Chapter Text
When Dennis went up to the roof, quietly slipping away from his secret room on the eighth floor, he wasn’t quite sure what he thought he’d find. Peace, maybe. Some semblance of hope that once he was done with it all, med school, the residency, that he would finally have a life beyond this.
Or maybe he came up here to remind himself he had another choice.
Dennis looked out toward the skyline, feeling the wind blow in his face. It was risky, coming up here, especially this early in the morning, right as the night shift was ending. The ER was always busy, new cases coming more rapidly than they could keep up with.
But people always seemed to find their way up here.
Dennis shivered as another burst of wind stabbed through him, icy with dread. The awareness of how reckless he was being twisted his stomach into a knot, his nerves coiling tight. Every second up here was another gamble, another jab of fear at being discovered. If he got caught, it would all shatter. His fragile hopes, his desperate grasp at peace, gone in an instant.
Dennis took one last deep breath of the cold air, relishing the now familiar smell of dust and gasoline that filled the air before turning back toward the door. He yanked it open, ready to scurry his way back down to his room, when a body slammed into him.
“Oof,” Dennis stumbled back, his hand flying out to grab onto the first solid thing, which happened to be the other person. They both crashed onto the hard concrete floor, and Dennis winced on contact, dull pain shooting up his body.
Dennis quickly scrambled up, looking down to inspect himself. He was a little dirty now, specks of grime and dust staining his clothes, but otherwise no worse for wear. The person he had run into made a low sound, and Dennis found himself staring down at Dr. Abbot, who remained on the hard concrete floor of the roof, his brows furrowed.
He had been caught. Not by a resident, someone he could maybe persuade to keep his secret.
A senior attending.
His boss’s close friend.
Fuck.
Dennis opened his mouth, the excuse of a lost wallet on the tip of his tongue, when he noticed Abbot’s breathing. The shallow gasps of air, the rapid movement of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled.
“Fuck,” Abbot ground out between breaths, staring up at Dennis with a mix of pain and loathing in his face. “Of all the fucking times.”
Dennis stood there, unsure what to say. Abbot continued to hyperventilate, his pupils dilated large enough to swallow up the blue of his irises.
“Should I-uh, should I call someone?” Dennis asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as he stared down at Abbot, whose dry rasps for air had become more shallow. “Or get an inhaler?”
“Jesus,” Abbot choked back, his hand reaching up to tightly grasp his own throat. “Fuck off, kid.”
And Dennis was tempted. Tempted to slip down those stairs and back into his makeshift room and pretend that this interaction had never happened. But looking down at Abbot as he sat on the floor, his breathing shallow and his face set in a miserable grimace, Dennis saw something familiar reflected back.
It was what he’d felt the day he left Nebraska. The slow, crippling realization that what you believed in was gone.
Slowly, Dennis sank back down to the ground, kneeling next to Abbot. He picked up Abbot’s wrist and pressed his fingers firmly against the skin, feeling the man’s pounding radial pulse. It was high, which, combined with Abbot’s angry gasps for air, could result in him passing out, or worse.
Dennis took a slow breath before removing his hand from Abbot’s wrist, shifting forward to slowly grasp the man’s shoulder. Abbot jerked at the touch, his hand snapping up to grab Dennis’ wrist. His fingers curled around Dennis’ wrist, gripping it tight enough to hurt.
Abbot didn’t shove him away, though, just kept his fingers tightly wrapped around Dennis’ wrist, practically cutting off blood circulation. Dennis made a small grimace, his mouth pressing into a flat line. Better than getting pissed on, at least.
Abbot was still wheezing in front of him, and Dennis tried to speak as gently as he could, trying to keep his tone level and calm.
He’s like any other patient, Dennis reminded himself. Act professional.
“Dr. Abbot, I think that you may be having a panic attack.” Abbot made an irritated sound at the back of his throat that Dennis interpreted to be a duh, squeezing tighter around Dennis’ wrist. Dennis tried to run through his hazy recollection of the steps of treatment, the ones his Ma had walked him through. “Can you-do you think you can follow my breathing?”
“You think I don’t know how to fucking breathe?” Abbot panted back, his breathing picking up as he struggled to form words around each harsh inhale and exhale. “I’ve been breathing since before you were born, kid.”
Dennis bit back a remark, settling for giving Abbot a disbelieving side-eye that the man ignored, his breathing continuing its staccato rhythm. Dennis tried something else, glancing around the roof for inspiration. “What about your senses? Uh, can you name-”
“For the love of God, shut up.”
The pair fell into silence. With Abbot’s hand locked around his wrist, leaving wasn’t exactly an option. So, he stayed with Abbot’s, the grip around his wrist intermittently tightening and relaxing. Dennis tried to breathe extra loudly, making sure that Abbot could hear the steady sound of his inhale and exhale.
He didn’t speak, but in his mind he recited The Lord’s Prayer. He had learned it as a kid, sitting on his Ma’s lap, echoing her soft words. In college, he had studied it, turned it over until it was a bloody pulp of words strung together. Now, he flipped through the words quickly, running his mind over the familiar groove and feel of them, the comforting weight.
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…
It wasn’t perfect. He mixed up words and confused the order. But it was like a home-cooked meal, something warm, comforting, and a bit imperfect.
Minutes crept past, and Abbot’s breathing slowly evened to a more normal rate, almost syncing with Dennis’ slow inhale and exhale.
Dennis didn’t realize how close they were until Abbot finally loosened his grip on his wrist.
His hand lingered there for a moment before Abbot pulled away, reaching down to rub absentmindedly at his right leg.
Abbot’s expression slowly settled back into its usual authority. Dennis massaged his wrist, sensation rushing back to his hand now that bloodflow had returned. A slight tremor ran through his hand now, almost imperceptible but still noticeably there.
Dennis frowned as his hand continued to shake. It would be annoying to deal with tomorrow, he could almost hear Santos’ teasing voice in his ear, poking fun at his trembling hand as he held a scalpel.
“Thanks, kid.” Abbot’s voice interrupted Dennis’ train of thought. He glanced up at the gruff sound of Abbot’s voice, looking into the piercing eyes that were suddenly focused solely on him.
“I-yeah, of course. I mean, it’s what we’re here for, yeah?” Dennis shot Abbot a lopsided smile.
Silence fell between them for several long moments before Abbot let out a low laugh, his eyes crinkling in bemusement.
“Ah, med students, man,” Abbot murmured quietly, and Dennis bristled a little, feeling his chest tighten. He looked away from Abbot, taking in the sprawling city in front of him. The distant traffic lights and the random honk of a car horn.
Silence fell over them, a sharp, stifling feeling.
“You ever had one of those?” Abbot’s tone was suspiciously light.
“A panic attack?” Abbot nodded, his expression guarded. Dennis faltered at the question, torn between honesty and guarding the information. He settled on a half-answer. “My dad had them, still has them actually. He, uh, served in 1990, the first Gulf War. Gets nightmares a lot.”
Dennis shrugged and trailed off, hoping that Abbot hadn’t noticed him avoiding the question.
“Damn,” Abbot said slowly, making a small tsk sound. “And here I thought I was special. Served in ‘03.”
Dennis tilted his head to the side, trying to put together a timeline. “Afghanistan?”
Abbot gave him a crooked smile. “You know your history, kid.”
Dennis felt a bashful smile spreading on his face. “No, I just, well, I paid attention in school. In Nebraska, we had this one-” Dennis caught himself rambling and stopped mid-sentence, clearing his throat lightly.
Abbot was looking at him strangely, something close to intrigue on his face. “What about Nebraska?”
Dennis forced himself to smile, silently cursing himself. “Uh, it’s nothing, just a dumb history trivia competition. You-you got ice cream. I think it was, uh, butter pecan.”
Dennis’ voice trailed off at the end, embarrassment sweeping through him. The man just had a panic attack, and here Dennis was talking to him about ice cream flavors. Dennis eyed the edge of the building, wondering if he could make it to the edge in time to keep himself from saying something even more stupid.
“Damn,” Abbot made a small, disgusted sound, shaking his head reproachfully. “Who the hell gives kids butter pecan ice cream?”
Dennis frowned at Abbot. “I like butter pecan.”
Abbot stared at him for a moment. “Seriously?”
Dennis folded his arms. “I mean, it’s good! You get the pecans and-and the butter, and it's a good mix. It just…sounds a little weird.”
Abbot smirked at that, tilting his head to the side. “Never met someone under the age of 70 who liked butter pecan anything.”
Dennis couldn’t help but let out a small huff of laughter; his eyes darted up to meet Abbot’s amused gaze. He held it for a moment too long before looking away. “I take it you don’t like it?”
“No, I’m not-” Abbot stopped, his eyes narrowing in Dennis’ direction. “Oh, I see. You think I should like it because I’m old.”
Dennis stared at Abbot in horror, the implication of his question sinking in.
“No! No, I didn’t-I mean, you look great for your-I wouldn’t-”
“Relax, kid,” Abbot had that faintly amused look on his face again. “I know I’m old.”
“No, really, I’m very sorry, Dr. Abbot-”
“Dr. Whitaker,” Abbot started, and Dennis winced.
“Oh, uh, student doctor, actually-”
“Whitaker,” Abbot sounded both amused and exasperated. Dennis clamped his mouth shut, silently cursing himself. “Relax.”
Dennis tried to force himself to relax, which, in turn, only seemed to make him more aware of the tension in each muscle. They sat there together for several quiet moments.
Dennis wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to hear the case that had broken Abbot. But that was part of it, in a way. The hospital fucked them over, and the patients fucked them up, and at the end of the day, the only thing they had to lean on was each other.
But sitting there with Abbot, the exhaustion on his face was impossible to miss.
“What happened?” Dennis breathed out the words, almost too quiet to be heard. Abbot straightened, a shadow passing over his face, his eyes taking on a hard look.
“It seems you still have something to learn about patient confidentiality, Dr. Whitaker.” Abbot’s voice bordered on a reprimand, a silent warning.
“Of course,” Dennis tried not to wilt, willing himself to meet Abbot’s gaze, trying to keep his voice level. “Sorry, Dr. Abbot. Won’t happen again.”
Abbot raised an eyebrow, staring at Dennis, his face unreadable.
After a few tense moments, Abbot turned toward the city, the wind blowing his gray hair off the side, his face hidden from view.
“It was last week. Tuesday.” Abbot’s voice had a distant quality now, like he was no longer fully present here anymore. “He was just a kid, and he had so much life ahead of him. Even without a leg, he still...” Abbot trailed off, his grip on his own leg tightening for a moment before relaxing.
Dennis struggled to follow Abbot’s train of thought, his despair at the idea of a kid losing a limb. As much as Dennis hated to admit it, hated to think what it said about him, it was so ordinary.
He thought back to yesterday’s shift, when he had given a young boy one last push of morphine, promising that he would have a good rest, knowing that the boy would never wake up
Dennis struggled to find the right words, his mouth contorting, trying to form the right shape. “Well, I mean, people lose limbs all the time and live a perfectly normal life.” The words, meant to be consoling, came out misshapen and lumpy, getting stuck in his throat halfway through.
Abbot raised an eyebrow in Dennis’ direction.
“I know that.” He rapped lightly on the leg he had been massaging, a faint, hard knock sounding. Shiny black metal that poked out from the pant leg where skin should have been.
Ah, fuck.
“I didn’t-what I meant-”
Abbot just laughed at him, a real, genuine laugh. Dennis froze at the sound, staring as Abbot shot him a conspirational grin.
“It’s fine. Damn, IED had me discharged, but I can’t say something good hasn’t come out of it. Never would’ve met my wife if it hadn’t happened. Or be working here, though the jury’s still out on the benefits of that one.”
Dennis shared a smile with Abbot, a camaraderie around the spirit of working in the ER department. In the Pitt, where everything moved faster than they could fix it, where you had to be a little batshit insane to stay sane.
“It changes you,” Dennis said softly, more of a question than a statement. Abbot’s face contorted, a mixture of sadness and fondness.
“Yeah. Yeah, it does, I mean tonight…” Abbot trailed off with a deep sigh, closing his eyes for a moment before reopening them. “Anyway, that kid was on a football scholarship at Penn State, full ride, the real deal. And he’s sitting there, not crying, not angry, just totally quiet. And I talk to him. I show him my prosthetic, tell him that the world doesn’t end, that you don’t need a leg to live a damn good life.”
Abbot stopped, his face stony.
Dennis waited several moments before speaking. “Did that help him?”
“No.” Abbot glanced sideways at Dennis before shaking his head slowly. “It doesn’t help.”
“Oh.” Was all Dennis could think to say.
“He went all quiet for a bit. Then, he just started bawling. Said he couldn’t even fucking walk anymore.” Abbot rubbed a hand over his mouth.
“And I told him…”
He stopped for a second, his expression shuttering.
“‘Find something you can do then.’”
Dennis saw the rapid changes in his expression, the micro emotions flitting across his face.
“Did he?”
Abbot let out a small, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want some advice, kid?” Abbot interrupted him, though his words felt closer to a statement than a question.
Dennis met Abbot’s eyes, waiting. Abbot looked at him for several more seconds, the silence between them becoming louder until finally, mercifully, he looked away.
“You can’t make anyone live a life they don’t want to.” Abbot’s hand twisted around the ring on his left hand, a sad set to his lips. “Sometimes… sometimes you just can’t help them the way they need to be helped.”
Dennis furrowed his eyebrows, studying Abbot under the dim morning light that spilled across the roof.
“I don’t think I-”
“I should get going.” Abbot interrupted him again, still looking out toward the city, not even bothering to look at him. Dennis swallowed down his words, his throat suddenly tight and itchy. “It’s getting late.”
Abbot’s tone was level now, almost dismissive, as he slowly heaved himself up off the floor.
“Of course,” Dennis said, not moving from his kneeling position on the roof. He tried to keep his expression blank and not betray the whiplash he felt, the sickening hum buzzing in his ears. “Have a good day, Dr. Abbot.”
Abbot finally looked at him, his eyes skirting down to meet Dennis’. For a moment, Dennis thought that he saw Abbot’s face soften slightly, his eyes becoming a little less hard. But a moment later, there was no trace of the man who had sat and talked with him on the roof, and in his place stood someone colder and more detached.
“You too, Dr. Whitaker.” Then Abbot’s hand was on the door handle, twisting it open with a soft chink. Abbot paused before walking through the door, turning to glance at Dennis one last time. “One last piece of advice?”
Dennis stared at Abbot, his heart in his throat.
“Yeah?”
“You seem like a smart kid.” Dennis half-smiled at that.
“Well, I don’t know…” Dennis shrugged awkwardly, caught between embarrassed and pleased.
“Don’t come up to the roof.” Dennis froze at that, his eyes darting up in surprise. Abbot held his gaze, his eyes hard.
Dennis shrank under the weight of Abbot’s piercing gaze.
Maybe he didn’t know everything.
But he knew enough.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I-I’ll keep that in mind.” Dennis mumbled back, looking down at the ground, wishing it would swallow him. He could feel Abbot’s eyes on him, studying him carefully,
After a few moments, Abbot heaved a deep sigh.
“Sure, kiddo.” Abbot stood by the door, holding it open. “You coming?”
“No, I-”
“Wasn’t really a question.” Abbot interrupted him, pulling the door wider. “Too cold to be out here.”
After a few moments, Dennis found his way to his feet, brushing off his pants. He was suddenly aware of his everyday clothes, the absence of scrubs on him. He obviously wasn’t here on shift.
Abbot, mercifully, didn’t comment on it as Dennis walked back into the hospital, the door clanging shut behind him.
“Fuck, I need-I need some help in here!” Dennis shouted, chunks of bloody vomit dripping down his patient's mouth. He grabbed the suction tool, willing his hands to steady as he slowly stuck it into his patient's mouth, watching as she dry heaved again.
“What happened?” Dr. Mohan appeared beside him, with Princess not far behind, already hanging up an IV drip.
Dennis didn’t look up from suctioning the bloody vomit. “She came in complaining of a stomach ache, said she’d been throwing up all night. And I just thought, I mean, there were no signs of bloody vomit and-”
“Well,” Mohan moved around the bed, grabbing the oxygen machine. “There are now.”
“What’s happening?” His patient, Ms. Cosgrove, tried to speak around the suction tool, her hand coming up to weakly paw at the suction tool that Dennis kept against her mouth, preventing her from choking on the vomit.
The suction tip slipped. Hot, red blood spattered on his face, dripping into his eyes and past his mouth.
He stumbled back, dropping the tool, momentarily blinded.
“Fuck!” Mohan shouted, “Robby!”
Dennis wiped his face on the corner of his scrub sleeve, feeling the sticky, congealed chunks of blood rub off. He cracked open an eye, watching as more people filtered into the room, hands moving more rapidly than he could track.
“I can-”
“Nope!” Robby snapped back, sparing one glance in his direction. “We got this covered. Go have Dana check you over.”
Dennis wiped at his face again, feeling the rough fabric of his scrubs smear more of the blood. He got up, making his way toward the door in a daze.
Dana checked him over, taking baseline labs to screen for blood exposure. Dennis flexed his arm once it was over, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness that washed over him.
“Thanks, Dana.”
“No problem, kid,” Dana shot him a quick smile. “I don’t know a single person in this hospital who hasn’t had someone vomit in their face.”
“Even Robby?”
Dana didn't look up from the chart, but the corner of her mouth quirked. “Especially Robby.”
A beat of silence passed between them before Dennis stood up.
“Well, thanks again. I'd better go, you know, finish the shift strong.” Dennis felt Dana’s eyes on him as he stiffly walked out the door, but she made no attempt to stop him. He headed toward the bathroom to clean the dried chunks of blood off his face, focusing on his breathing, trying to keep it level.
“Whitaker.” Dennis felt a familiar hand encircle his wrist, just tight enough to make him stop.
“Oh, uh, hi, Dr. Abbot,” Dennis said with a weak smile, pulling his wrist back. Just his luck, that after spending the past week avoiding Abbot at the trade-off between night and day shift, he happened to run into the man as he was covered in blood and still shaking from the adrenaline. “You’re here early.”
“Whose blood is this?” Abbot asked, his gloved hands reaching up to turn Dennis’ face to the side, to examine him.
Dennis took a step back, avoiding Abbot’s touch.
“Patient in room four. Upper GI bleed, she, uh, well, she vomited in my face.”
Abbot let out a low whistle, his eyes scanning over Dennis’s face. “She got you good, kid. Any get in your mouth?”
Dennis grimaced at the reminder, the memory of the sickening coppery-tang as warm blood dripped into his mouth coming back.
“Unfortunately.”
“You need to have Dana check you, screen for HIV-”
“Already done.” Dennis held out his arm, showing the purple bandage stuck over where Dana had drawn blood. His arm shook slightly as he held it out, and Dennis pulled it back, grabbing onto his own bicep, shooting Abbot a strained smile. “Anyway, I, uh, probably should go wash this off and get a change of scrubs.”
Abbot gave him a long, inscrutable look, his jaw tightening.
“Good idea. Then meet me in the cafeteria.” Abbot’s eyes flickered down to look at Dennis’ blood-soaked scrubs. “Blood sugar can drop after having blood drawn.”
Dennis laughed lightly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. The more time with Abbot, the more time for him to pick up on the odd things about Dennis, namely, that he was living on the eighth floor of the hospital and had nowhere else to go.
“It’s pretty busy here-”
“They can handle it.”
“But-”
“Doctor’s orders.” Abbot’s tone left no room for argument.
“Yes, sir,” Whitaker mumbled back.
Twenty minutes later, free of blood and in fresh scrubs, Dennis found himself seated in the hospital's cafeteria, watching as Abbot placed their order. Dennis had tried to insist on paying, but Abbot had shut him down, refusing to hear even a word of it. He’d wrangled a juice flavor from Dennis, orange, and after Dennis’ adamance that he wasn’t hungry, Abbot went to place the order.
Dennis turned the spoon slowly between his fingers.
Abbot hadn’t told anyone about the roof.
If he had, security would have dragged Dennis out days ago.
“Got you your juice.” Abbot set down a cup full of bright orange liquid, then placed down two trays with a heaping of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns. Dennis felt his mouth water, and he picked up the glass of orange juice, taking a small gulp.
“Thank you,”
“‘Course, kid.” Abbot sat down and picked up his fork, digging into the meal in front of him. Dennis felt his stomach tighten painfully. He forced himself to take another small sip of the orange juice, mentally reminding himself to pick up a sandwich off the Pitt’s cart later.
“You aren’t gonna eat it?” Abbot pointed his fork in the direction of the untouched tray in front of Dennis.
Dennis frowned. “Your food?”
“Christ, I'm not that fat.” Abbot sounded exasperated. “It was a two-for-one deal. If you don’t eat it, I’ll just throw it.”
Dennis could feel Abbot’s eyes on him as he slowly picked up his fork and speared some eggs on it, taking care to only take a small bite and chew slowly. The eggs were slightly soggy and a little cold, but Dennis almost moaned at the taste. After several days of having nothing but sandwiches, any change was a good change.
“Good?” Abbot smiled at him.
Dennis stopped chewing, his mouth full of bacon. “Yeah, thank you.”
The pair ate in relative silence, utensils scraping against the plate.
“So,” Abbot broke the silence after several minutes, his voice oddly strained. “We should talk.”
Dennis set his fork down, no longer hungry. He picked up the juice and held it tightly with both hands.
“About?” Dennis tried to keep his voice light, though Abbot’s slight grimace told him he failed.
“About…” Abbot heaved a deep sigh, setting down his fork and pushing his tray away. “Well, Whitaker, you seem like a very smart med student who has a bright future ahead of him.”
Cold sweat trickled down the back of Dennis’s neck.
This was about the roof.
Abbot knew. He had warned him. Given him a chance to leave, but Dennis had stupidly thought it would be okay.
“Dr. Abbot-” Dennis started.
“And, I mean, this would look great on applications-”
“I really am sorry, I promise it’ll never-” Dennis tried to speak louder.
“So, would you like to come live with me?”