Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker was having a good day.
From the moment he cracked open his eyes at 5:15 this morning, it was a good day. Sure, Santos had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, grumbling as she pulled an old raggedy college hoodie over her head, but Dennis didn't let it get him down.
He actually had time to eat breakfast this morning, tossing some white bread that was nearing the expiration date into the toaster and smearing it with butter and jam. He didn't even complain when Santos stole the last bite from him!
The two carpooled, as they usually do, Santos letting him play the old rock songs he'd become a fan of over the last few months. The sweet sound of The Eagles crackling through the old car speakers. The ride was mostly quiet, save for the occasional yawn from Trinity, her arms stretching high over her head. "How are you always in such a good mood?" She mumbles out, cracking her knuckles.
"I'm not always." Dennis responds quietly, his voice a low chirp in the loud car. "Even if I'm not, it's better to act like I am anyways. It makes other people happy."
Santos rolls her eyes, glancing over at him. "Is that scientifically proven?"
He meets her gaze; lips curved in a small smirk. "Yep, It's PTMC-tested."
She doesn't say anything, scoffing and nudging him with her shoulder. Even as she turns away, facing the window, he can see the faint reflection of a small grin.
It’s 5:55 on the dot when Dennis pulls into the employee's parking lot, right beside Dr. Robby's motorcycle. A part of Dennis couldn't express how much gratitude he has to what Trinity was giving him. First the room and bathroom in her apartment, which he turned into his own special space, but the car was really the final straw. He felt like he was on the brink of crying when she had brought up the car that was rotting in the apartment parking lot. Apparently, it was hers, but she never felt like driving, so, in her words, "It's all yours as long as you drive me."
They scramble out of the car, Trinity shoving Dennis' bag into his arms as she slides out of the scratchy leather seat.
The ED is quiet when they enter, he thinks, but will never say; Princess and Perlah made sure he knew not jinx the entire department. Dana has just settled in, her worn jean jacket thrown over the chair as she sits down, giving Dennis and Santos a faint smile and a wave. "Hey, kids. g'morning."
Dennis gives a smile in return, heading off to his locker, following not far behind Santos
The first time him and Trinity came in together, he had gotten a weird look from some of the nurses, and it took him a bit to understand what they were eyeing him for. It had been embarrassing when they finally said it, his face turning a bright shade of red as he denied it strongly. The reaction from Santos had been worse, hyena-like cackling echoing across the ED before she confidently said. “I’m a lesbian. I’m just doing charity work.”
Dennis is fully ready at 6:02, dressed in a clean pair of black scrubs with a grey henley beneath it, sleeves rolled up past his elbows as he slams the locker shut, jumping as he's faced with the sight of Langdon.
He jumps, a squeak escaping his mouth before a hand comes up to cover it, ears beginning to slowly turn pink. "Dr. Langdon...!" Dennis says, voice a bit strained.
Langdon takes a moment, eyeing him. "Whitaker," He acknowledges with a nod. "Robby's doing a meeting. Thought you might wanna know."
Dennis doesn't say anything, just nodding, his lips pressed together in a firm line as Langdon walks off to the Nurse's Station. When Langdon had come back a few months ago, Dennis didn't care all that much. Sure, he seemed different, lacking the over-confidence he had that first shift, but Dennis preferred him like this. More mature, almost.
He follows Langdon once he gets his stethoscope on, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. Everyone stands around the Nurses Station, and Robby stands in the middle of them all, rubbing a hand over his face.
Dennis slides beside Mel, head and shoulders held high as Robby begins to give a brief overview on the current patients. He doesn’t even zone out today.
After rounds, Dennis is assigned to an older woman named Mrs. Perkins but insisted to be called Marie. She had torso pain, and apparently had a few broken ribs, as per the fresh x-rays.
”Alright, Marie,” Dennis says, his eyes darting from the woman and the x-rays he holds in his hands. “According to these x-rays, you have a few broken ribs. Did you have any knowledge of this? They can get a bit worse if left untreated.”
In the corner of the room stands Ogilvie, watching Dennis and Marie, looming almost menacingly. Dennis didn’t have a problem with Ogilvie, per se, but he definitely struggled with the human interaction part of medicine. Which, Dennis felt, was rather important when it came to Emergency Medicine.
Marie shakes her head vehemently. “No, sir. My primary doctor says I shouldn’t do much exercise anymore, so I’m a bit lazy.” She explains, face flushing a bit in embarrassment, lips curved up, and Dennis’ does the same, amused by the woman. She reminds him a bit of his grandmother.
”That’s alright, ma’am. Ogilvie,” he says, and said man jumps up like Dennis threatened him. “Do you have any questions for Marie? Any suggestions on what we should do or ask next?”
“Um, Mrs. Perkins, are you sure you haven’t forgotten an injury? Maybe you fell and forgot? It had to be something extreme to break ribs.” Ogilvie asks, and Dennis almost winces at the question and tone of voice he uses.
Marie looks at him like he just insulted her whole bloodline and cursed her grandchildren, which she had spoken about with quite a bit of passion. “No, son, I’d remember if I did. And besides, didn’t I say call me Marie?”
Ogilvie looks a bit flustered at her response, mumbling a quiet, sorry ma’am.
Dennis can feel the awkwardness within his bones and stands up from the stool he’s been sat on. “Ogilvie, let’s go out, discuss the best treatment plan for Marie here, okay?” He suggests, and Ogilvie nods, crossing his hands behind his back as the two leave the room.
He keeps walking for a bit, Ogilvie following close behind until they stop near the area of the lockers. The taller man waits, as if Dennis was going to yell. Psh, as if. “Ogilvie,” he says, glancing up at the man. “Marie is clearly experiencing signs of dementia or Alzheimer’s, but you need to ask questions in a more sensitive manner, alright? No one wants to be accused of forgetting what they’ve done.”
Ogilvie nods along to his words “‘course. So, should I ask her again, or—“He tries to finish his sentence, but he stops himself. Dennis is about to say something when he feels a warm hand land on his shoulder and his soul nearly leaves his body, head jerking around. He’s met with the sight of Santos, grinning wide like she didn’t almost kill him.
”Jesus, Santos! What do you want?” He asks or maybe grumbles. He doesn’t know, this is a good day, right?
She doesn’t say anything, at least anything loud enough for Ogilvie to hear. She leans into his ear, close enough that the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and whispers. “Take the asshole in North 15 and I’ll take Ogilvie to deal with a rectal obstruction. Everything is set up.”
Dennis barely has to think before he nods along. “Oh, yeah—hell yeah. Ogilvie, go with Santos. I have to help with another patient.” He says, scurrying off to North 15.
Once he reaches the door, he takes a deep breath before opening it. The curtains are drawn across the room, giving him no idea of what lays inside.
Dennis is met with the sight of a bigger man, he makes him think of a lumberjack with the blue and green flannel he wears along with his thick arms that makes Dennis’ time in the gym look like nothing.
He grabs the clipboard from its spot on the wall, skimming over the words. “Okay, Mr. Brunner, it looks like you need some stitches. It says you cut your arm washing dishes. Is this right?” Dennis asks, looking up at the man, who only nods.
Dennis murmurs to himself under his breath. Santos was right, everything *is* set up, except for the sheet over his arm, but that’s an easy fix. He hums beneath his breath as he pulls a stool up to the side of the bed, his gaze running over the dish full of gauze and suture thread. He stands right beside Mr. Brunner, the blue sheet of parchment-like paper in his hand as he sits down. “Mr. Brunner, did Dr. Santos provide any painkillers? This is a pretty rough cut.” Dennis asks.
”No. I need oxy for it. I have a tolerance for anything else.” Mr. Brunner responds, voice firm, no-bullshit.
”Oh. Well, I was thinking more-so giving you some morphine, oxycodone is a bit strong, even for something like this.” Dennis tries to suggest, voice gentle, but Mr. Brunner takes his words in another way.
“So, I can’t even request meds? God, this hospital fuckin’ sucks! Why can’t I have oxy, huh? You think I’m an addict, huh? Is that it?!" Mr. Brunner stands, his voice heavy and growing in tone. His fists are clenched, and part of Dennis braces for the punch, ready to yell out the codeword everyone in the department knows well.
The cut on Mr. Brunner's forearm isn't anymore bleeding, but as the man stands, much taller than Dennis, a few drops of red fall to the sterile floor, and it catches Dennis' gaze, for just a moment too long.
As soon as his head even tilts downwards, Mr. Brunner is on him, a thick arm wrapped around his neck, pulling Dennis close to his body. He lets out a choked yelp, sounding more like a mouse's squeak. Dennis' body jerks, automatically trying to pull away, but a feeling on his neck stops him.
On the left side of Dennis Whitakers neck is a scalpel. A scalpel that should've been either tucked away safely in a drawer or in a sharps bin, but here it is, pressed tightly against his neck, just barely grazing the skin.
He can hear his heartbeat, too loud. Much too loud. It rings in his ear like a reminder of how close the scalpel is to his carotid artery.
Fuck, maybe today isn't a good day.