Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay, c’mon, give me your hand” Dennis says, extending his arm. Standing there, covered in who knows whose blood.

Robby’s head is a mess. All at once it’s Leah’s blood all over his gown, and the baggie in Langdon’s locker, and riding Collins this morning, and David in Observation 2, and Jake – and Jake – and every other failure in this shift from hell. The memories mix, Collins’s blood on his gown and Jake laying braindead from a fent OD and he needs Langdon to stop compressions, and — “I can’t.”

He needs Adamson’s ECMO, the list of criticals is longer than he’s ever seen, and he hasn’t been able to see Janey or Jake in three weeks for fear of passing along the virus and he can’t, he just can’t take Adamson offline, and there’s a voice that cuts through it. “You have to. Because if you don’t, we’re fucked.”

Robby looks up, and he’s back in this moment. He’s been in peds the whole time, but he’s back in 2025. The kid — shit, he’s supposed to say ‘the student’ or ‘Whitaker’, set the example for his team and their patients — still has his hand extended. Robby meets his eyes, shocked at how the younger man broke through the noise, and takes his hand.

Robby stands with Whitaker’s help, then pushes him away. An instinct driven into him five years ago and yesterday echoes through his body: 6 feet of distance to minimize risk of transmission. The younger man backs up and grabs the blanket he came in here for. Robby feels his eyes on him, checking to make sure Robby’s on his feet for good, before the kid speaks: “Okay,” a short shaky breath, “see you out there, Captain.”

Robby takes a moment, breathes deep and tucks it all away with his Magen David, slips the memories under his scrubs for later. And he goes back out.

Chapter Text

“Okay, c’mon, give me your hand” he says, pulling Whitaker closer to the patient. Robby had peeked into South 4 while passing by and saw Whitaker barely trailing his fingers along the patient’s abdomen. That wouldn’t do, so he had entered the room and corrected the student. “This is how much pressure you should be applying. Much harder and you risk increased discomfort, much lighter and you risk not picking up important info.” Robby’s hand on his, Whitaker feels along the older woman’s abdomen. She lets out a gasp as they cross to her right side and Whitaker meets his attending’s eyes. The two lean back, facing each other over the patient. Robby gestures, “Present the case, Whitaker.”

Dennis rubs his knuckles as he steps away. He knows he’s bitten his lips all to hell and he can feel the sweat prickling at the base of his skull. He doesn’t want to disappoint his attending, but more than that, this case is just too close. “Meet Mrs. Ali, 57, female, first name Yasmin. Came in with sharp upper abdominal pain last night, consistent back pain between the shoulder blades, blood pressure’s just a bit high at 146/91 but dropping with enalapril — she missed her usual dose waiting in Chairs but we got her that a few minutes ago. Still some tenderness to the touch along the upper abdomen as you saw. No known allergies to medication.” 

“How do you want to play it?”

He stutters, clearly nervous. “Uh, yeah. EKG, labs, especially looking at troponin levels, monitor every three to five minutes for changes pending the results of the labs.” He’s wringing his hands, feeling the phantom sensation of ribs cracking under them. He won’t lose Mrs. Ali — she won’t die alone in the middle of the ER hallway. Not under his watch. Not this time.

“You sure about that?” Dennis freezes. “What are you missing, Whitaker?” He looks frantically around the room, checking monitors and the chart and scanning Mrs. Ali for some obvious thing he’s missed, failure that he is, and Yasmin’s going to die before her granddaughter’s dance recital this weekend, and Mrs. Ali’s husband is going to be crying in the visitation room, and he’s going to lose another patient.

The younger man finally looks up at Robby, whose face is the picture of concern. Dennis should be easing those wrinkles away, not causing them. That’s part of his job here, to make his attending’s life easier, to not fuck up. To be dependable, sturdy. He just doesn’t know what he’s missing. Seeing Dennis lost for words, Robby says, “Hold that thought. Whitaker, can I speak with you in the hall?” Turning to Mrs. Ali, “Yasmin, we will be back in just a moment.” Dennis all but bolts. 

Out in the hallway, Whitaker wrings his hands and tries not to let the tears actually fall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s missing something obvious, he’s failing the patient; even when Robby tried to help point it out, he still couldn’t figure it out. He’s spiraling, eyes roaming the floor and lips chewed raw until he feels a steady hand on his shoulder guiding him down the hall a bit to a more private area. Not that anywhere is truly private here.

Robby’s hand leaves Whitaker’s shoulder, forefinger trailing to under the younger man’s chin as he lifts his head. “Hey, hey, what’s going on? You feeling okay? I know it can be a lot down here.” Concerned brown eyes meet frantic blue, locking on for just a moment before Dennis looks down and tries – fails – to surreptitiously wipe away the tears that were forming. 

“No, no, I’m fine.” He is clearly not, and he knows it — feels the tears already welling up again. He speaks frantically, trying to mask the fear he feels as urgency. “Just wanna make sure Yasmin will be okay. I know three to five minutes is a lot, but I want to keep an eye on her. Can’t risk letting this go unnoticed again; we’ll need the response time if there’s an arrest.” 

(Dennis is just this side of hyperventilating and it’s becoming clear to Robby that this is something deeper. That’s when it clicks for Robby. He remembers Mr. Milton. He usually manages to box up the deaths and stick them deep in the recesses of his mind, ready to be unpacked in a nightmare somewhere down the line. Every single one from the day of PittFest is at the front of the line. But watching Whitaker run compressions for 10 minutes, long past when he should’ve stopped, makes Mr. Milton stick out from that day. Robby’s nightmares usually cast him in Whitaker’s spot, performing compressions on Janey, or Jake, or Heather, or Dana, or Abbot, or anyone else he’s ever loved.)

“Whitaker, take a breath. Deep breath for me.” 

The younger man can’t quite calm his breathing and his eyes are blurring with tears. Then two hands, strong and warm through the scrubs, grab his shoulders — deltoid, an unhelpful part of his brain reminds him — and bring him back to his body.

“Deep breath, in and out. Do you need to take a break?”

Of course he does, everyone in the department does. But he’s not going on break until his patient is safely discharged for outpatient care. Shaking his head, he says “No. Need to work the problem.”

Robby sighs resignedly, hands still on Whitaker’s shoulders. “Okay. We can do that. But first, I need you to do me a favor. Repeat after me: That is not Bennet Milton. This is a new patient who deserves my full attention. I can help. We save who we can.”

Dennis finally makes eye contact with the older man, freezing in place. Three words before his voice chokes, “That is not –”. He lets out a shaky breath and starts again. “That is not Bennet Milton. This is a new patient who deserves my full attention. I can help. We save who we can.” 

“Okay.” The hands drop away as Robby speaks, “Run it back. Special attention to current presentation.”

Dennis things back through the chart, composing himself while trying to view the case anew. “Okay. Older woman, episode of upper abdominal pain, consistent pain between the shoulder blades, tender to the touch on the right upper abdominal.” Something clicks for him, and he looks up at Robby with a questioning, almost hopeful, look. “Gallstones?” This earns a smile.

“Maybe. How can you diagnose?”

He knows this one. “Ultrasound. Labs should also show some indicators. Still wanna keep an eye on the troponin levels and the EKG in case.” 

Smiling down with what looks like pride, Robby nods and says, “Sure, never hurts to confirm.” And this is when Mel seemingly materializes with a question for Robby. He turns to pay attention to her, giving Whitaker a pat on the back and sending him on his way.

Steeling himself, Whitaker pauses outside the curtain. Quietly, just for himself, he repeats it: “I can help. We save who we can.” He doesn’t – can’t – see Robby’s faint smile when he overhears.