Chapter Text
There was no cliche, no gaps of awkward silences or tears that stubbornly clung to his lashes. Dennis knocked on the wooden door of 6942 Penn Avenue. Robby and Jack answered together but kept the door next to them instead of letting it swing wide to invite Dennis in.
Jack said, “We’re sorry.” A brief explanation—clinical, in the way it was stripped down to the legal jargons that never had space in any of their conversations outside the ER—of the breach of contract, the notice from the Board and both of their licenses suspended for a week until they confirm termination of their relationship. Jack, who woke Dennis up with fluttery kisses over his cheeks and nose on Sunday mornings, only gave him an apologetic smile. “I think it’s best if you leave.”
Dennis looked to Robby because when didn’t he? There was no other North Star in his world. Robby existed, to him, on some other axis. Deified to the point of blasphemy. Robby didn’t look at him. His mouth ground in a perpetual motion. Never speaking. Robby, who held him like Dennis was the best thing earth had to offer, refused to acknowledge him and stormed back inside their house.
That was the final strike. It was always them. Their marriage, their house, their bedroom. Who was Dennis to believe in the folly that he had any space between the two men?
He nodded. He shook Jack’s hand as he thanked him for the past six months, then turned around. He waited until he heard the resounding click of the door latch before he sprinted. Dennis propelled himself down streets. His heel dug into the gravel, rubbing through the soles of his shoes, until he swore he could feel his skin catch on the road.
Dennis ran until he couldn’t breathe. Even when his lungs refused to give, Dennis caught himself with his palms and shoved himself back up, stumbling into a drunken jog as tears poured down his face. He coughed, raked in a harsh breath, then ran again.
He spewed before Trinity’s apartment stoop.
Only when he tapped his apartment fob to open the door did he realise his palms had red streaks all the way down to his wrist. Dennis laughed, remembered Trinity tracing his ‘love line’ over a vodka coke, and then laughed so much more he threw up all over Mrs Norbury’s red pot of zanzibar gems.
At work, Dennis lived. He was the first to jump onto a new case, burning through his workups that Dana pulled him aside. With a concerning tilt, she told him that if he didn’t take a break soon, she would lock him in Behavioural 2. Dennis shook his head. He cupped her hand over his arm and said, “I’m fine. Just really excited to be here.”
“Oh, honey.” Dana’s smile was weak. Her all-knowing eyes carry a tight sheen. “You don’t look fine.”
Dennis insisted. “I have a five year old waiting for her BMP.” He rubbed his hands together to shake her hands off him. The freed expanse of skin over his bicep is deathly cool without her touch. “I’m fine, really.” He hopes that was it. He didn’t have the strength to return her gaze. He could barely contain the shiver from that brief contact.
“I know. Robby told me,” Dana muttered lowly. It reverberated like a slap in Dennis’ ears. “He said… just to keep an eye on you. Listen, if you need help—”
Dennis had to get out of here. He needed to be alone, where no eyes could perceive him and relate him to any incident that ever occurred in the ER.
He wanted, with a desperation reserved for the damned, to be gone.
He began to shake his head and stepped away from Dana. He heard himself reassure her, responding with curt yesses as she listed off helplines Dennis had in the back of his head for his ‘potentially suicidal’ patients. He booked out of the break room and into the fire exit.
His chest constricted. Dennis scratched at the scrubs over his lungs. He wanted to tear them out or help them breathe. He couldn’t decide. He opened his eyes on his knees, head rested against the handbar, breath shallow. His phone buzzes in his pocket, a message from his mother about another bill. Dennis joined his hands in prayer.
He was gone for all of five minutes, but when he walked back into the ER, Robby’s eyes caught his return with a scowl. “Whitaker,” he grunted as he stalked over. “The parents in South 5 want to know when their daughter is free to leave.”
“Yes—”
“Next time you need a break, make sure to tell someone so they can cover you.” Robby’s brows were stitched to the middle. At home he only got like this when—no. Dennis nodded, opened his mouth to acknowledge his chief, when Robby cut through his response. Robby said, “You’re an intern. You should know better.”
Robby left. Dennis kept his gaze on his shoes and blinked. Two tears dropped to his toe box. Then, he squared his shoulders, wiped a hand roughly over his face, and marched back to South 5.
“You need to speak to someone,” Trinity argued. She blocked him from the door and pointed one of her heels threateningly at him. “There’s something going on with you and you refuse to talk to me! I don’t care—go talk to Kiara or, fuck, I don’t know. Robby, since you guys are so close.”
The accusation lanced through Dennis. He felt impaled on its hilt. In shock, Dennis peered down. No blood soaked through his shirt, but it felt like all of his guts were falling out of him, tumbling and splattering viscera onto the nice herringbone-pattened wood. There’s dust mites by his toes, he should pick up a vacuum when she leaves for her shift.
He still can’t breathe. Dennis forced his shoulders to relax—the same muscles calm in that practiced manner Dennis resorted to back home when his brothers (or, worse, his father) turned on him, that predatory gleam in their eyes and bloodthirst on their tongues. “I’ve sent an email to Kiara,” Dennis lied. “We’ve got a thing over lunch.”
“Aren’t you seeing her tomorrow? For that outreach thing.”
“We focus more on the patients during that time. You know, only twenty-four hours in a day and all that,” Dennis said. He should’ve seen it coming. Trinity was far too smart for his wiles. He was going to miss her the most. “Don’t you have to go? It’s six thirty-five.”
Trinity’s brows shot up. She brought her wristwatch to her face, scowled when she confirmed that Dennis was, in fact, correct then grabbed her backpack from where it slung on the ear of a dining chair. She was halfway out the door when she pointedly turned to look at him and jabbed a finger in his direction. “We are not done with this, huckleberry.”
The first time Jack and Robby invited him to stay the night, Dennis was delirious with a fever from the seasonal flu. He persisted in meeting them despite his symptoms, reassuring them all evening that it was nothing but a small bug that would go away with a good night’s sleep. It became clear, very cruelly, that lying to doctors (especially those who were senior than him) was not one of his best ideas.
“Alright, kid,” Robby sighed. He held Dennis’ waist still with one heavy hand and thumbed the softer slopes of his stomach. “That’s enough.”
Dennis’ dick was rock hard, but the dizziness grew exponentially since he started bouncing on Robby’s lap. Behind him, Jack draped his hot chest over his back. Jack hummed a soft thing onto Dennis’ neck and left a soft kiss at the joint where his shoulder began. Jack said, “If you keep going, we’ll end up rolling you on a stretcher back to the ER. Naked.”
“Kinky,” Dennis mumbled, a laugh bubbled out of him.
Robby lifted Dennis off him and laid him down on the centre of the bed. The pillows were nice and soft, cradling Dennis’ overheating head. Some time later, Dennis woke to a cool, dark room. His eyes stung something hot and a few tears ran down his face. He hated being sick. It was the worst state of being on the farm. The constant derision from his brothers, the babying from his mother, his father’s disdain for a deadweight all compounded into one ugly cough syrup that stuck ropily down his throat.
“Hey, hey,” cooed Robby from his side. “What’s wrong?”
“He awake?” Another voice joined. Jack.
The room was washed with warm light from the nightstand. Jack and Robby peered over him, Jack immediately dropped to touch their foreheads together. “He’s feverish.” Wordlessly, he helped Robby situate a fresh, wet towel over Dennis’ temple. Then, once Dennis settled, Jack wiped the drying tears with his knuckles. He said, “We didn’t want to wake you up, Den. You fell asleep right after we put you down and you looked like you needed the rest.”
“I’ve already called in sick for you,” added Robby. His fingers are nice and soothing over Dennis’ flaming scalp. “Jack has to go in for a shift later, but it’s my day off.”
“I can go,” Dennis said, already moving to get up despite his wailing muscles.
Both men pressed him down with a stubborn hand on either side of his arms. “Nonsense,” Jack muttered. “You will stay here and let Robby take care of you until I’m back, alright? Then, and only then, you can go home if your fever drops.”
He was helpless, like this, but Dennis felt less like a whelp and more like… like their—
Winter came to Pittsburgh. The collision cases were at an all time high. Dennis worked through the slough of snow and blood. He got sent home after double shift and then some. When he unlocked his apartment door, he barely made it three steps in before he collapsed.
It took three hours. Trinity came home from her trip out of town with Yolanda. She cursed at the trail of snow that followed her up the steps to her door, then cursed some more when she couldn’t find her key in her purse only to have the toe of her boot nudge the door open. Dennis Whitaker slumped on some corner of the apartment was not a foreign sight, but this chilled her blood. She rode the ambulance with him, alerted the rig about PTMC.
They burst through the door in record time. Trinity ran with the first responders until Perlah stepped beside her and loosened her white-knuckle grip on the guardrails. She laced their fingers together and walked her out of the room. Trinity moved, in part because Perlah ushered her along and because she saw in her periphery: Dr Robby and Dr Abbot racing down the hall and into Trauma 1.
They find her in the family waiting room. It was Robby who spoke first. “How long were you gone?”
“I’m sorry?” Trinity wiped at her eyes. The exhaustion from driving back for six hours and the crash of adrenaline over the last hour tolled at her.
Robby stewed in silence, then his glare turned sharply at her. “How long has Dennis been alone?”
“I’ve been out of town for twelve days,” Trinity replied. She sharpened her face, fists on her lap. “On annual leave that you approved.”
“Mike,” Abbot warned with an arm against his midriff. He looked at Trinity, but it was painfully obvious that his placating air was a farce. “Dennis is fine. He’s stable, but his blood work came back and it’s not great. His WBC is a three, with neutrophils down to a one point five. His coagulation factors are shot. Low BUN, low glucose, low prealbumin, low—”
Trinity snapped, “Get to it.”
“He’s fucking starving,” Robby barked. He slammed his hand against the wall and the shades from the little viewing window shook terribly. “He’s malnourished and dehydrated and he’s exhausted.”
That old, cloying feeling returned with vegeance. All of a sudden, Trinity was seventeen, watching her friend die. She rose to her feet. “How is that my fault! I didn’t—”
“It’s not, fuck!” Robby paced the distance between his chair and hers. His brows drawn tight, his lips were cracked, and he held a shaky fist against his teeth. “He pulled a fucking double and I let him. I did—”
Abbot intercepted his spiral with a jut of his arms. “You didn’t know. None of us did,” he said, solemn. Trinity understood all too well what kind of person Abott was in that moment. All cold edge until no one looked. "Doctor Santos, do you know if he had an eating disorder? You have been roomates for a year.”
“Just over,” sniffed Trinity, but she shook her head. “He’s always been—with food, it’s always been fine for him. After—” she cut a glance between them then steeled herself. There was no need for them to pry any more into Dennis’ life, if they didn’t know. “After we moved in together, he cooks and eats all the time. We take turns making dinner, sometimes, if our shifts align. He even invited Javadi and Mateo over last month. It’s never been an issue.”
“Incidental then, not behavioural,” murmured Abbot.
Trinity sneered, “Are you doing differentials?”
“It’s my job.”
“He is your coworker.”
“He is,” Abbot started, then trailed off. He spared a glance at Robby and shook his head. Abbot continued, “He is my patient, now. That’s all that matters.”
Trinity grabbed her bag. “Whatever he is, don’t do that shit in front of me. Senior resident doctor and your bedside manners are abysmal,” she hissed, wrenching the door handle open. “Good evening, doctors.”
Dennis didn’t talk to them. He woke up, complied with the nurses (his doctor, thankfully, was neither of the two.) Shen read over his chart the same way a person would skim over the front page of a newspaper to decide whether it was worth buying or not, but he’s discharged within the day.
Trinity chewed his ear off, but eased off when she saw his face. He could only imagine what she saw. He made it a point to refuse checking his reflection on any surface, including the bathroom mirror, which meant shaving is a quick, strictly-no-eye-contact, affair.
His phone rung a couple of times that weekend. A handful of texts from their old group chat, two just checking in on you spaced out over three hours and five missed calls. Dennis cooked pasta for dinner, did a load of laundry, and went to bed. He sent thirty percent of his pay check to Broken Bow, addressed to his mother and nobody else. He paid his rent. He cleaned his closet.
Trinity joked if he was moving out. Dennis caught the edge in her voice and he shook his head, laughed a little, and said the dust was setting him off. He ate, he slept, he worked.
In spring, Princess invited them to a cookout. Dennis passed it between Perlah, Princess, and Trinity who took turns to educate him on the delights of Filipino food. Mateo laughed at his joke over the punch bowl before Dennis left with his tail between his legs when Robby and Jack pulled up.
Dennis went on a date. At the behest of Javadi, then Trinity, and then Mohan (of all people), he let them play Swiper on his Hinge account. The guy they chose seemed nice. Thirty-one, classically attractive with a nice stubble to accentuate his already sharp jawline. Their conversation was nice. It was good to have someone so attentive to him, to ask not for the sake of asking but because they genuinely wanted to know what he was up to, how he was feeling.
When the guy reached over (some Sam or Ben) to kiss him, Dennis accidentally caught a whiff of his cologne—spiced, but spiked with citrus. Familiar. It’s Guerlain. It’s Jack’s.
Dennis pushed the guy away quicker than his mouth could keep up. He sputtered some nonsense and thin apologies, moisture stinging his eyes, then ran out of the bar.
The advent of fall was quickly chased by the frost. Pittsburgh was once again blanketed in snow.
Waking up was difficult. The alarm blared in his dark room and Dennis knew if he didn't snooze or cancel on his phone in minutes, Trinity would march up to his room and be even louder. Still, Dennis took his time to get out of bed. He barely showered those days, mainly letting the hot jet of water boil him alive. But he was never late. Dennis showed up, impossibly quiet as he snuck into the locker room and got his notepad and markers ready. The only thing that drove comfort into his senseless mind was the singular letter under his mattress.
“Ready, Whitaker?” Jesse came up from behind him to the hub, smiling as they looked at the board. From the corner of his eye, Dennis could make out Jack and Robby exiting the lift. Robby’s arm splayed protectively on Jack’s back, the same way they used to do to—
Dennis nodded. Tore his eyes away and drummed the bench. “Never better. Girl with shoulder pain in South 8?”
Jesse clapped his back, moving to meet him at the bay, when Jack and Robby slide up beside him. “Whitaker, we wanted to—’
He was trapped. Inevitably so, but trapped nonetheless. Dennis lowered his gaze from the board. That first eye contact was a physical hold. What used to be a grounding effect now seized him violently. Dennis ground his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he cuts Jack off. “Jesse is waiting for me—”
Robby raised a hand, placatingly. It made Dennis sick to his stomach. The dismissal. The complete power over him that Robby knew he had. “I’m sure he can take history. Jack and I need to speak with you—”
The shrill ring of the department phone shocked their conversation to stillness. Dana, who was inching closer to them, pushed her chair to the other side of the hub and answered. Her greeting was cut short and her voice turned clipped.
Dennis’ shoulders tensed. The air hung heavy in the centre of the ER. Dana nodded along to the call, then slammed it shut. “There’s a fifteen-vehicle pile up on the Fort Pitt Bridge. It’s code triage.”
All of his blood froze. Dennis recognised the look in Dana’s eyes—it was the same in his eyes—that faraway memory of the PittFest MCI. The rivers of blood and hills of gurneys. The mocking shroud of the black tags in Pedes.
Robby broke away from the hub, already grabbing the tannoy and calling all staff in the ED to the centre. Jack is still at his side. He lays a warm hand on Dennis’ arm and squeezed him lightly. “We’ll talk later,” murmured Jack. Dennis was helpless to let him go.
From then, things happened in seconds.
“Black ice,” Robby announced to the huddle. The crows feet by his eyes deepened as he shook his head. “Five fatalities so far. Ten major injuries, sixteen minor. First responders are having trouble getting out, so most critical patients will be received from the helipad upstairs.”
Habit tugged his gaze to the side of the room where Jack stood. He had his vest on, the role page clear on his back. His grey curls were even starker under the harsh LED lighting of the ED. On his pelvis, he wore a holster of tags, rolls of gauze, a walkie-talkie, and markers. He has his eyes fixed on Robby, arms crossed over his chest, but Dennis had watched him for over two years. He caught the slight movement in his arms, the tell-tale motion of Jack running his knuckles over his dog-tag chain and, more importantly, the golden wedding band that hung from the same fetter. His and Robby’s wedding ring.
The reminder was sharp enough for Dennis to snap out of it. Robby’s voice returns in a drone. Robby directed the team into corresponding zones. The crowd dispersed, shooting off to grab the MCI kits, extra carts and supplies. Dennis stood amidst it all until he was sharply manoeuvred toward the lift.
“You’re with me, kid,” said Jack once they stepped inside. The door was about to close, when a sharp hand streamed through the gap, letting the alarm ping and the door part once more.
Samira slipped between the hoistway and joined them in the car. “Robby told me I’m with you guys.”
The relief was instant. Dennis let Samira stand between him and Jack, basking in her energy as though he could siphon it into his own body. The walkie-talkie on Jack’s hip blinked awake as Dana’s voice filtered through to let them know there was an incoming patient on-air in three minutes. Jack barked out a quick acknowledgement, then they raced as soon as the doors slid open.
The winter cold bit. Out here in nothing but a pair of scrubs and a thin sheet of polypropylene as a medical gown, Dennis felt his nose begin to sting. Jack cursed on his left and Samira echoed it in a mutter. The three of them huddled closely to the exit until Jack pointed out the blur of the helicopter in the distance.
“Make way,” Jack barked. The gust of wind propelled from the choppers sent their gowns every which way. Dennis forced his teeth to clamp shut as they began to chatter loud enough for Jack to send him a sideways glance.
“I’m fine,” he shouted over the helicopter.
Jack gave him a brief once over then nodded. “Better be.”
Samira was the first to push their stretcher toward the landed helicopter, followed by Jack then Dennis who pushed from the foot. When they got close enough to the skid, the EMTs dragged the hatch open. One of the first responders jumped off, grabbing the head of the spinal board steady before he ushered Samira to depress the stretcher.
“ID card said forty-two, female. Driver crushed in the car. Blunt force trauma to the head, chest, and abdomen. Tachycardic at 145. Possible pneumothorax on the left lung. Hypotensive after 1 litre of saline.”
“Alright, red tag him, Mohan. Let’s do CT and a thoracotomy. Push saline and O neg. How many are critical?” Jack secured the spine board onto the stretcher and tugged the guard rails up, slapping the cot twice before he turned his attention fully to the EMT.
The guy stammered, searching for answers in the other EMT inside the cabin before he shook his head. “Thirteen? Fifteen, at least? I don’t know, there were five units on site and two are air medical.”
“There’s only two helicopters?”
For fifteen critical patients, that was a lifetime of a waitlist. The wintry chill was the last thing in his mind as it began to run the calculations of how long it would take, how many lives they wouldn’t be able to save.
The EMT explained, “There’s a blizzard on its way. Visibility is low, we were already on air when the call came.”
“We have to go, Dr Abbot,” Samira shouted, already tugging the patient toward the exit. “And we need them to prep an OR!”
Jack’s steely eyes flit over to Samira, then to the patient, and lastly to Dennis. His jaw clicked and Dennis could already tell what was in his head because Dennis desperately shook his head and grabbed his vest. “No,” Dennis said. “You cannot go. We need you here.”
“They need triage and emergency care there,” rebutted Jack. He raised his voice. “Fifteen people, Den. They won’t make it here in time.”
“We don’t have supplies. You heard what Robby said. Even first responders can’t get out,” stressed Dennis. His heart was lodged in his throat and his eyes stung. The exhaustion from the past year concentrated into one, razor-sharp pain in his chest. Dennis knew if he let Jack go, this was the last time he would see him.
Despite Broken Bow, despite his mother, despite the shitty fucking break up at Penn Avenue, Dennis still believed. He believed in retribution, on the final judgement day. He knew what a divinely ordained moment felt like; he has felt it many times before, and each time was a loss bigger than the last.
Dennis fought back the tears. He bit his tongue. Hard. “You cannot go,” he pleaded. “I—Robby needs you.”
The moment shattered. The EMTs were buzzed in by their ground team, Mohan tugged again at the stretcher. But, ultimately, it was Jack who broke it. Jack grabbed onto Dennis’ arm, then pushed him toward the cabin. “Fine. Let’s go together,” he said. He turned, tossed the walkie to Samira and nodded. “Tell Robby we’re going onsite!”
Samira cursed at him as they locked the cabin door shut. Dennis watched, strapped into his seat, as the rooftop began to minimise. The terror remained. It should have been alleviated. Assuaged, now that he had Jack with him, but something gnawed deep.
Jack’s phone rang.
“Ah, shit,” he said once he looked at the ID. He accepted it with a sigh. “Mike—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” bellowed Robby from the other end. “I told you to grab the patient for transport and you left? With Dennis!”
The EMT opposite them checked out the window then looked back at Dennis. “We’re landing soon. Cell service doesn’t work on the ground.”
“Listen—no, you listen to me, Mike. I took Dennis cause there’s only two air ambulances and fifteen major cases on the bridge. Dennis already tried to get me to stay, but I ended up bringing him anyway. I have back up and three other EMT units to help me. It’ll be fine.”
Robby shouted something indiscernible down the phone, to which Jack hummed, eyes catching onto Dennis’, then whispered, “Love you, too.”
When the phone clicked, they prepared for landing. The EMTs were the first to jump off the chopper, allowing them to gather themselves before going. Beside him, Jack was a warm sun against the blistering cold outside. He said, lowly, “I’m sorry, too.”
“No, you’re not.” Dennis let his gaze go beyond the windows, looking at the fog outside. “You’re one hell of a doctor. No one cares about their patients more than you.”
Jack shook his head. “Not about—well, yes, about this, too. I meant more about… I’m serious about that talk. There was a lot more we should’ve said but couldn’t because of a fucking NDA, but, kid, you—“
“Dr Abbot, we’ve got a crit!”
“Time to go,” Dennis murmured. He shook Jack’s hand off his thigh and jumped onto the bridge for one hell of a shift.