to understand the need for a break, a small leave of absence due to medical issues- hell, he was on night shift for that very reason.
This entire situation had crossed from a bad judgment call with self-treatment to Dennis ignoring everything he had been taught. You don’t treat yourself, and you don’t run yourself into the ground until you drop. It was a mini horror show, watching an echo of Robby thirty years later, making the same mistakes just to make it through the day. Dennis might not be at the level of choking down Vicodin, but he was standing on the edge of a slippery slope. Jack could still save Whitaker from himself before he hit rock bottom, before he was left sitting on the sidelines for good.
Through the entire interaction, Whitaker had brushed off every concern, every logical piece of evidence he was given. Whitaker refused to acknowledge Jack’s concerns based on evidence. Whitaker might not be intimately familiar with prosthetics as a physician, but he wasn’t ignorant; he knew that sockets could be replaced, fittings adjusted. He knew that there were better methods than sitting in a filthy bathroom about to inject himself with leftover lidocaine just to get through the last three hours of his shift.
Which meant that this was no longer about pain management.
It wasn’t about getting through the shift anymore, applying a patch until he could be given a chance to rest. If it were as simple as that, Jack could understand. He had seen medics in the service do the same to themselves; hell, he had done the same for himself, buying time for resupplies, or reinforcements, or even getting back to base.
Whitaker genuinely thought it was reasonable, a necessity actually, to destroy his own body to earn his place, as if it was a rite of passage or some sick initiation ritual and not damn near self-mutilation. He genuinely thought it was his penance to earn himself the right to learn and get new experiences; a price everyone had to pay.
And Jack was putting a stop to that self-destructive thought process as soon as he could. Because he had learned those lessons himself, and it was his duty as both an instructor and Whitaker’s elder to teach him before he had to learn for himself.
“I’m putting you on medical leave, Whitaker. No shifts, and someone needs to take a closer look at your leg- someone who isn’t you. You clearly can’t be trusted to make sound judgment; your leg wouldn’t look like that if you could.” Jack’s voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion, although Whitaker certainly tried, spluttering and looking as if Jack had lost his mind.
“You can’t do that! I’m doing just fine! I need to work, I need the clinical hours, and I can’t afford to take the time off,” Whitaker insists, acting as if he had stubbed his toe and not dealing with a possibly infected residual limb.
“Dennis, you could need a revision surgery if you let this progress any further; you understand that, right? You need a minimum of two weeks without the prosthetic at all. If you don’t want to tell anyone else about why you’re taking time off, fine; I won’t go around telling others your business. But your leg needs to recover before you wear your prosthetic again, which is longer than two weeks. You have a few options: I can examine your leg, or you can pick someone else. You can either stay out of the ED and PTMC until you're completely back to full functionality, which is going to be a hell of a lot longer than two weeks, or you can return after your skin heals in a wheelchair or scooter, again, your choice, but you are not wearing a prosthetic until a doctor clears you, and you don’t count,” Jack was putting his foot down, refusing to budge on the topic. He had his own revision surgeries, each one worse than the last, because he was stubborn; he didn’t want the same to happen to Whitaker.
Jack watched Whitaker as he seemed to argue with himself, face twisting comically as he no doubt tried to think of an argument that would work on Jack. He seems to give up after a moment, understanding that Jack was both right and wouldn’t let this go until Whitaker actually understood.
“Okay, fine. You can examine me; I don’t want anyone else finding out,” he finally relents after Jack waits patiently for his answer. Jack knew he should have been fine either way Whitaker responded, choosing someone else or Jack himself to examine him, but Jack had been hoping Whitaker would be comfortable with him, not wanting to drag anyone else into the mess this had become.
“I’ll take it. As much as I don’t like it, I’ll do it here. Pretty sure you wouldn’t agree to going to a patient room, or am I wrong?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer, before Whitaker shakes his head.
“Absolutely not. I don’t even need you to examine me; I’ve handled myself fine so far,” Whitaker objects, and Jack’s eyebrows reach his hairline with his disbelief.
“If this is your ‘handled,’ I don’t want to see what you don’t consider handled. You’re getting actual medical treatment and medication if needed, not bathroom lidocaine like a self-sacrificing martyr. Stay here, and I’ll be back with the stuff you need.” Jack wasn’t going to give Whitaker a chance to object, and he needed to call Robby.
“And Whit, I need to call Robby about this. I know you aren’t happy about that, but it needs to be done. He’s the chief and your supervisor. He can smooth everything out with anyone else with questions, okay?” Jack watches carefully, not at all surprised by the fury and indignant look on Whitaker’s face. Jack knew Whitaker wouldn’t take the news well, but he didn’t really have another option. If it were something he could treat alone without anyone knowing, he would completely respect his wishes to keep Robby out of this, regardless of Robby being his husband.
“Dr. Abbot, you can’t tell anyone else. No one, not even Trinity, promise me, Jack,” Whitaker pulls out the first name card, something he had never done before.
“I promise, Dennis. No one who doesn’t absolutely need to know will find out from me. I know how it feels to have choice stripped from you, given no good options. You know I understand. I might be the closest one here who understands. I am going to try to let you maintain your dignity. This isn’t humiliation; it’s admitting you’re human. Stay with me and try not to spiral. We’ll figure this out,” Jack urges, recognizing the squirrelly look in Whitaker’s eyes that shows how close he actually is to losing it.
Whitaker doesn’t say anything else, nodding while shooting Jack with a withering look, as if he wished he could burn a hole into Jack's head. Jack was familiar with anger as well, but he could handle an angry Whitaker; it was when he was stubborn that scared Jack. Whitker's stubbornness is what has led them to this, needing to take such drastic measures.
Jack quickly extracts himself from the bathroom, half convinced Whitaker will jump him in his anger. Almost everyone was under the impression that Whitaker was some innocent, sheltered farm boy. Jack wasn’t convinced; he had seen the fire burning in Whitaker’s eyes, the anger he held quiet and close to his chest. Innocents didn’t hold that type of anger, the kind that burns themselves as well as everyone around them. Robby clearly couldn’t see it, but Jack could and wondered what had caused it.
Jack was quick to duck into an empty family room, mind half caught on, wondering about Whitaker and trying to come up with how he was going to explain to his husband that his favorite student was both missing a leg and had managed to hide it the entire time he was at PTMC. And he would be waking him up, which he felt terrible about. Robby didn’t sleep enough as is; Jack waking him up at nearly four in the morning wasn’t going to help with his already damaged sleep schedule. Although with how quickly he picks up the phone, Jack doubts the man was actually asleep.
“Jack, what’s wrong?” Is the sweet answer Jack receives, noting his husband's voice was tight with stress and barely contained worry.
“Nothing bad, or at least not critical, I promise. Your boy Whitaker is full of surprises, though. How are you right now?” Jack asks, trying to guess how much information Robby could handle at the moment.
“I’m fine. What has Whitaker done?” Robby sounded exhausted, and Jack felt bad to add to his stress.
“Beyond being a self-sacrificing idiot? He’s done great. I can see what you see in him. What do you know of his medical history?” Jack asks, already guessing but wanting to be sure.
“Not much to note. No chronic conditions, no critical injuries, but he does have an anaphylactic allergy to kiwi, nothing else.” Jack would have been surprised that Robby knew so much if he didn’t know how paranoid Robby was.
“Kiwi? Never mind, the kid clearly didn’t disclose everything. Before you freak out and come storming down here, I am handling it, and he’s stable. Keep that in mind. The kid is an amputee, left leg below the knee-” any further description is cut off by Robby’s colorful swearing, anger clear.
“Mikey, focus. The kid has been wearing too big a socket and compensating with extra liners. He’s got pressure sores and a decent amount of skin irritation- you know the drill. His skin can’t tolerate wearing his leg anymore, let alone walking on it. He’s been self-treating, and I accidentally walked in on him in the back locker room bathroom about to inject leftover lidocaine from a patient. I stopped him, and he wasn’t on anything stronger. The situation is being handled, but he’s done for the night. I’m going to get him comfortable, but he needs to be off his leg for at least two weeks, longer if it's actually infected. Gradual return to work if he’s healing well and his new socket works for him. I’m sorry, brother; I know this was not a phone call you were hoping for.” Jack's voice was apologetic, and he wished he were giving Robby better news.
“God fucking damn it all! What the actual fucking fuck?!” Robby’s voice rings down the line, Jack yanking the phone away from his ear to preserve his hearing.
“I know, but this isn’t Langdon, I promise,” Jack tries to assure, and gets the distinct feeling that it doesn’t work.
“No, of course it isn’t. Langdon threw out his back. Whitaker is missing an entire fucking limb. Not the same fucking thing at all! Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll be there.” Jack can hear Robby moving around on the other end of the line and grimaces.
“Whitaker’s fine, and embarrassed enough. The last thing he needs is you bursting in here all worked up; he’s uncomfortable enough right now. I need you to focus on the next few weeks, getting his shifts covered, and arranging the time off under medical necessity. If you can call Limb Lab once they open and get him an appointment for a new socket, that’d be great. We’ll worry about who’s paying for it later.” Jack runs his hand down his face, mind racing. From the minute he learned that Whitaker was suffering because he couldn’t afford a new socket or care, he had made the decision to buy it himself, consequences be damned. The only issue he had would be convincing Whitaker to accept.
“Jack, he lives with Santos, who lives on the fifth floor of a walk-up. I’ve heard the two of them complain enough about the climb after a rough shift. And I doubt he’s modified Trinity’s apartment for himself. He can’t function there,” Robby points out a glaring issue, shedding a whole new light on the complaints.
“Well, shit. That isn’t going to work now, will it? The kid won’t go to a rehab facility, doesn’t even need it really.” Robby makes a noise of agreement before falling silent, as stuck on a solution as Jack is, who shifts around at his own discomfort in his leg. He would have to baby it once he got home, icing it and carefully cleaning it so it didn’t start to break down as Whitaker’s had.
A sudden thought struck him, obvious in how simplistic it was.
“Robby, how would you feel about asking Dennis to move in for a few weeks? The house is already modified for me; it would work well for Whitaker,” Jack throws out, and can practically feel Robby mulling it over.
“You want to ask a resident to move into the house of his two, very gay, married bosses, because their house is modified for an amputee that they only found out about because one of them walked in on him in the bathroom. That sounds like an HR nightmare,” Robby tries to reason, although it sounds like he’s trying to talk himself out of it more than Jack.
“When have you ever cared about HR? Do you have a better solution, because I don’t.” Jack asks, knowing how unlikely it was that Robby would have a better idea.
“We could check him into a nice hotel in an ADA room, make sure it's first floor or has an elevator,” Was Robby’s great suggestion, and Jack stares at the wall, exacerbated.
“Do you really think Whitaker of all people, who just got caught hiding a life-changing disability, would accept that?” Jack genuinely asks, knowing Robby would know Whitaker better, having worked with the man for months.
“No, you’re right. Make the offer, emphasize the logic of it. I’m going to come in an hour early and send the two of you home. Make sure he knows I’m more than okay with it. I’ll change the sheets and spruce up the guest room. If you can’t convince him, then I’ll give it a shot.” Robby sounds even more tired than when he first answered the call, and Jack feels pity for him, knowing that there was no way he was getting back to sleep now.
“Thank you. We’ll figure this out, I promise,” Jack assures, and Robby sighs.
“I hope so.”
******************************
Jack hung up the phone quickly after he assured Robby that everything would be fine. He had a mental list of items he would need to take from central supply and didn’t feel great about leaving Whitaker alone for longer than he needed to. He had taken the lidocaine with him and disposed of it and the needle properly, but Jack wouldn’t put it past Whitaker to ignore him and go back out on the floor, excruciating pain be damned.
Jack tactfully ignores Lena’s pointed look when she catches him in the supply room, choosing to focus on the bandages, disinfectants, and antibiotic ointment he was grabbing. At the last moment, he decides to grab fluids, an IV pump, and ketorolac from the Pyxis, being delayed by having to create a chart and get Whitaker registered in the system. He wasn’t stupid enough to start administering meds and IVs without some kind of paper trail, should something terrible happen, such as an allergic reaction or similar. He did fudge his medical reasoning, putting down the reason as migraine. Jack wasn’t stupid enough to break Whitaker's trust after he barely started trusting him. If the real reason was written down, everyone would know before the end of the shift. Jack neglected to document the extras that weren’t needed for a migraine; only an idiot would somehow think that 4X4’s, antibiotic ointment, and disinfectant were needed to treat a migraine, and Jack didn’t work with any. Lena knew better than to go blabbing about the extra supplies she saw, and Jack trusted her enough to know she would trust his judgement.
Whitaker is thankfully exactly where Jack left him, pants down and fuming. Whitaker had clearly worked himself up even more in his absence, and when he spotted the IV pump Jack dragged in behind him, he lost the little bit of composure he had regained, shooting into a standing position as best he could with only one leg.
“Oh, hell no, Dr. Abbot! You told me, you fucking told me no one else would know!” Whitaker’s voice was raised, and Jack winced before slamming the door shut, hopefully cutting off any loud complaints from their colleagues.
“And they don’t, I promised you. But we need an excuse for being away and a reasonable excuse for you being out for the rest of the shift. You have a migraine, and I’m getting you set up. I had to put you in the system, but as far as they know, you are having a vestibular migraine. I’ve got ketorolac and IV fluids I want to hook you up to; it’ll help with the pain and severe swelling I can see from here. Let me fix you up, okay?” Jack asks, as if Whitaker had any other option that didn’t result in someone else finding out.
“A migraine? Seriously?”
“If you had a better idea, you should have asked me to use that. I needed an excuse to keep you off the floor for the rest of the shift,” Jack tries to calm Whitaker and only gets a glare and a dangerous wobble as he tries to find his balance again.
“No, absolutely not. I thought you were getting me back there. That’s the only reason I was letting you help. I thought I’d finish the shift and we’d figure this out later,” Whitaker tries to reason, and Jack can’t help the way his face screws up.
“Whitaker, sit back down before you fall down. You can’t honestly say you expected me to have you come back when you’re in enough pain for you to resort to lidocaine in a bathroom. This isn’t a warzone; you don’t have to destroy yourself for a shift. We also need to talk about your recovery and what that’ll be like. So sit down so we can get you sorted out.”
Whitaker regards Jack with a piercing stare, as if sizing him up and debating if he could make a break for it. The joke's on him, Jack currently has his own prosthetic on and would body check Whitaker if necessary. Whitaker must see his determination because he sits back down, reducing the danger of his ending up on the bathroom floor. Jack takes a moment to make sure Whitaker isn’t going to try to do a runner before kneeling on the floor and starting to wrangle his prosthetic out of his pants to get it out of the way for treatment.
“If you’re going to be staring at me in my boxers, you should at least call me Dennis.” Whitaker offers up, looking exhausted all of a sudden. Jack raises his eyebrow as he starts to lay out the supplies and starts to clean Whitaker’s stump quickly and efficiently.
“Alright, then I’m Jack. I’m clearly not your boss at the moment. But I do need to be your doctor. You can’t do this to yourself anymore, you hear me? I have experience with this; I know how painful it can get. You can’t wear your prosthetic for at least two weeks; your leg isn’t currently infected, but you know how quickly that could change. You live with Santos on a fifth-floor walk-up. Am I correct in the assumption that you don’t have any accommodations?” Jack asks, moving to apply the antibiotic ointment. Dennis’s silence is telling enough.
“Robby and I want to offer our guest room while you recover. Our house is adapted for me, single floor, no steps, walk-in shower, grab bars, pretty much anything you could need,” Jack offers, trying to keep his voice casual while desperately hoping Dennis would accept.
“Your house? Yours and Robby’s, together?” Dennis sounds confused, more about the house than the fact that Jack was offering at all.
“Of course, you did know we are married, don’t you? It doesn’t make sense for us to live separately after all.” Jack watched carefully as Dennis’s eyes widened and then started blushing all the way through his face and down his neck to disappear beyond his scrub top, and Jack was left to wonder how far down it really went.
“You-him-together? I thought you had a wife! Whose dead!” Dennis must understand how crazy he sounds and blushes further, looking mortified.
“I didn’t mean to say that; I’m so sorry!”
“Yes, I did have a wife, and she did die two years after we married. But that was over twenty years ago. The world was different back then; you have to know that. I was a gay man in the army, and she was my childhood best friend. It worked well to keep up appearances. When she got sick, she needed TRICARE, and being married to me could get her that. She knew it never could have been real, and I would have never cheated on her. We did love each other, but it was never romantic, for either of us. Robby was after she passed. We got married in 2014, the day after it became legal, and we’ve been married since. You really had no idea? We were never really subtle,” Jack explains, wanting there to be no confusion.
“Oh, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t impose on you two. I, um, don’t really have money for rent either. Trin is letting me crash in exchange for help around the apartment, and because I think she likes making fun of me, and me living with her makes it easier,” Dennis explains, sounding ashamed of his financial situation.
“Whit-Dennis, we didn’t expect anything from you. It’s hardly an inconvenience to have you staying in our guest room. Besides, how do you expect to hide this from someone you’re living with? You’re kinda missing part of your leg. I’m fairly confident in Santos’ ability to figure that one out. Let us do this for you, if not out of a medical necessity, then as two people who care about you.”
Jack watched the internal battle on Dennis’ face, watching as his eyes bounced from the supplies, his leg, and Jack himself. Jack knew how hard it was to accept help, even when someone insisted on it, even when it was forced on him. Jack hoped Dennis was better than himself; he nearly prayed that Dennis wasn’t as stubborn as him.
“Fine, I’ll come stay with you, but only until I can be back on my feet. And you’re sure Dr. Robby is okay with it? Because I don’t want to force him if this is something you’ve cooked up on your own,” Dennis insists, and Jack can’t help but smile at how cute his concern is.
“We talked it over when I called him about this; don’t worry. I wouldn’t bring a puppy home without asking for his input,” Jack slips, and Dennis looks like he’s going to object to the metaphor before he seems to give in, nodding.
“Yeah, okay, that's fair. How exactly are we doing this, though? I can’t hide in a bathroom for three hours before shift change,” Dennis asks, wanting to know the details of Jack’s hairbrained plan.
“As much as I hate it, I’m going to bandage your stump before you put your leg back on. You will not walk on it, you will not work. I’m getting you settled in the break room with this IV running, and you are going to try to sleep on the couch. If you can’t, read a book or something, but you are not putting any more weight on that leg than absolutely necessary. I’m only okay with this because you are determined to keep it from everyone else, and I think them finding out about it would be worse for you than a few more hours,” Jack says plainly and without hesitation.
Jack thinks it's worth it when Dennis beams and relaxes, now that he knows Jack isn’t about to out him. Jack disliked it as any physician whose patient was refusing the correct course of treatment disliked it. But he knew where to push and where to allow lenience. He would lose Dennis completely if he pushed any more, if anyone else found out from him.
“Thank you, I know you’d rather send me home now, right?” Dennis asks, and Jack laughs.
“No, I’d like to take you to our home. I don’t want you on public transportation or climbing five stories. But I’m happy enough with you agreeing to stay at our place that I’ll let a few more non-weight-bearing hours slide. Come on, I’ve got to get you to the break room, and I’ve got to get back to the floor,” Jack says, finishing applying the last of the nonstick bandages. Before Dennis can get to it, he’s grabbing the thinnest sock and rolling it over the stump, bandages held firmly in place. Jack meticulously wipes down the inside of Dennis’s liner before carefully rolling it over Dennis’s leg.
A wave of emotion wells in Dennis at this, taking him by surprise. He had never had anyone take such meticulous care of him before. Oh sure, he had other medical personnel taking care of him, helping him fit the liner and socket when he had first received it, but it never felt like this, as if Jack really cared about Dennis as a person before a medical procedure. It was an odd and slightly terrifying realization to come to. For the first time in a long time, he felt seen, and didn’t know when that stopped being something he was terrified of and changed to something he desperately missed.
Maybe that was what made it such a problem.
Dennis thought back to Jack and Robby, Jack and Robby together to be more specific. The way they worked together, professionally and personally. They carried the sense that they were so intrinsically intertwined that you never knew where one ended and the other began. It was one of the things Dennis admired the most about them. They were one unit, sure in their own roles, but both ready to help the other at the drop of a hat.
Both were attractive men; you would have to be blind, or not attracted to men, to not see that. Dennis was sadly very attracted to men and not at all blind, leaving him staring after the two attendings in a way he imagined a newly married woman watching her husband go off to fight in a war. That is to say, pathetically in love and damned for it. Or maybe lust was a better word.
He did know that he was utterly and truly fucked.