Chapter Text
By six-thirty in the morning, Michael Robby had already been awake for twenty-three hours.
Not that anyone could tell…. Well, Abbott could tell.
Abbott had been subjected to the last eight hours of it.
“You know,” Abbott said around his coffee, eyeing him from the desk, “most people help with the night shift and then go home.”
Robby snorted quietly, signing off on a chart. “Most people are smarter than me.”
“That’s true.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The night had thankfully slowed down. There were still patients waiting, a psych hold in Bed Seven threatening to throw a urinal at anyone who entered, and Dana was currently terrorizing a pharmaceutical rep over the phone with a controlled fury only thirty years in emergency medicine could produce.
“No, sweetie,” Dana said, one hand on her hip. “I’m saying if your company wants those forms by nine, they should’ve faxed them yesterday. I’m not performing miracles before breakfast.”
She hung up and looked around.
“Abbott?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“Dana—”
“Go eat. Robby, tell him.”
“He should eat.”
“You should go home,” Abbott shot back.
Dana pointed between them.
“You both look like shit.”
“Good morning to you too, Dana.”
“I mean it lovingly.”
The ambulance doors opened. And like clockwork, the day shift started filtering in.
Javadi, somehow looking entirely too awake for this hour.
Santos, already sipping iced coffee and walking with confidence, already looking over to check who was still present from the night shift.
Whitaker—
Robby blinked.
Whitaker looked tired. Not weirdly tired. Just…
Tired. Very much tired.
His blond hair was messier than usual. There were shadows under his eyes, and he moved a little slower as he slung his backpack into his locker.
“Morning, Dr. Robby.”
He still smiled, though. Robby smiled back.
“Morning. You look terrible.”
Whitaker grinned sheepishly.
“Thanks, I guess?”
Santos immediately rounded on him.
“That is what I told him this morning! Huckleberry, did you get hit by a bus?”
Javadi looked up.
“What?”
Whitaker groaned.
“No.”
“Because I’m serious,” Santos continued. “You look like somebody found you in a ditch.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You blinked before answering.”
“Trinity—”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“You’ve got bags under your eyes.”
“It’s six-thirty.”
“You look thirty-five.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“Jesus.”
Whitaker looked scandalized.
“Trinity!”
Jack glanced between them.
“Wait, what’s happening?”
“Nothing,” Whitaker muttered.
“No, because I need context,” Jack said. “Are we roasting Whitaker?”
“Yes,” Santos answered immediately.
“No!” Whitaker protested.
“Yes,” Santos repeated. “Participation is mandatory.”
Dana walked past carrying charts.
“Leave him alone.”
Whitaker looked relieved. Dana glanced at him once.
“Sweetheart, you do look rough.”
Whitaker groaned louder.
“Oh, come on! I just arrived!”
“Drink water,” Dana said. “And whatever stupid thing kept you awake, stop doing it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Santos narrowed her eyes.
“Hm.”
Whitaker froze.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “You’ve got the face.”
“The face?”
“The ‘I’m not sleeping because I’m doing something stupid’ face.”
“I don’t—”
“You absolutely do.”
“Trinity—”
“Is it crypto?”
“No!”
“A girlfriend?”
“No!”
“A boyfriend?”
“What?”
“A cult?”
“What?!”
“A side hustle?”
“No!”
“Competitive knitting?”
Whitaker stared.
“What kind of insane life do you think I live?”
“The answer isn’t ‘sleeping,’ apparently.”
Jack was trying not to laugh. Robby found himself smiling despite the exhaustion.
“Leave him alone.”
Santos gasped dramatically.
“Oh my God, Dr. Robby is defending him!”
“I’m defending the peace.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Whitaker smiled gratefully.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank him,” Santos said. “He’s old and likes quiet.”
“I’m forty-nine.”
“Ancient.”
“Trinity.”
“Fossil.”
“Trinity.”
“Historical artifact. The Smithsonian called, they want their dinosaur back-”
Abbott snorted into his coffee. Dana shook her head, but not without a smile.
“Children.”
Robby chuckled.
Whitaker looked exhausted enough to fall asleep standing up, but he was smiling. And really, that was enough for Robby. For now though.
Because if there was one thing Robby knew, it was that the emergency department had a way of revealing things eventually.
Eventually, everyone told you what was going on. Usually whether you wanted to know or not.
Jack did, in fact, eat, after a while. Dana made sure of it.
Robby came back from checking on a patient to find Abbott halfway through a sandwich and looking personally offended by the concept.
“You actually listened?” Robby asked.
Abbott pointed at Dana with half a pickle.
“I was threatened.”
Dana, sitting at the desk and somehow doing four things at once, looked up.
“You’re welcome dear!”
“I’m forty-three, Dana.”
“And?”
“I don’t need supervision.”
“Mhm.”
“She packed fruit.”
“She packed fruit?” Robby asked, delighted.
Abbott looked betrayed.
“She packed fruit.”
Dana shrugged.
“Men are idiots.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
Santos snorted loud enough to make Javadi laugh. Whitaker, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to choke on his coffee.
“You okay there?” Robby asked.
Whitaker coughed.
“Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“Went down wrong.”
“Story of your life,” Santos informed him.
“Trinity!”
“What?”
“You’re mean.”
“No, Huckleberry, I’m observant.”
The overhead speaker crackled.
“Trauma two. Seventy-two-year-old male. Fall from ladder. Severe pain right hip, deformity right leg. Conscious. Stable vitals.”
Everyone moved.
Coffee abandoned. Charts forgotten. They all converged on Trauma Two. The patient arrived groaning and swearing.
“My wife told me not to clean the gutters!”
“Sounds like she was right,” Dana informed him immediately.
The old man groaned.
“She’ll never let me hear the end of this.”
“Probably not.”
Robby stepped up.
“Hi I'm Dr Robby. Can you tell me your name?”
“Gary.”
“Gary, you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“What year?”
“Twenty twenty-six.”
“Good.”
The leg looked ugly. Externally rotated, classic dislocation. X-rays came back confirming it. Santos whistled as she looked at it.
“Damn.”
“Ow,” Jack added helpfully.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbott,” Santos said. “Very insightful.”
The patient needed reduction, so sedation was given.
Everyone moved automatically.
“Alright,” Robby said. “Whitaker, with me.”
“Got it.”
The younger doctor moved around the bed.
“Pirate captain pose?” Santos asked.
Whitaker groaned.
“Can we not call it that?”
“We absolutely call it that.”
Jack blinked.
“Pirate captain?”
Whitaker sighed.
“Foot on the bed, knee under the leg, leverage.”
“Pirate captain,” Santos repeated.
“Trinity—”
“Argh, ahoy matey-!”
Whitaker looked offended.
“Can everyone stop?”
“No,” Santos said.
“Absolutely not,” Jack agreed.
“Et tu, Brute?”
Jack grinned.
“Argh.”
Whitaker muttered something under his breath. Robby hid a smile. Whitaker stepped up onto the bed.
One foot planted, his knee positioned under the patient's calf, hand gripping carefully.
He adjusted— And froze. Tiny. Barely noticeable. But Robby saw it. Whitaker sucked in a breath.
Then another.
A wince.
Robby had been watching people in pain for twenty-five years, he knew that expression.
“Whitaker?”
Whitaker looked up immediately.
“Hm?”
“You alright?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
Santos frowned.
“Did you just make a face?”
“No.”
“You absolutely made a face.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You winced.”
Whitaker looked offended.
“I absolutely did not.”
Jack tilted his head.
“You kinda did.”
“Traitors. All of you.”
“Dennis,” Robby said gently. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.”
Too quick. Too automatic. Robby raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
Whitaker shifted.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Dennis.”
“Dr. Robby, I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
He didn't sound convinced. Whitaker didn't look convinced either. Still, he nodded.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
The reduction went smoothly.
Pop.
Gary yelled something very creative.
Santos grinned.
“There we go.”
The old man blinked blearily.
“Didja fix me?”
“You're welcome,” she said.
They all stepped away.
Whitaker climbed off the bed and immediately his hand went to his side. Brief. Instinctive. Gone so fast Robby almost thought he'd imagined it.
Except he hadn't. Because Whitaker saw him looking. And smiled.
“I'm okay.”
Robby frowned.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
Santos narrowed her eyes.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Both men turned.
She pointed.
“No secrets.”
“What?” Whitaker asked.
“That face. That's your 'I'm hiding something' face.”
“Trinity, I don't have faces.”
“You have seventeen faces.”
“Name one.”
“The ‘I forgot to eat’ face.”
“Everyone has that face.”
“The ‘I broke something but I don't want Dana to yell at me’ face.”
Whitaker looked away.
Jack snorted.
“Oh, he does.”
“The ‘I haven't slept’ face.”
“I slept.”
“Liar.”
“The ‘I made questionable life decisions’ face.”
“That's not a face.”
“It's your default setting.”
Dana wandered over.
“What are we arguing about?”
“Huckleberry is hiding something,” Santos announced.
Whitaker groaned.
“Can you stop announcing things?”
Dana looked at him.
“You hurt hon?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Dana!”
“You've got your mother's expression.”
Whitaker froze. Santos immediately pointed.
“HA!”
“There!”
“See!”
Jack almost dropped his chart laughing.
“What does that even mean?”
Dana smirked.
“It means he's lying.”
“I'm not—”
“You touched your ribs twice.”
Whitaker blinked.
“You counted?”
“I've got thirty years of experience and eyes.”
Robby frowned.
“Ribs?”
Whitaker immediately straightened.
“It's nothing.”
“Dennis—”
“Really. It's nothing.”
He smiled again.
Bright.
Easy.
A little tired.
And somehow that worried Robby more.
Because people who were actually fine usually just said they were fine. People who smiled like that—
People who rushed to reassure everyone—
People who answered too quickly—
Those people worried him. Whitaker patted Gary's shoulder.
“Take it easy, sir. No more ladders.”
Gary snorted.
“My wife already told me that.”
“Listen to her.”
Whitaker stepped away. And before anyone else noticed— He rubbed his side again. Robby caught it.
And this time, a small knot settled itself in his stomach. Because Dennis Whitaker was many things.
Awkward, earnest, too willing to help, unable to say no, terrible at lying… But he wasn't dramatic.
Which meant if he was hurting, and trying this hard to pretend he wasn't, hen maybe it wasn't nothing after all.
And Robby hated mysteries.
Especially when they involved people he cared about, even if he wasn't quite ready to admit why.
The universe, as it often did in emergency medicine, immediately decided that any thought Robby had about Dennis Whitaker's mysterious side pain was a problem for Future Michael.
Present Michael had three ambulance arrivals, a psych patient convinced the vending machine was transmitting messages from God, and a six-year-old who had somehow managed to get a Lego piece lodged in his nostril.
“Not the first time?” Robby asked the exhausted mother.
“Third.”
“Third?”
The little boy grinned proudly.
“It was Darth Vader this time.”
“Of course it was.”
By eleven-thirty, Robby had lost track of how many coffees he'd consumed, Abbott had somehow migrated back from "eating" into "working" despite Dana threatening violence, and Santos had already accumulated enough material to bully everyone for the next month.
“Hey Crash!,” she announced, appearing beside the younger resident like a malevolent spirit. “You're blinking weird.”
Javadi blinked.
“How does one blink weird?”
“Like you're buffering.”
“Trinity—”
“You know who else buffered?”
Jack groaned.
“No.”
“Windows Vista.”
Jack walked away.
“Coward.”
“Trinity!” Dana barked.
“What?”
“Work.”
“I am.”
“Bullying isn't work.”
“It absolutely is.”
Meanwhile, Dennis was everywhere.
Not literally, of course. It just felt like he was.
Room four, helping with sutures. Room eight, carrying blankets. Running labs. Talking to families. Calming down a nervous teenager.
Somehow remembering that Mrs. Ramirez wanted extra pudding and that Bed Nine's husband took his coffee black.
The kid had too much heart. Too much energy. Too much willingness to help. Which made it all the stranger that every now and then, Robby caught him slowing down.
Touching his side. Rolling his shoulder. Stretching. Then smiling and carrying on.
And every time Robby thought, "I should ask."
… And every time someone yelled for him. Because emergency medicine had the timing of a Greek tragedy.
By noon, he'd just finished explaining to a man that WebMD was not, in fact, equivalent to medical school, when he rounded the corner of the nurses' station and nearly collided with a blur of blond hair and blue scrubs.
“Oof!”
Both of them jerked backward. Dennis almost dropped a chart.
“Oh my God!”
“Jesus, Whitaker-”
“Sorry!”
Whitaker immediately stepped back. Too far, nearly bumping into a supply cart.
“Sorry, Dr. Robby, sorry, I wasn't looking—”
“You didn't hit me with a truck.”
“No, but—”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry.”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry.”
“Will you stop apologizing?”
Whitaker blinked.
“Sorry?…”
Robby stared. Whitaker stared. Then they both burst out laughing.
“Okay, that one was funny,” Robby admitted.
Dennis grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry.”
“Don't push your luck.”
“Sorry.”
“Dennis.”
“Okay.”
The grin lingered. And just as quickly as it had appeared, Robby saw it disappear. Whitaker shifted, looked away and adjusted the chart in his hands.
And there it was again. That strange urge to flee. Like a deer deciding whether to bolt.
“Hey.”
Whitaker froze.
“Hm?”
“Did I say something or-”
“No!”
“You sure?”
“Yes!”
“You just looked like you were trying to escape.”
“No, I wasn't.”
“Whitaker.”
“I wasn't.”
“You absolutely were.”
“No.”
“You moved three feet away.”
“Well…”
“Well?”
Whitaker smiled weakly.
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“No?”
“That wasn't convincing.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yeah.”
Robby folded his arms.
“What'd I do?”
“Nothing.”
“Dennis.”
“Really, nothing!”
“Then why are you looking at me like I'm about to grade your homework?”
Whitaker snorted.
“I don't know?”
“No, seriously.”
“You didn't say anything.”
“Did I look annoyed?”
“No.”
“Mad?”
“No.”
“Disappointed?”
“No.”
Whitaker looked horrified.
“Oh God, was I disappointing?”
“No!”
“Because I can—”
“Whitaker, focus-”
“Right.”
“Breathe.”
“Okay.”
“You know, most people don't react like they're being interrogated by the FBI when I ask if they're alright.”
“Well…”
“That wasn't reassuring.”
Whitaker laughed softly.
“No.”
“You know you can tell me if something's wrong.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Silence. Dennis shifted again.
“Okay, I'm gonna—”
“Bolt?”
“Not bolt.”
“Retreat strategically?”
Whitaker laughed.
“Maybe?”
“Dennis.”
“Hm?”
“Seriously.”
Blue eyes lifted.
“You know you don't have to run away every time I talk to you?”
Whitaker blinked. Then his cheeks went pink.
“Oh.”
“Did you know you do that?”
“No.”
“Mm.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Right.”
“You apologize like Canadians.”
“I've never even been to Canada.”
“Could've fooled me.”
Whitaker smiled. That shy one. Not the easy one he gave patients. Not the one he used when Trinity was roasting him. This one was quieter. Warmer.
And, somehow, younger.
“Sorry.”
Robby groaned, a hand over his face.
“Oh, for God's sake-”
Whitaker laughed, head ducked, shoulders shaking. And Robby couldn't help smiling back. Which was precisely when Trinity rounded the corner carrying iced coffee.
She stopped. Looked at them. Looked between them and narrowed her eyes.
“Interesting.”
Dennis practically jumped.
“Oh!”
And immediately tried to flee.
“Hi, Trinity.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have things.”
“What things?”
“Medical things.”
“Medical things,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Name one.”
“Medicine?”
“HUCKLEBERRY-”
Whitaker practically vanished around the corner. Santos watched him go, then slowly turned toward Robby, who was still smiling.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Santos.”
“Nope.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Santos.”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Trinity.”
“You know, I don't know what's funnier.”
“Here we go...”
“The fact that he runs away every time you smile at him…”
“Trinity.”
“…or the fact that you're genuinely confused by it.”
“… Confused by what?”
“Exactly.”
She patted his shoulder.
“Never change, old man.”
And walked away.
Leaving Robby standing there with absolutely no idea what she'd just meant. And unfortunately for everyone involved, it was becoming something of a pattern.
But the emergency department did not care about feelings.
Or timing.
Or the fact that Robby had just spent the better part of five minutes wondering why Whitaker reacted to kindness like it was a suspicious substance.
No, the emergency department cared about a fifty-eight-year-old woman who had managed to fall down an entire flight of stairs while carrying laundry. Which, according to her husband, had happened because she'd decided she could absolutely carry the basket and text her sister at the same time.
“Harold,” the woman groaned as they wheeled her in. “I don't need commentary.”
“You almost died doing laundry!”
“I'm fine.”
“You said that with your arm bent funny!”
“Harold.”
“You scared me, Nancy.”
Robby was already gloving up.
“Nancy, I'm Dr. Robby. Where's the pain?”
“Everywhere.”
“Specifics?”
“My left arm. My pride. Harold's never gonna shut up.”
“I heard that.”
Dennis appeared beside him.
“Vitals are stable. BP's good.”
And Robby blinked. Because— Jacket. Not a hoodie. Not a coat he'd just forgotten to take off. An actual dark zip-up jacket over his scrubs.
Long sleeves.
Zipped almost all the way up.
Robby frowned.
It was June. The ER wasn't cold. Hell, Santos had spent the entire morning complaining it was too hot.
And Dennis—Dennis practically melted in winter. The kid usually lived in short sleeves. Robby had seen him in January wearing scrubs and bad decisions.
“Whitaker.”
“Yeah?”
“You cold?”
Dennis looked up.
“What?”
“You cold?”
“Oh.”
Fast.
Too fast.
“No.”
Robby blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why are you wearing a jacket?”
“Oh, uh…”
Dennis smiled. The awkward smile.
“Laundry.”
“Laundry?”
“Yeah.”
“Your laundry.”
“Yep.”
“You only have one shirt?”
“No.”
“Dennis.”
“I just…”
He tugged the zipper absentmindedly.
“Didn't feel like taking it off.”
“Hm.”
“It's comfy.”
“You hate sleeves.”
“I don't hate sleeves.”
“Whitaker.”
“Okay, I mildly dislike sleeves.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway.”
Dennis looked suspiciously relieved when Nancy interrupted by trying to sit up.
“Ma'am, don't move,” he said immediately.
The moment passed. For now. Work came first. As it always did.
X-rays. Pain medication. Questions. A probable fracture. Nothing life-threatening, thankfully. Harold hovered like an anxious golden retriever.
“Can I hold her hand?”
“Yes,” Robby said.
“Can I tell her she's stubborn?”
“No.”
Nancy smiled sleepily.
“You love me.”
Harold squeezed her fingers.
“Unfortunately.”
Dennis snorted. And God, he had such an easy laugh, always had. Robby didn't know when he'd started noticing that. Or why.
“Alright,” Robby said. “Let's transfer her.”
They moved as one. Years of training and routine. Jack had wandered over to help.
“On three.”
“One, two, three.”
The transfer went smoothly.
Dennis reached, adjusted his grip… and the sleeve rode up.
Robby froze.
Purple. Dark. Angry. Not one bruise.
Several.
Along his wrist. His forearm. One yellowing. Another fresh. One shaped like fingers.
His heart stopped.
Dennis saw him see. The smile disappeared fast. Not completely but enough that something awful settled in Robby's chest. Dennis yanked his sleeve down immediately.
Too fast.
Eyes lowering.
“Oh.”
Quiet.
Embarrassed.
Ashamed.
Like he'd done something wrong. And Robby hated that expression. Hated it.
“Whitaker…”
Blue eyes darted up. Then away. And before Robby could say another word—
“Whitaker!”
Dana.
From the hall.
“Need you in six!”
Dennis practically jumped.
“Coming!”
“Dennis.”
“Sorry!”
“Dennis-”
But he was already moving.
“Room six!”
Dana repeated. And Whitaker was gone.
Escaping, head down, face pink. Hand gripping the sleeve. Not looking back.
Robby stood there.
Nancy asking Harold if she'd broken her butt. Jack rambling about lunch. Some monitor beeping.
But none of it registered.
Finger-shaped.
God.
Finger-shaped bruises.
And the jacket. The exhaustion. The winces. The ribs. The flinching. The apologizing. Running. Smiling. Reassuring everyone else.
People in trouble did that. People being hurt did that. People made excuses. People hid things. People smiled and said they were fine.
“Robby?”
Jack's voice.
Robby blinked.
“What?”
“You okay?”
No. No, he wasn't. Because Dennis had looked embarrassed. Like getting caught was worse than getting hurt. And that terrified him.
“Robby?”
Jack frowned.
“You look weird.”
Robby swallowed.
“He's wearing a jacket.”
“What?”
“Whitaker.”
Jack blinked.
“What about it?”
“He never wears a jacket.”
“Okay?”
“He winced this morning.”
“Everybody winces.”
“Bruises.”
“What?”
“His wrists.”
Jack's smile faded.
“Bruises?”
“Forearms.”
Jack frowned.
“Like…”
“I don't know.”
That was the truth.
He didn't know. And years in trauma medicine had taught him one thing: when you didn't know, you assumed the worst until proven otherwise. Because assuming wrong could get someone killed…