Chapter Text
You tend to see a lot of the same people in the emergency room.
Sure, they're all different. Different faces, most of the time. You have your frequent flyers after all. But after enough years, you start to recognize the patterns. A worried mother with a perfectly healthy child. An unconcerned mother with a very sick one. Dumbass college kids who drank way too much. Dumbass grown men who ignored their bodies until they couldn't anymore. Broken arms. Broken legs. Chest pain. Kidney stones. The stories change, but the people rarely do.
After all these years, Dana has it down to a science. She can usually tell someone's story the moment they walk through the doors. The single mother who can't afford to miss another day of work for her sick son. The exhausted caretaker accompanying a nursing home resident. The teenager trying very hard to pretend he isn't terrified of whatever sports injury they’ve gotten. The drug seekers, the chronically ill, and so on. She can get a read on just about anyone.
So when a woman who looks like she just stepped out of a magazine walks up to the desk, Dana is more than a little curious.
She's all long legs and glossy hair, with an enormous pair of sunglasses pushed up onto her forehead. She brushes a strand of fringe from her face with a jewelry-clad, manicured finger. Dana used to get manicures before life got in the way.
"Hello," the woman says, and Dana braces herself for some Class-A bitching. People who look like this don't usually show up in an ER if they're nice. She’s got a visitor sticker on, but no room listed. God, even her visitor’s photo looks like it’s come out of Vouge photoshoot.
"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, not letting her suspicion show. Was she some kind of pharmacy rep? She wasn’t carrying a case. A wealthy heiress, just waiting for her 90-year old husband to die?
"I'm looking for Dr. Whitaker. The front desk told me he was here."
Before Dana can ask this woman what she wants with Whitaker, she notices something tucked beneath the woman's arm. A file folder, maybe?
Was Dennis about to be served papers?
Not a pharmacy rep or family member. A lawyer. The woman catches Dana's hesitant expression and lets out an amused laugh.
"Don't worry. I'm not suing him. Promise."
Dana clears her throat, trying to pretend like she hasn’t been thrown off by this person.
"What do you- "
A loud clatter echoes down the hallway. Both Dana and the woman turn toward the sound.
Speak of the devil.
It's Dennis, with something that looks suspiciously like spit-up on his scrubs. He's just knocked his knee into an ultrasound cart.
"Sorry!" Dennis squeaks to no one at all. Maybe to himself. "Sorry," he repeats to the tech, who rolls his eyes and pushes the cart away.
Dennis straightens himself, rubs his knee, then squints toward the woman at the nurse's station. He straightens when he sees her.
"Hi, Dennis."
He blinks in surprise before making his way over. He leans on the counter with one thin arm.
"Ruth! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Paris."
She shrugs a graceful shoulder, her tousled hair barely affected by the movement. God, what Dana would do to have hair like that again.
"This and that. I'll be in Pittsburgh for a few days. I wanted to see if you'd like to get lunch."
"Sure. Is brunch okay? I get off at ten tomorrow morning."
"Perfect."
Dennis smiles at her expectantly. After a moment of quiet, he rubs the back of his neck almost sheepishly.
"Not to be rude- it's great to see you- but a lunch invitation could've just been a text?"
She snaps her fingers, as if remembering the reason she was in a busy ER isn’t to invite doctors who look like sickly Victorian children to brunch wasn’t her main goal.
"Right."
She hands him the file she'd been carrying.
"I'm getting married."
"Congratulations," Dennis says, sounding genuinely pleased despite his obvious exhaustion. Dana knows he’s worked a double in the past few days. Even his eye bags have eye bags.
"Thank you. It's at the vineyard. You're coming, of course."
"Of course." he agrees quickly.
"Which means..." She motions to the paperwork.
Dennis opens the folder and squints down at the pages. The man wasn't even thirty yet, and he already read everything like he was ninety.
"I want a divorce."
Dennis looks back up at her. With her heels, she’s got an inch on him at least.
"Okay. Sure. Do you have a pen?"
Dana's mouth drops open.
Dennis Whitaker- scrawny, mousy, farm-boy Whitaker is married?
To a supermodel?
Ruth produces a gilded pen from her jacket. It looks expensive. Everything about her looks expensive.
Dennis lays the papers on the counter. They’re neatly color-coded.
"Where do I sign?"
"Here," Ruth says, pointing. "Initial here... and then sign again at the end."
Dennis does exactly as instructed without complaint. Ruth flips each page and holds it steady while he signs with the same casual concentration he'd use reading a coffee menu. Neither of them even ask Dana to leave. So she just… stands there.
"And one more."
He signs the last page and hands the pen back.
"Thank you, darling."
"You're welcome. Where are you staying?"
"The Fairmont for a bit. I'm off to New York on Thursday morning for an event."
Dennis narrows his eyes suspiciously.
"It's not the Met Gala, is it?"
She laughs a low, amused sound that means it's absolutely the fucking Met Gala.
"I'll send you a postcard."
"Please," Dennis says earnestly. "I love your postcards."
She smiles, kisses him on the cheek, and steps away. Even from across the counter, Dana can smell Channel No.5.
"I'll leave you to it. See you tomorrow. I’ll send a car"
"Okay. Bye."
She tucks the documents beneath one arm, slips her Birkin onto her shoulder, and strides out of the ER. Somehow, she makes the drab fluorescent lighting look like a fucking runway.
Dana turns back to Dennis.
He's already studying the assignment board as though he hasn't just gotten divorced.
"You think I could take the kid with abdominal pain in Three?" he asks. "I want to observe a surgery, but Trinity's been hogging all the cases. Maybe if I get there early, Garcia will have mercy and let someone else have a turn."
"Dennis," Dana says slowly, putting on her gentle voice. "Honey... are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"
He frowns, dragging his eyes away from the board.
"Why would I need to sit down?"
Dana stares at him.
"Because your wife just walked into your workplace and handed you divorce papers."
Dennis shrugs.
"My ex-wife now, I guess. So... kid in Three?"
Dana blinks.
How is Dennis not affected by this?
At the very least, he should look upset. Ruth had practically been dripping in diamonds and was staying at the Fairmont. Dennis, meanwhile, was flat broke. Dana knew because she'd caught him sneaking leftover sandwiches from the meal carts during his first week in the ER. He should at least be worried about alimony or something. Anything.
"Um... take him."
"Thanks."
Dennis pulls an iPad from its charger and heads down the hallway toward Room Three.
Dana watches him go, completely stunned.
"What the hell?"
Donnie, fresh back from the break room with a cup of coffee in hand, looks over as Dana continues staring after Dennis.
"What?"
Dana blinks.
"Dennis just got divorced."