Chapter Text
There was that funeral atmosphere, and frankly, nobody had died — yet.
But there was Whitaker, feeling strange with every step in what was considered his safe place; the Pitt ER. Now, however, it really felt like he was in deep water with a shark circling him; he wouldn't be surprised if, when he turned at the end of the hallway, the theme music from the movie Jaws started playing.
He'd needed to pee two cases ago; but the rush of new cases was preventing his bladder from functioning properly, now being near its limit as he pushed the door open hurriedly, already pulling at the knot of his pants to make it easier to slide them down his legs. Another half second and he'd be hopping from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the tight grip of his urge to urinate.
His hand pulled his penis out of his pants, relieving himself in the urinal, his right hand flattened against the cold wall as if seeking an anchor in the face of an almost ethereal experience that was relieving yourself when you really needed to.
"So you're not a farm boy?"
That made his pee stop; if physics didn't work, maybe it would have even made the liquid flowing down the drain go back up his urethra. He looked over his left shoulder, his hand still on the wall, his other hand still holding his penis as if it had anywhere else to go at that moment besides standing there and being embarrassed along with the rest of Whitaker's body.
He knew they'd get to that moment, but did it have to be now? There, with his pants half-down, and peeing? Completely off guard before a shark attack?
"I am," he really needed to urinate; it was either that or ruin his bladder, and frankly, he seemed about to ruin that shift; he didn't need much more going wrong, so he went back to relieving himself.
For a second, that was the only noise in the bathroom, Park standing with arms crossed over his chest, a huge statue blocking the door, which was actually good; it would be really weird if someone else came in there.
"You work in the same hospital as me and didn't know I was a doctor here?" You didn't need to be a genius to see that the orthopedist was irritated; Dennis was too, in his own way, of course.
"Well, you didn't know who I was either." He shrugged in such an unthinking way, his body just acting on impulse as he finally pulled his pants back up, tying the cord tightly around his waist. When he turned around, he found himself in the crosshairs of that cold stare.
Someone should tell Park that he was scary like that, like a shark that had smelled blood in the water, and the wounded body was Whitaker, no doubt about it; lucky he had already urinated.
"Look, we don't need to make a big deal out of this. Neither of us knew," he was now in front of the sink, he just needed to look to the side and he could see Park's grim profile very close by. In that bar bathroom, he had already found him interesting, but in that bright, clear hospital light? Unfortunately, he could become even more tempting. "And it's a big hospital; what are the chances of us always running into each other?" The paper towel was now crumpled in his hand; the trash was closer to the orthopedist than to him, so he needed to get closer. One small step and then another, as if testing the water temperature with his toes before jumping in for a dive.
Of course, you don't dive into shark-infested waters, but Whitaker needed to find that out for himself, when a bite sank into his skin. And that was almost what it was like when Park pulled him by the forearm, his large fingers wrapping around his wrist as if Whitaker were almost a teenager next to that man. And then his back was against the door, Park's hand resting beside his head, and that made him remember the other night very much, that man's thigh between his legs, his mouth on his, those teeth grazing the skin of his neck, god! That hand touching his penis — which, unfortunately, was showing clear signs of life inside his pants.
It didn't seem like Park would say anything, just that demonstration of: let's keep everything on this level, and that's it. And unfortunately, that did something to Dennis, almost pathetic how he had to swallow hard while feeling Park's eyes on his face, until they reached his lips, his hand still firm on his arm, and a slight lean, close enough for Whitaker to feel the coolness of some mint candy, too far away to feel his mouth on his.
"Get out," Park released him, immediately turning his back to Whitaker.
Dennis left, but not before noticing that man untying his pants and doing the same thing Whitaker had been doing minutes before.
Outside, chaos had broken out; in fact, was that Javadi gesticulating vehemently while a security guard stood between her and a patient? Nothing like a quiet shift on duty.
"Huckleberry!" Santos leaned her elbow on his shoulder, letting her weight fall onto Dennis a little, as if that relieved her own weight, even if just for a few seconds. "Any good cases?"
Whitaker noticed she was more blinded by work than usual, as if her private paradise with Garcia was in a bit of a limbo moment; nothing he was going to get involved in, by the way.
"Hm, possible cholecystectomy in room 2; and a woman complaining of constant knee pain, no apparent inflammation, waiting for the X-ray," he allowed himself a moment to cross his arms. Almost two hours had passed since his strange encounter in the bathroom with Park, and he still felt that shiver at the back of his neck whenever his mind wandered to those memories.
"Seems quiet here today."
Santos and Whitaker turned their heads at the same time, and then looked at each other. Everyone should know, healthcare professional or not, that kind of jinx isn't spoken in a hospital emergency room.
"Not exactly betting material, but I'll put twenty on us having a nasty case in 10 minutes," Santos looked at the time, just to be safe.
"Five minutes!" Whitaker took it in stride; he knew he'd lose 20 bucks, but oh well.
"Santos!" Dana called out with her familiar haughtiness, the kind that left no room for being ignored; no one would be foolish enough for that, after all, even Robby always answered the head nurse's calls; that ER would fall apart without her, certainly.
That left Whitaker to take the next patient on the board; an elderly man with palpitations and body aches. At least it would keep his head busy helping someone instead of thinking about the two encounters he'd already had with a certain doctor in different bathrooms.
Leaving another room felt close to a sense of duty fulfilled, and Whitaker liked that: the feeling of being useful, of helping someone, of calming the mind of an elderly man who thought the palpitations were the start of a heart attack, but luckily they weren't.
He looked at the clock just because he wanted to confirm that both he and Santos had lost the bet; at least that way he could get two minutes of peace to breathe some fresh air. He got into the elevator and pressed the button for the floor he wanted. When the doors opened again, his steps led him directly to the rooftop; the wind already hitting his face, his eyes closing for a while as if, if he imagined hard enough, he would feel like he was on the farm with the cool wind on his face.
He took out his phone, unlocking it while scrolling the screen looking for Amy's message, replying with his usual politeness, checking if the baby was okay; he always asked about her in their message exchanges. He put the device back in the front pocket of his uniform pants; still without his doctor's badge, but at least now he'd start getting paid as one; that was an advantage.
The sound woke him up; he imagined it was Amy replying to his message, or even Santos asking where he'd disappeared to; but it was a page. Emergency in 5 minutes.
He went back to the elevator, now pressing the button for the emergency floor, his back leaning against the metal wall as his head hit the metal with ridiculously audible force; lucky he was — in the past — alone, because when the elevator door opened, the sound still seemed to echo in the confined space; of course, it had just happened.
Whitaker wanted anyone, really. But of course it would be Park; of course it would be the shark circling just in time to see him acting like an idiot, inflicting pain on himself in that elevator, even if it was accidental.
The eye roll was almost audible, as if Park was pondering whether to get into an elevator with someone who managed to brawl with himself inside it. But maybe he was in a hurry, because he got in and didn't press any buttons, making it clear to Dennis that he was also heading to the ER.
Counting the moment where Whitaker had dropped the Ringer's Lactate, and the bathroom... that was the third time they'd bumped into each other in that huge hospital in just one day; which seemed pathetic, because Dennis had practically sworn up and down that it wouldn't happen often.
The silence was... oppressive.
Whitaker tapped his foot in an incessant rhythm, trying with that to calm his mind and body; far from succeeding, but he couldn't notice that; he needed Park to cast that scowling sideways glance at him, something like: if you want to keep your foot, stop shaking it in front of me.
That actually worked; Whitaker had to grab onto the bar at the back of the elevator, his hands gripping it there, turning his knuckles white, his whole complexion that color. His eyes lowered, looking at Dr. Park's shoes, rising involuntarily, noticing the contour of legs that seemed firm and toned, even under that dark fabric.
When he allowed himself to look at his face, he almost recoiled, though he had nowhere to go, not when his back was glued to the wall of that elevator, his hands clutching there, and Park staring at him.
Almost there... almost at the floor he needed. But then the hand on his waist, the other on the back of his neck forcing him to look up, to stare into Park's eyes before feeling his mouth on his and that damned and blessed leg of his between his own, pressing just enough to make Whitaker stand on tiptoe to almost level the height difference between them. His hands grabbed onto that uniform shirt; Park was firm under that fabric, but he'd already glimpsed that in the bar bathroom.
The hand on his neck held him firmly as if he were holding a purebred puppy; his lips freshly moistened by that tongue that Dennis yearned to have in his mouth once more; the hand on his waist gripped him under his uniform.
"This is the third time today, farm boy. That's too many run-ins in one day." He pulled away as if he hadn't just zoned out Whitaker's mind and left him with a semi-erection in his pants; as if he hadn't kissed him like he wanted to take the air from his lungs and keep it in his own. And he left the elevator just the same; as if nothing had happened there, between them.
When Whitaker got out, the shark had vanished into the sea of people in that ER, but Dana's hand waving to get his attention was like a visible lighthouse in the distance.
"Robby needs you. Five," she had the phone pressed against her right ear with her shoulder, her hands now occupied with a tablet, scowling at it as if it had cursed her mother, or maybe someone had screwed up and she'd have to fix it.
Whitaker wouldn't stick around to find out; he entered, grabbing gloves from the side of the room; the patient, a woman approximately 35 years old, was thrashing around, maybe in pain, maybe desperate to leave a hospital. She wouldn't be the first person to have a panic attack when realizing they were inside one; she wouldn't be the last.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Whitaker." He always introduced himself, always with that farm boy smile, something he noticed made his patients calmer, more willing to listen to him, and he liked that.
"Whitaker, irrigate the wound, might need debridement. Perlah will assist." It was as if she had been waiting just to be called by Robby to appear next to Whitaker; Robby's attention returning to the patient, the meticulous initial assessments, the ER's ABCDE.
Dennis had something to focus on again; his gloved hands touching the patient's hand for a mere second when she grabbed him in the desperation of pain. His eyes turning to the wound on her leg, the burn from impact with a motorcycle exhaust pipe and possible friction injury from the asphalt. It was ugly, but nothing he couldn't handle with attention and a solution to wash the exposed wound.
When he left room five, Robby followed closely behind; his hand on his shoulder was always something that caught him off guard, making him startle in his own weight, shoulders immediately curving downward as if to avoid being frightened by that display of, whatever it was here, from Robby. Maybe he saw him as a lost puppy in his ER; anything was possible; he saw Robby do the same when he hovered around Trinity and Javadi; by farm parameters, Robby was the hen with the chicks under her wing.
"Still no badge?" Robby was observant; of course he would be; he needed to be in that profession, especially managing the ER with the mastery he did.
"Well, at least the salary changed." He hunched his shoulders a little more; Robby's laugh filled the air like a fresh and simultaneously warm breeze. Whitaker really felt at home there, with those people and the cacophony of an ER. So why was he feeling that damned chill now?
He didn't need much to find the source of his discomfort, not with Park The Shark looking at him from room 1, checking the work with Garcia, nodding his head once. Jaw almost clenched with the force he used to keep his expression in that scowl. Eyes as cold as a killer shark; was that the reason for the nickname? Or because normally everyone seemed to fall silent and barely move when he was in a room?
"Hm," Robby was indeed observant; he knew exactly where Whitaker was looking. "He doesn't bite."
"I'm not so sure," Whitaker had some marks near his neck that would disagree with Robby's statement, with that attempt to calm him down. The Shark did bite, and he dove into Whitaker's imagination as if he knew those waters like the palm of his hand, or should he say fin?
When he walked past them, Whitaker felt his blood run cold; he didn't step back because Robby's hand still rested on his shoulder, as if he knew he would need to support him so Whitaker wouldn't give way at the knees. From the elevator, he could still see those cold eyes as if examining him, scrutinizing his body and mind in that cruel yoke.
Luckily, he managed to go good hours without running into Park; maybe because he was in surgery, maybe because he was carefully looking at all the hallways and rooms before entering, avoiding anyone who might be assigned to orthopedics. The shift was near its end, and as far as it depended on him, he would manage to stay out of danger.
He had stayed out of danger, he had managed not to run into Park… until the new case arrived, where he'd had to practically lean over the gurney, his body was already so tired. And it didn't help at all with that scowling man looking at him from under his lashes, his angular face while he seemed to divide his attention between the exposed tibia wound and Whitaker's nearly trembling hands as he irrigated with saline solution.
Just thinking that his next shift would be on the eve of the damned holiday; he liked the holiday, he liked the idea of rest and a family barbecue, not that he would do any of that. He had canceled his plan with Amy; even though Santos didn't know yet, she really thought he was interested, when he only had a friend in that woman and her daughter.
"Are you going to keep irrigating until it falls on my sneaker, or will you stop when I say so?" Park's voice snapped him out of that semi-trance. He seemed even more ill-humored; maybe some saline had actually fallen on those expensive sneakers.
Looking from there, they seemed dry, but Whitaker wasn't functioning at 100% anymore; maybe 60%, his energy holding out to focus on the patients; that was always his priority.
"Sorry," he lowered his gaze, avoiding Park's intense eyes.
The glove made noise when Park took it off, throwing it in the trash.
"Can you handle this, or do you need your supervisor?"
Yes, Whitaker had no doubt that Park was referring to Robby. But Whitaker didn't need a senior doctor anymore, although he felt comfortable with Robby's assistance, just as he had felt safe with Abbot's help when he took a night shift to test the waters.
"I-I… I can manage."
Being left alone was as uncomfortable as being treated with that touch of indifference, but it was what he had at the moment, and he wouldn't make a fuss. But Park should know whether he wanted to kiss him in the elevator or whether he wanted to label him as incompetent. And Whitaker would accept only one of the options, because incompetent he was not.
It was so close… so, so close.
It was wonderful when he set foot outside the hospital; the cold night air touched his cheeks, leaving them flushed enough to make him muster a smile.
"Hey!" The voice wasn't from far away; close enough to catch Whitaker by surprise as he turned and came face to face with a man grabbing him by the shirt, his hand raised and clenched to punch him, by all indications. "Do you have any idea how long I waited for an update on my wife's surgery?"
Who was that guy's wife? Where was security when you needed it? Because Whitaker's tired and somewhat drowsy head was worried that he had only one earbud in his ear, the bass of the music starting now, casting that moment into a beat too good to be remembered with a punch to his face.
"If you were in the right place when they went around to give updates, you'd know. But I imagine you followed one of the nurses to try for company in the wrong place."
Whitaker didn't need to turn around; he had already come to recognize that voice, that timbre. He felt the damned shiver on the back of his neck.
"Let go of my doctor, or I'll make you let go. And I know very well how to expose a fracture without any effort." He kept his voice cold as ice, almost as if he were bored with the whole thing.
Whitaker forced his feet back onto the ground; he had been on his tiptoes. He was pushed hard, stumbling and being supported by strong hands that gripped his waist as if taking possession of his body.
It took half a second for Whitaker to turn around; Park's hands slid around his waist without releasing him; the height difference making Dennis look up; the light out there was different, it still had a touch of the forbidden. Something that spread even more when Park wet his lips and maintained eye contact the entire time.
"I…" he raised his hand, his thumb pointing at something behind him, at his back. Park looked, and it was towards one of the Pitt's exits; near the ambulance entrance. "I need to go. Santos is waiting for me."
"Sure, farm boy. But Robby's motorcycle is the only thing over there."
Well, Whitaker wasn't going anywhere with Robby; he was indeed waiting for Santos; he knew she'd come out after him in a matter of time; they'd split a car home, order a pizza to eat too. But maybe it would be too undignified to inform Dr. Park of that.
"She's still inside there." He said just that, feeling his hand move away from his waist, the slide of those fingers that seemed to cling to his clothes, prolonging the separation. "By the way, thank you."
The smile was so soft on his lips, something that spread a little more when Park returned it, even if briefly, even if he was already turning to leave, leaving Whitaker there with the sight of those broad shoulders leaving his field of vision.
"How did you manage to get out before me? Ah, never mind; how about we put your twenty dollars and mine together and get a pizza and split an Uber home?"
See, Whitaker wasn't lying, but still he felt strange, as if he had let something slip away.