putanauhere
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Whitaker has never called out sick for any job he’s had. Not even at six years old with chicken pox, crying as he fed the chickens and Noah folded himself over the fence to tell him that he might as well try the feed too while he was at it since he was turning into a chicken himself. Not even his newspaper route at thirteen when the only things that held the jagged flesh of his thigh together were paper towels and an ace bandage. And none of the days leading into a full moon night where he feels like his skin is stretched too tight over his bones and any wrong move could split him apart at his seams and birth a monster onto the scuffed white floor of the ED.
Sometimes hearing everything means you hear nothing at all. Between the beeping and whirring and murmuring and shouting and rolling and squeaking and slamming, Whitaker could have thought once an emergency department might be hell on earth. But all that noise around him means he can’t hear any of the noise within him, and that is in itself a blessing.
[Or Whitaker's first full moon at the Pitt.]
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He’s in the kitchen with the wives, though even the wives were there too, and the 118 are crowded together, stuffed onto a couch that doesn’t fit four, closer than they’ve ever been in more ways than anyone will be able to name.
Not for the first time in his life, Eddie stands on the outside looking in. He can’t have this again, this family that he fell into - it’s a flash in the pan, lightning in a bottle. His new crew waits for him back in El Paso, a new collection of strangers he can't let himself get close to.
Buck looks up and around, catching Eddie’s eyes when he finds where Eddie has gone. He moves his arm to the back of the couch, fingers reaching out in what looks like an invitation. Eddie stands in the kitchen and begs himself - take it, take it, take it.
[Or coming together and coming apart in the days surrounding Bobby's funeral.]
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“Did you hear about the wolf attack on the full moon two years ago? That hiker found with his arm ripped to pieces,” Chimney says, an obvious ploy to cheer Buck up. It says a lot about Buck or a lot about Chimney that violent tragedy is meant to cheer Buck up. “Has anybody checked that guy to make sure he doesn’t go awoooo during his special time of the month?”
Eddie can already tell it’s not going to work, so he reaches across the gap between their seats to clasp a hand to Buck’s shoulder, his thumb close but not quite touching the vulnerable skin of his neck. If he presses hard enough, he can almost make himself feel the phantom ropes of raised skin from when Buck was left with a jagged lightning scar across his shoulder, matching yet way cooler than Eddie’s sad excuse for bullet dug and fang mauled shoulder scars. It has the desired effect, and he relaxes under the weight of Eddie’s hand.
“There are no wolves in Southern California,” Buck states, another bit of trivia. He just doesn’t know it’s a lie.
[Or Eddie has enough on his plate this summer – a newly empty nest, a terrible new captain, and a new mustache – without adding a new werewolf to the mix.]
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Mike doesn’t answer his phone in the two calls Richie shoots his way before he gets to the Beef. Richie parks in Mike’s favorite parking spot, because fuck him, and storms his way into the office in the back. It’s just as they left it last night, a couple of bottles of Miller Lites each still on the desk, cigarette butts stubbed out in each of the bottle caps, at least three mountains of paperwork, the Mother Mary, and a desk calendar still sitting on April. Richie pulls open the top right drawer and doesn’t find the bottle of pills Mike keeps stashed in there. The only thing on his desk Richie doesn’t remember seeing when he finally stumbled out to his car last night, leaving Mike to finish locking up, is a can of tomatoes.
[Or Richie Jerimovich's Day Off.]
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It’s 1962, which has never been a real year to him, just a number you’d see written down on paper, history long since tucked away in a book, and while he realistically knows everything that happened before he was alive to take notice is actually still real and not some fever dream the world’s population has agreed to play along with, it still doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not.
Luther tries to remember quickly what day of the week it is - it’s not Thursday, which is the day he reserves for sheer existential dread, the kind of deep seated fear that has him thinking he died when the Moon struck Earth and he’s now stuck in some kind of purgatory or some kind of hell. On Thursdays, he thinks this place was designed to torture him and it just isn’t working because he’s built up a hell of an immunity, 30-plus years at the hands of his father’s daily doses, as well as several of his own.
It’s Friday. Luther picks at the bread stuck in his teeth with the toothpick that speared his sandwich, and thinks to himself, TGIF.
[Or Luther becomes Jack Ruby’s Number One.]