Chapter Text
Robby
"Good luck with these kids today," Abbot mutters, shrugging into his coat, tea in one hand, backpack in the other. "Try not to scare 'em off, yeah?" Robby rolls his eyes. "I'm serious."
Robby snorts, raises his cup in mock salute. "No promises." He leans against the nurses' station counter, one ankle crossed over the other.
There's a single second of blessed silence, before they file in, a little herd of freshly ironed scrubs and nervous smiles, all trying to look like they belong. He clicks his tongue to get the attention of the handful of nurses lingering around central.
"As you can see," he says, pitching his voice up just enough to sound friendly despite his tiredness, "we've got some new faces with us this morning. Good morning." He waves them closer, scanning the small crowd—bright eyes, jittery smiles, the scent of nerves and burnt coffee. "Starting with second-year resident Dr. Melissa King, fresh from the VA."
"Everyone calls me Mel," she says, upbeat. "Happy to be here."
"Welcome, Mel." Robby turns, gesturing to the woman up next.
"Trinity Santos, Intern,"
Robby nods, he likes her already. Slight arrogance, just enough to ensure she'll make it in whatever specialty she inevitably chooses. He turns to the next person.
"Victoria Javadi, MS3." She gives a little wave. Robby nods again, making a mental note to check on her throughout the day. Next is—
"Dennis Whitaker, MS4,"
Robby turns to him, and something catches. The world narrows to the boy's face—the line of his jaw, the tired look in his eyes, the way a small, shy smile plays at his lips. Something familiar. Everything slows, like everything around him is taking one long breath.
The kid stands there, easy but careful, voice even, eyes steady. There’s nothing remarkable about him, not at first glance. And yet—there’s that pull.
It’s faint, but it’s there. Recognition without a name.
He blinks, once, twice, trying to place it. Can’t. The moment stretches anyway.
Then Dennis looks back at him—only a flicker of eye contact, polite, fleeting—and it’s like the room exhales all at once. The noise returns, the hum of voices, the shuffle of paper, the smell of cheap coffee.
"Welcome to the Pitt,"
He runs through introductions—Dana, Collins, Langdon—and then the morning swallows them whole. The first trauma hits before he's even finished his first coffee, EMTs shouting, the rattle of gurneys, metal against tile. Someone says "blunt head," someone else says "LMA in place." He moves on instinct—gloves, orders, airway, vitals. His body knows the rhythm before his mind does.
It's noise and light and motion. No room for thought.
By the time he makes it to Trauma Two, he's sweating under his isolation gown, the adrenaline in his blood already fading to its usual hum.
The woman's screaming. Her leg's a mess—blood, bone, the kind of injury you don't look at too long if you want to stay steady. Collins and Langdon are already there, the nurses moving in sync.
"Did she faint or trip off the platform?" he asks.
"Nobody knows," one of the EMTs says. "The other guy jumped down, pulled her off just as the train was rolling in."
"Isolated injury to the foot?"
"Got caught between the platform and the train."
Collins leans in. "Ma'am? Can you tell me your name?"
Another scream. Sharp, high-pitched, cutting through everything.
Robby glances at the monitor, at the lines of her body, at the blood pooling under the table. The noise fades for half a second, like the room's been turned down a notch, and that's when he feels it—presence at his back.
He doesn't need to turn. He knows.
Whitaker.
The kid's right behind him, close enough that Robby can feel the shift in the air when he exhales. That same quiet energy as before—steady, observant, way too composed for a student on his first day.
It shouldn't rattle him, but it does.
He clears his throat, eyes on the wound, voice even. "Students," he says. "What might've made her faint on the platform?"
"Uh—TIA, CVA," Javadi says.
"Could be an arrhythmia," Whitaker adds, voice low but sure. "Cardiac event."
Robby nods, pretending the sound doesn't dig under his ribs. "So she needs…"
"Head CT," Javadi says quickly.
"EKG and troponin," Whitaker finishes.
"OK," Robby says. "Good." He steps back, glove catching on the edge of the table. The room is too loud—metal trays clattering, someone yelling about morphine as the woman's screaming slowly fades. A voice cuts through the noise.
"Any way I can speak with her?"
Robby glances up. A cop is standing in the doorway, notebook out, already looking tired despite the fact that it's barely 8AM.
"Highly doubt it," Robby says, pulling at his glove until it snaps off. "We don’t even know what language she speaks." He tosses the gloves into the bin, hits the sanitizer. "Hey, uh, any chance she jumped?"
"She may have been pushed."
Robby freezes, gives him a slightly horrified look. "Jesus."
"Yeah." The officer sounds solemn. "We could be looking at a possible hate crime."
Robby lets out a slow breath, rubs the bridge of his nose.
"Dr. Robinavitch."
He turns. Gloria's already moving, heels clicking against tile in that particular rhythm that means now, not later. He chances one last look at Whitaker before he follows, his hands finding the dispenser again even though he's just sanitized them.
"I take it you're free now?" she says, not waiting for an answer. "We need to talk about your numbers."
"Of people we've saved?"
"Metrics."
He sighs. It's always the same old song with Gloria. "Our door-to-balloon times beat federal standards."
"I'm talking about Press Ganey scores. Patient satisfaction."
"If they're still alive, they should be satisfied."
Gloria doesn't break stride. "Our goal is 36% very satisfied with their care. Your department is at 8%."
He's nodding as he ditches his isolation gown, making the right noises—yeah, uh-huh, I hear you—but his attention snags on movement through the trauma bay doors. Whitaker's still in there, bent over a chart, pen moving in quick, efficient strokes. One of the nurses says something and the kid looks up, nods, responds. Engaged. Present.
That pull again. Faint but insistent.
Robby tries to place it—the angle of his shoulders, the way he holds his pen, something about the cadence when he spoke earlier. Cardiac event. Calm, certain. Not showing off, just... knowing.
Where has he—
"—simply can't continue at this rate," Gloria's saying, and he makes an agreeable sound, eyes still tracking Whitaker through the glass. The kid shifts, turns slightly, and for half a second Robby thinks he might look up, might catch him staring. But he doesn't. Just keeps writing.
Robby should ask him. Later. Casual. Hey, have we met before? You look familiar. Except that sounds insane, and he's not even sure what he's asking about. Just that there's something.
Whitaker drifts toward the door, disappearing from view, and the loss of it yanks Robby back into his body. Gloria's still talking.
"—budget can't support that."
He laughs, short and sharp. "Here's a dirty little secret. The hospital saves money keeping patients down here in the Pitt. It's way cheaper than staffing upstairs."
Gloria's expression hardens. "I have asked you repeatedly to stop referring to the emergency department as the Pitt. It is derogatory and incompatible with the institution's image."
"You know what's incompatible with the institution's image?" Robby sees Dana stiffen out of the corner of his eye, but he's already rolling. "Me talking to the media about people who code in our waiting rooms and people who get shitty care in our hallways waiting for days for an ICU bed."
Her voice goes cold. "I've heard about doctors who have tried that and find themselves out of work."
"Uh-huh."
She pauses, and when she speaks again there's something almost soft in it. Almost. "I know today is difficult for you."
Robby gives no quarter, refusing to acknowledge the opening she's offered. "Every day is difficult down here."
"Boarding is a nationwide problem." Gloria leans back on her heels. "Your predecessor, Adamson, sure as hell knew that." She tilts her head, eyes sharp. "Or wasn't that something he taught you?"
The name hits like a fist. He feels his jaw tighten, the muscles in his shoulders going rigid. "Fuck. Wow. Really?"
"Yes, really." No sympathy now. Just facts. "Other hospitals are managing this crisis much more effectively. So you can either step up your game, or you can step aside."
She walks off, heels clicking ominously against the floor, leaving him standing there with the taste of copper in his mouth and Adamson's name ringing in his ears. He turns just in time to catch the thumbs up Dana gives him from behind the charting area, a flicker of grim solidarity that does exactly nothing to fix the hole in his gut.
Dennis
Dennis catches fragments of Robby's conversation as he and Javadi round the corner toward central—nurses clustered around the desk, Robby standing in the middle with that particular brand of exhaustion that looks like it's been baked into his bones.
"Cardiac arrest, ETA..." Donahue says, phone still in his hand. "Where should we put it?"
"Anywhere." Robby doesn't even look up from whatever chart he's scribbling in.
"We might have to put somebody in the hall," Dana adds, and there's an edge to her voice that says she's not thrilled about it either.
Dennis steps forward, Javadi half a pace behind. He allows her to come up in front. "Dr. Robby? She, uh, took a fall."
Robby glances up, first at Javadi, then past her—directly at Dennis. The question's already in his eyes.
Dennis shakes his head. Just once. She's not fine.
"Why don't you go get a cold drink in the staff lounge?" Robby says, turning back to Javadi with an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I'm fine, really. I swear."
"Oh, I know, but it's hospital policy." He shrugs, a small, dismissive gesture. "Anytime someone gets a paper cut around here, we have to fill out a workers' comp report."
Javadi nods, starts walking.
"Other way," Robby says, jerking his chin toward the correct hallway. She course-corrects after checking with Dennis, face flushing.
The nurses scatter, moving on to their respective patients, and it's just the two of them now. Dennis and Robby. Standing there in the hum of the ER, close enough that Dennis can see the smudge of something—coffee, maybe—on the sleeve of Robby's hoodie.
He looks exactly the same.
It's the millionth time Dennis has thought it since this morning—since he stood there introducing himself and watched Robby's face do that thing, that flicker of almost-recognition. The same sharp jawline. The same tired eyes. The same way he holds himself, like he's carrying the weight of a whole department on his shoulders.
"What happened?" Robby asks, and his voice pulls Dennis back.
"Uh—degloving. We were setting it and she probably just got grossed out." He shrugs, trying for casual. "Everybody takes at least one spill in med school, right?"
Robby's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "What was yours?"
Dennis feels heat crawl up his neck. "Too embarrassing to mention."
"Mine was in an OR," Robby says, leaning back against the counter, arms crossing loose over his chest. "Watching my first appendectomy. Surgeon pulled the inflamed appendix out, dropped it in a sterile bowl right in front of me." He pauses, grin spreading slow. "Can't remember anything else about the surgery because when I woke up, I was in the ER with smelling salts under my nose."
Dennis laughs—can't help it. The image of Robby, younger, hitting the floor in front of a whole surgical team. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious. The interns did not let me live it down." Robby shakes his head, still grinning. "So trust me, Javadi's in good company."
The moment stretches. Easy. Almost comfortable.
Then something shifts in Robby's expression—his eyes narrow just slightly, like he's trying to solve a problem he's been noodling on all morning. Dennis feels his stomach drop. He's going to ask. Dennis can practically hear the words before they're formed. Do I know you? Have we met before?
Dennis is already bracing for it, already dreading the conversation, the explanations, the—
"Go make sure she actually fills out that report, yeah?" Robby says instead, straightening up. "Last thing I need is Gloria on my ass about paperwork."
Dennis watches him turn, watches the set of his shoulders, the rhythm of his stride as he moves toward the next thing, the next emergency.
He doesn't ask.
Dennis exhales slow, something between relief and disappointment settling in his chest as he circles the desk and makes his way to the staff lounge.
The second he walks in, the smell hits him—burnt coffee and someone's leftover pad thai. Javadi is hunched over a clipboard at the small table, pen moving in slow, careful strokes. Dennis leans against the doorframe, pulls out his phone.
One missed call from his mom—probably wishing him good luck, telling him to eat something, reminding him she's proud of him. He swipes past it. Three unread texts sit beneath it, but his thumb hovers over the email notification at the top instead.
BRIGHT HORIZONS - Welcome to...
He taps it, watches the screen load.
"You look like I did on my son's first day of kindergarten. Lotta nervous energy around you."
His head snaps up. McKay's standing by the fridge, grinning at him over the door, and his thumb moves on instinct—locking the screen, shoving the phone into his pocket so fast he nearly fumbles it. His heart kicks up, stupid and too loud in his ears.
Did she see? Could she have seen from that angle?
"I—what? No, I'm not—" he stammers.
McKay just laughs, easy and warm. "Relax, Whitaker. I'm messing with you." She grabs a banana, peels it with one hand, takes a bite. Her eyes flick toward Javadi, then back to him. "Come find me when you're done, yeah?"
"I wasn't checking on anything," Dennis says, but she's already gone, the door swinging shut behind her. Javadi looks up, eyebrow raised. "What?" Dennis asks, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice.
"Nothing." She goes back to her form.
He doesn't move. Just stands there, phone burning a hole in his pocket, pulse still too fast for no good reason.
Robby
It's not always about you, Robby.
Collins's voice still sits under his skin as he rounds the corner back to central, that edge of frustration in her tone he can't quite shake off. He pushes it aside—or tries to—approaching Dana at the desk.
"Hey, Abbot told me he's got a pregnant teen coming back today for mifepristone. Let me know when she gets here."
"Yep."
"Oh, one of the med students took a header." He laughs to himself and Dana smacks his arm lightly in reprimand. "I parked her in the lounge under the guise of a work comp report. Will you just go in there, eyeball her, and make sure she's all right?"
"She's gonna miss the morning arrival of the living dead."
"How many are we expecting?"
"We were getting three, but one died en route." She doesn't look up from her chart. She says something else but he's already moving, asking her what's open, guiding the EMTs to room 14, the telltale thump-thump-thump of the LUCAS machine cutting through the ambient noise of the ER.
"History of emphysema, CHF, MS," one of the EMTs shouts over the rhythm. "V-fib, unresponsive to three shocks. Two rounds of epi."
"What is that?" Whitaker's voice, somewhere to his left. Robby tries not to turn toward him. Doesn't quite manage it.
"LUCAS chest compression system," Mohan says.
"Robotic CPR," Langdon adds.
"Okay, everybody get a hold," Robby says, hands already reaching for the backboard. "One, two, three."
They lift—and then there's a shout.
Whitaker. Sharp, sudden, startled.
Robby's head snaps toward him. The kid's yanking his hand back, face twisted in pain, finger already reddening where it got caught under the edge of the backboard.
"Your students are dropping like flies," Langdon mutters.
Robby ignores him, eyes still on Whitaker. "Take a break. Ice the finger," The kid's head does a weird sort of motion, like he wants to look at him but forces himself not to, a stutter-step in the middle of the action. It niggles at Robby, that slight, almost imperceptible break in his composure. He brushes it aside, moving to 15 before he does something stupid like grab the kid by the collar and attempt to shake the answers to all his questions out of him.
They're already moving their latest arrival to the bed when he steps in and while his eyes track the patient's chest rising and falling, shallow and quick, his mind is stuck in the other room. Blue eyes. That flush creeping up Whitaker's neck when he'd talked about his first day embarrassment. The way he'd almost smiled before catching himself.
"Pulse 130. BP 90 over 60. Gave him 500 cc's normal saline."
"Hi, Mr. Spencer. I'm Dr. King, this is..."
The patient blinks, confused, voice thin and reedy. "Is it dinnertime? I... I'm not really hungry."
Blue eyes, sparkling under—what? Fairy lights? That doesn't make sense. Where would he have seen fairy lights? The image flickers and fades before he can grab hold of it.
"Do we have any paperwork from the facility?" Robby hears himself ask.
"He has a POLST. IV fluids and medications are fine, but no intubation and no chest compressions."
"That's helpful."
His hands are checking the patient's pulse, feeling the thready rhythm under his fingertips, but all he can think about is that moment by central. The way Whitaker had looked at him—or hadn't. The deliberate avoidance of eye contact, like meeting Robby's gaze would be a risk. Why?
"Coarse rhonchi here," Mel says.
"Right middle lobe infiltrate," Collins adds.
Those same eyes rolling good-naturedly behind a glass of—water? The image is there and gone, gossamer-thin, and he can't pin it down. Can't make it stick.
"Temp 102. Call a code sepsis."
"Mm-hmm," Robby says.
"Code?" Mel sounds uncertain.
Hands. Soft hands tracing the line between his brow, gentle, careful, like—
No. That's not right. He'd remember something like that. Wouldn't he?
He blinks, pulls himself back into the room. "To make sure we check all of our boxes. The federal government audits our sepsis bundle performance and publishes the data online. Today, it better be perfect."
Collins nods, already moving. "Two sets of blood cultures, lactic acid, a gram of ceftriaxone, repeat lactic in three hours."
"Nice." He throws her a compliment, aware he's been more distracted than usual today. His eyes keep straying toward the door, back toward 14, as if pulled by a string. He tries to focus, but he's already drifting again. The steady beep of the monitor fades into white noise. He sees Whitaker's hand pulling back from the backboard, that flash of pain across his face. The way he'd cradled his finger against his chest, shoulders drawing in.
The way he wouldn't look at Robby.
The fragments keep slipping through his fingers—fairy lights, a glass of water, soft hands—disconnected, impossible. Like puzzle pieces that don't belong to any picture he can remember.
He turns, heading back to 14.
Dennis
Dennis keeps his eyes on the monitor. The numbers blur slightly at the edges, his focus more on keeping his gaze away from the doorway than on what's actually in front of him. He can feel Robby there—not see him, just feel him, like the air shifts differently when he's in a room.
"Charging, and..."
The defibrillator hums, building.
Dana bursts through the door, form clutched in one hand. "Stop. Call it. Nursing home just faxed us a DNR."
There's a beat of stunned silence before Langdon scoffs, sharp and bitter. "Are you kidding me?"
Mohan's already moving, voice calm. "Power off the defibrillator and the LUCAS."
The techs comply. The machine winds down, and the rhythmic thumping—the sound that's been filling the room for the last ten minutes—cuts out. The absence of it feels louder than the noise.
"Complete waste of time and money." Langdon's already pulling off his gloves, voice laced with irritation. "Who the hell works at that place?"
"A nurse," Robby says, and there's no anger in his voice. Just tired understanding. "taking care of 60 patients who couldn't find the form."
"She called 911 so she could take care of the others," Dana adds.
"OK," Robby takes a deep breath. "Let's move her to the viewing room and notify the family."
Langdon heads for the door, already halfway to gone, but Robby shifts—just one smooth motion—and his arm comes up to block the exit. It's casual. Easy. But it stops Langdon in his tracks.
Something twists in Dennis's stomach. Sharp and ugly and completely irrational. Jealousy—shameful, pointless jealousy over an arm across a doorway, over nothing at all.
He swallows it down, forces it into a box somewhere he doesn't have to look at it.
"One of the things we do here," Robby says, and his voice is quieter now but somehow it fills the whole room, "is to take a moment of silence when we lose a patient, to respect their humanity. And also to remember that this was somebody's child—"
Dennis feels Robby's gaze land on him before he even looks up. The weight of it is physical, inescapable. When he does lift his eyes, Robby's staring right at him. Brown eyes steady, searching.
Guilt floods through Dennis, hot and sharp. He looks away.
"—or sibling or parent—"
He can't not look. He drags his gaze back up, and Robby's still watching him. Their eyes lock. The room narrows to just that—brown meeting blue, the space between them humming with something Dennis can't name and doesn't want to.
"—friend."
He nods, his throat too tight to speak.
The silence stretches out, heavy and sacred. Dennis can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Can feel the ache in his crushed finger, the exhaustion settling into his bones, the phone in his pocket that he can feel vibrating—
♪ I like the sound of funky music ♪
No. No, no, no—
"Oh." He lunges for his pocket, panic flooding his veins, his finger catches on the edge of the fabric. Pain flares bright and immediate. "Ow, ow!"
He wrestles the phone free, silences it with shaking hands, but not before the screen lights up long enough for him to see it.
Mom - Mobile
His face is on fire. Everyone's staring. He can feel it—Langdon's irritation, Dana's mild surprise, Mohan's quiet disapproval.
Robby's unreadable expression.
"I am so sorry," Dennis says, and his voice comes out smaller than he intended.
Robby just looks at him for a long moment. Then, quiet: "Maybe leave it on vibrate while you're working?"
"Yeah. Yes. I—sorry."
He shoves the phone back into his pocket, fingers clumsy, and wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole. The moment breaks—people moving again, returning to their tasks, the patient being wheeled toward the viewing room—but Dennis stays rooted there for half a second too long, watching Robby's back as he walks away.
His finger throbs. Really throbs now, the adrenaline wearing off enough that the pain registers as more than just background noise. He glances down at it—the nail bed already darkening, pressure building under the surface.
He finds Santos in the staff lounge, scrolling through her phone with a protein bar hanging out of her mouth.
"Hey," he says, holding up his hand. "Subungual hematoma."
She barely glances up. "You can wait for it to resolve on its own, or I can drain it. Your call."
"Drain it."
"Masochist." But she's already getting up, tossing the protein bar wrapper in the trash. "Come on."
They end up at one of the workstations near central, Santos pulling out supplies with the kind of efficiency that comes from doing this a hundred times before. Dennis sits, watches her prep the needle and tries not to think about how much this is going to hurt.
"Hold still," she says, and presses the needle through his nail.
It doesn't hurt as much as he expected. There's pressure, a weird sensation of something giving way, and then—
"Wow, pain's gone. Thank you."
"All right." Santos glances at the board on the monitor in front of her. She's already peeling open a yellow bandage with The Flash on it. He swallows, tries to keep his mind on the small conversation instead of the 32-pound miracle of a problem that won’t stay a secret forever. "How about a 20-year-old cough in eight? Should be easy. Probably viral."
Something prickles in Dennis's chest. "I don't need an easy one."
"Suit yourself, Huckleberry." She applies the bandage with quick, efficient movements, then picks up the sharps container and heads toward the nearby crash cart. "I'm gonna take the splitting headache. Maybe I'll catch a subarachnoid hemorrhage or something cool."
Dennis watches her move, feeling something shift in his assessment of her. Maybe he likes her. Just a little. "Hey, why do you keep calling me that? Huckleberry?"
"It's a term of endearment."
"It sounds like sarcasm."
Santos looks back over her shoulder, grinning wide. "You think?"
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Bordering on harassment."
"Where are you from?" She's back at the desk now, gathering up the bloody gauze and inco pad with one hand, casual as anything.
"Broken Bow, Nebraska."
Movement catches in his peripheral vision—Robby at central, head turning just slightly toward them. Not looking directly, but listening. Dennis can tell. His stomach drops.
"Jesus, where the hell is that?" Santos tosses the rolled-up pad into the trash, moves to the sanitizer dispenser.
"It's about three and a half hours west of Omaha." Dennis keeps his voice level, easy, but dread is pooling in his gut now. He can still feel Robby's attention, sharp and focused even though he's pretending to read whatever's in front of him. Dennis doesn't look. Refuses to look.
The sanitizer dispenser clicks. "Oh, yeah, just a little south of nowhere. What the hell do you do there?"
"My parents have a farm, so..."
"You're a farm boy?"
"Yeah, I guess."
Santos grins like she's just won something. "I rest my case, Huckleberry."
Dennis turns then—can't help himself, some magnetic pull he's been fighting all morning finally winning out—and his eyes find Robby.
Robby's already staring back. Face pale, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he's trying to form words and can't find them.
Stricken.
Like a puzzle piece just slammed into place.