tiredaha
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"The pedes consult for the kid in South 6," he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of really fucking obvious. "Do we know who's coming down?"
Dana continued typing. "Someone from pedes."
"Yes, but who from pedes?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know who I'm working with. For-” Robby waved his hands around. “-continuity purposes." Robby hoped that wasn’t as pathetic as it sounded.
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Dennis washed up and headed toward the room, pulling up the chart one more time on his tablet as he walked. Stable. No new changes since he last checked. Just waiting. Still not looking hopeful. He knocked lightly before entering. He stepped inside and pulled the curtain partially closed behind him, giving the family privacy. The overhead lights were dimmer now. The steady hum of the ventilator filled the quiet.
He turned and froze, a stuttered breath leaving his mouth as he choked on his greeting.
A gun.Or, Post-Sabbatical, Dennis is held hostage by a patient’s grieving family member.
Series
- Part 2 of Hucklerobby Fics
Bookmarked by tiredaha
04 Mar 2026
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fill me with joy in your presence (eternal pleasures at your right hand) by sunkiss3d
Fandoms: The Pitt (TV)
03 Mar 2026
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Dennis lays in the bed with a stillness so absolute it feels staged. A ventilator breathes for him in measured sighs, the sound too rhythmic to be human. It almost looks like he’s a kid pretending to sleep in the backseat of his parents’ car, hoping to be carried inside by strong paternal arms.
Robby would do anything for that to be the case. Instead, it is sedation that has smoothed away the sharpness from Dennis’s features.
It is a heart attack that has made him so still.
Or,
Dennis Whitaker fails to clear and gets shocked by a defibrillator. He takes it as a punishment for sinful eyes that can't seem to look away from Dr. Robby and decides not to tell anyone. The ER keeps moving, but Dennis's heart doesn't. It terribly, horribly doesn't.
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Summary
But Dennis had a secret.
He fought.
Not in a gym. Not in anything legal.
Underground. Cash fights. No names, no paperwork, no questions.
He had not gone looking for it at first. He had overheard someone talking in a bar, desperate and half drunk, saying it was easy money. Dennis had been desperate too.
He was not great, but he was not bad either. Good enough to get paid. Good enough to cover groceries, gas, and the little things Trinity’s house always seemed to need.
He knew it was wrong. He was training to save people, not hurt them. The hypocrisy sat heavy in his chest every time he wrapped his hands.
Sometimes, late at night, after a shift where Robby had smiled at him too softly or Abbot had looked at him for too long, Dennis would stand in a warehouse that smelled like sweat and rust, his hands taped and his jaw already tight, and wonder when exactly his life had split in two.
One under fluorescent lights, trying to become someone better.
One in the dark, doing what he had to in order to survive.
And he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach twist, that sooner or later those two lives were going to crash into each other.
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