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All Dennis wants is a smoke.
He knows—knows!—he isn't supposed to. He's been fighting the urge for the last three weeks, his single battered pack that's kept him company since Nebraska, slowly dwindling away. Soon, he knows, he'll have nothing but the ashen remains of it all, and he doesn't think he's ready for that just yet.
But the day has been terrible, weighed down with a flurry of people caught in a poisoning case by the river, and the first round of the spring sniffles had hit, leaving their waiting room packed even more than usual as it mixed with some violent form of nausea; sending, what felt like, every single parent into a panic as they crammed into the too small space.
He glances at the screen above Dana's desk and hesitates. He shouldn't, really.
“You okay, Whitaker?”
He spins, cheeks heating at the narrowed-eyed look Dana is pinning him with.
“Uh,” he says, awkward and uncertain. He likes Dana, because who doesn't, but he's also completely intimidated by her. She just has that look in her eyes; she could ruin his whole life with just one sweep of her hand, and he thinks he would probably end up thanking her for it. “I was, uh, thinking about a smoke break?”
For a moment, she stares at him before her lips twitch into a smile.
“We're quiet enough that you can step out,” she says. He blinks at her, vaguely convinced it's some sort of trick, only to become even more still when she jerks her head towards the glass doors. “Go on, get,” she says, mirth in her voice. “I promise I won't snitch.”
He bobs his head, offering her a tight smile, and darts for the doors, suddenly beyond eager to escape.
The cool spring air sluices over him; raw and wet, a heavy dampness that immediately catches in his lungs. He slows down as he rounds the corner, heading for a spot he knows is frequently empty, given its lack of cameras.
He rolls his shoulders back, inhaling the familiar smells of the city around him—nothing like the air of Nebraska.
Out there, the air is crisp, full of pollen and the wet crunch of snow. He could inhale a gust so fresh it was dizzying, pine and dead leaves coating his mouth; a balm against his frayed nerves whenever his family got too loud.
Here, in Pittsburgh, the air tastes pressurized, ready for anything. Car exhaust and cigarette smoke are familiar tastes on the wind, the scent of restaurants and gutters mixing into a strangely comforting miasma.
He likes how lived in the city smells, how even the rankest of odors are just more proof that people are here, that they won’t let themselves be forgotten. It’s oddly reassuring to be a part of it all.
He sighs, a shallow exhale, and shoves a hand into his pocket, tugging his beaten pack of smokes out. It’s a battered, frayed cardboard box of Tetons, the red nearly completely worn from the sides.
He peels back the ragged lid, the motions familiar. He's been sneaking them since he was fourteen, the taste of a bitter, earthy woodsmoke rolling around his mouth, the inhale of warmth spilling down his esophagus. Every time he's taken a drag out here, it's like he's back on the farm, his reality fading away.
He sighs again, gently pulling one out, staring down at the few that rattle in his hand. He has three remaining cigarettes; a ghost of Nebraska tucked away in his pockets.
His lighter clicks, the bedazzled DW that Trin stuck ages ago on a familiar grain against his fingertips, as he shoves the cigarette between his lips and inhales.
He closes his eyes, letting the world drift away for another moment as he pulls the cigarette away to exhale.
For a beat, he can hear the rustle of the wind through corn fields, the lowing of cows in the distance; for a second, he misses Broken Bow so deeply he can feel an ache, the vast press of home waiting for him just over the horizon.
The sound of sneakers on the tarmac startles him from his contemplation, and he opens his eyes, turning to greet whoever else has stumbled out after him.
Instead, pain splinters through his jaw and sharp starbursts of vivid, sour hurt echo down his nerves as his head snaps back with the force of a punch. Involuntarily, his mouth snaps shut, teeth neatly clipping through the edge of his tongue, and blood blooms immediately; iron-filled and nasty, thick enough that he almost chokes as the taste blots out the smoke.
He staggers, hunching over as another solid hit lands against his ribs, their knuckles catching him right in the side. White hot agony licks across his palm as he curls his hand into the cherry-red tip of his cigarette, and he swallows down the shout he wants to make, falling back on old instincts he'd rather forget; that making noise only gives people a target.
“Fuck you,” someone shrills directly into his ear, loud enough to make him groan, as they shove him once into the wall behind him and dart away, disappearing from view before he can even blink the shocked tears out of his eyes.
He groans again as he forces himself to straighten up, hissing at the crackle of pain that zips down his spine, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
“Shit,” he mutters, dropping his cigarette and bringing his palm up to examine it in the dull light of a cloudy sunset. The burn isn't the best, ashy and bright red, smeared across the center of his hand.
His gaze shifts, falling on the smoldering Teton cigarette, and he shoves down the urge to cry. He just wanted a moment, to breathe, to recenter, to remember that he came from somewhere, and that the whole of his world isn't just the Pitt.
He sighs, returning his attention to his palm. He grimaces at the pinpricks as he gently touches the edges of it, and gives himself one moment of breathing. He knows it's all going to go to hell the second he stumbles back in; he can only hope that Mel or Langdon finds him first, and not Robby or Trin.
He's seen how unbelievably insane everyone gets when someone on their team is injured; hell, he's been a part of it before. But it's not common for one of them to be assaulted outside of the ED—and for him to be burnt, bleeding, and bruised?
He frowns, spitting out another dribble of blood as best he can. God, he can tell it's just all down his chin. He prods at his teeth with his tongue, wincing at the shock of pain, grateful that none of them feel loose, before he sighs again, steeling himself.
This is going to fucking suck.
He staggers forward, dizzy and unsteady for a beat as if his body doesn't know what to do with itself, before he lurches back into motion, rounding the corner of the ambulance bay.
“Holy fuck,” Ahmad squawks as soon as he catches sight of him from where he's loitering by the doors, jumping forward to try to help. “Whitaker, what the hell?”
“I'm fine—”
“Are you burnt? Did someone fucking burn you?” Ahmad demands, snagging his wrist from where he's holding his hand gingerly against his chest. He ignores the way Dennis tries to squirm out of his grip, using it to tug him forward. “Did—hey, Dana!”
“No, don't,” Dennis tries, ducking his head, but he knows it's too late when someone gasps, and then there's a flurry of feet rushing towards him.
“Dennis, sweetheart?" Dana says, two cool hands cupping under his chin, as she nudges his face up. She hisses at the sight of his jaw, her mouth going thin.
He shifts backwards onto his heels, but the motion tugs at his ribs and he flinches, pressing a hand against the bruise spot. The pressure makes his eyes water, and he grimaces, avoiding all of the nurses' eyes as they chatter around him.
No Robby, he wants to say, but the words stick in his teeth like gristle, heavy stones he can't untie from his ankles.
“Sorry,” he mutters instead, his tongue thick in his mouth. He feels useless, unbearably adrift as he tugs against Ahmad's grip.
“You can let him go, now,” Dana says, arching a brow, only to click her tongue when she catches sight of his burnt palm. “Oh, kid.”
“S'not that bad,” he tries, but she's having none of it, as she snaps off soft orders to the other nurses. They slide away one by one, even Ahmad leaving, until it's just the two of them as she gently tows him over to an empty room.
“I'm going to have to grab someone,” she says, shaking her head when he tries to protest. She stabs a finger at the gurney. “You're hurt, Whitaker—word's gonna get out anyway.”
Dennis sighs, but nods, climbing up and leaning back. His jaw is really starting to ache, the adrenaline fading, and he can feel the tug of his skin every time he flexes his fingers. He doesn't think there's anything other than a bruise brewing on his ribs, but with how this day's gone, who knows? Maybe they're broken.
“Shit, then, dealer's choice,” he mutters, offering her a tired smile when she pats his leg.
“Won't be but a second,” Dana promises, and disappears through the curtains.
Dennis pretends he doesn't hear the rush of feet over to her and closes his eyes, exhaling shallowly.
He just wants this day over, wants to go home and clamber onto their shared couch and listen to Trin complain about all the problems she's having with Garcia.
The rattle of the curtain startles him into blinking open his eyes, squinting against the lights. A low throb begins to thrum through his head, and he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, giving up on deciphering who just stepped into his room
“Oh, kid,” Dr. Abbot murmurs over the drag of the curtains back into place; they're as alone as they can be, in the rush of the ER. “What the hell happened to you?”
Dennis shrugs, sitting up straighter and swinging his legs over the side, but just the sight of him unwinds some of the tension from his spine.
He likes Dr. Abbot, likes him as much as Dr. Robby, which is to say, he likes them both too much. They're older, and together, and they run the ED with more compassion and grace than Dennis has ever seen.
They're just incredible, both of them brilliant.
Robby, he knows far better, having worked under him for months now at this point. He soaks up every scrap of attention, every point of instruction, every touch that he's gifted as they rush through the halls. Robby's stern, a practiced guide to shaping the hands of new doctors. He has a presence that commands attention, an unmistakable and unspoken demand to be obeyed. Dennis has had more than one fantasy about showing Robby just how much he appreciates him, which is often intertwined with the desire to demonstrate how well he can listen.
Abbot, he's seen in action a few times, snapping off commands, making Robby laugh in the quiet moments, steadfast and dedicated to providing the best care he can. He's a whirlwind of confidence, a steady churn of results. He's more encouraging than Robby, his intimidating aura rolling back when he thinks you've earned it, and by God, does Dennis want to earn it.
Every time he sees them, he tries not to blush, well aware that he wants to snatch them both up and keep them forever.
He's fairly certain that his massive crush on both of them is obvious to everyone, but neither of them has ever mentioned it, so he quietly hopes they're both oblivious.
“Went out to sneak a cigarette,” he says, uncurling his hand to show Abbot his blistering palm, hissing at the ache. He flushes at how stupid he sounds, sneaking away to smoke like some dumbass kid. “Someone just—” He shrugs, wincing when his ribs groan in protest, and pretends his heart rate isn't picking up as Abbot steps between his legs. “Punched me, and then when I curled in, hit me again, in the ribs. I accidentally curled into the smoldering end and,”—he gestures towards his palm—“here we are.”
When he looks up, Abbot's eyes are dark, serious; concern is clear in the lines of his face. He doesn't look like he's pitying Dennis, which is the thing he's worried the most about, but there's an edge to it still, something clearly not right.
“Did you catch sight of who?” he asks, gently tilting his head to the side to get a better view of the damage. He gently palpates the area, hissing in sympathy when Dennis tries to swallow back a reedy moan of pain. “Or was it too fast?”
“It was too fast,” Dennis mumbles, following his unspoken directions and staring straight ahead when Abbot shines a light in his eyes. He curls his uninjured hand into the thin, cheap sheets underneath him to avoid doing something stupid like reaching for him. “And I was tucked away so—” He shrugs, gritting his teeth as pain radiates up his side. “Dunno if it got caught on camera.”
“It better have been,” Abbot says grimly, but before Dennis can respond, he pats his leg, leaving his warm hand on Dennis’ thigh. Dennis can feel a blush working its way across his face, his eyes growing round and wide; abruptly, he feels dizzier than he did earlier. The relief of the cigarette has nothing on how he feels beneath Dr. Abbot's hands. “You think you can take off your shirt for me? Or are we going to need to slice you out of—”
The curtains rattle, and Dennis flinches, only just missing kneeing Abbot in the side by the pressure of his hand as it tightens and holds.
“There you are,” Robby says, stepping in and yanking the curtains shut again. Dennis eyes the feet he can see lingering on the other side with no small amount of trepidation before he refocuses on his attending's words. “Perlah said you got attacked?”
Dennis opens his mouth to deny it, and then closes it. Shame curdles in his chest, acrid annoyance at himself clinging in his throat even as he tries to swallow it down.
“Yeah,” he finally settles on, frowning at the ground so he can avoid looking at their disappointed faces. “Sorry.”
There's a moment of silence, and then Robby steps closer, his hand gently settling on his shoulder. “Don't apologize for being assaulted,” he says, soft and stern. Dennis drags his gaze up, meeting Robby's worn eyes, and lets himself sag into his grip, just for a moment.
“We've got you, Whitaker,” Robby murmurs. “We'll patch you up.”
Dennis nods, feeling shaky and idiotic and small. He wants to crawl into a hole and die. He wants to press against the two of them and let them take care of him. He wants to run away and lick his wounds, and return in two weeks when some new drama has blown through and everyone will have forgotten.
“So,” Abbot says, cutting through his haze of disquiet. His hand squeezes his thigh, a soft pressure that settles some of his disgust with himself, even as it almost makes him feel worse. He can't even handle his own shit without getting other people tangled in it. He glances at Abbot out of the corner of his eyes, unsure where to look between the two of them, before settling on a midpoint between their shoulders. “Shirt—can you lift your arm or…?”
Dennis shakes his head, biting back another groan when the motion exacerbates his throbbing aches. “I think they're bruised,” he murmurs, resigning himself to more humiliation. “You can cut it off.”
Abbot nods, his hand already held out as Robby slides a pair of scissors his way. Dennis gets caught up in how they already know what the other wants, years of partnership on display, before he remembers he shouldn't be looking and yanks his eyes away.
For a moment, Robby's thumb rubs a circle against his shoulder before he turns, heading back out through the curtains without a word.
There's another flurry of movement as people converge, and he can hear the sounds of Robby leading them away, the murmurs of his low unshakeable cadence fading from his ears.
Dennis’ stomach sinks, but he tries to shove that away. It's no use spinning the feeling of loss in his brain now, he knows. Not when it's all he'll think about when he's feeling sorry for himself, when he's alone under his rumpled sheets later.
“Sorry,” he says again, as Abbot coaxes him to lean back, before he begins to cut through his scrubs. The cool touch of scissors to his stomach does nothing to help his anxiety; it makes him feel like an experiment, something caged in glass to examine. He thinks he might burn up with his shame, if the urge to run away doesn't knock him out first. “I—”
“What'd Robby say, kiddo?” Abbot mutters, cutting him off before he can continue. He doesn't look up, his hands sure and smooth as they slice through. “Stop apologizing.”
Dennis grunts in agreement, biting back the words he wants to say as Abbot slides the ruins of his shirt from his shoulder and coaxes him into lying down.
“Damn,” Abbot murmurs, his hands warm as they gently smooth across the bruise decorating his ribs. It makes him insane to see the way Abbot's hands touch his skin; to feel it is just as bad. He's going to remember it forever—how warm they feel, the drag of his calloused fingertips as they nudge over his ribs, the width of his full palm pressing over the curve of him. “This is going to be one hell of a splotch.”
“It was a good punch,” Dennis says, closing his eyes before he does something stupid like lean over and try to kiss him. He's out of control; dizzy with longing and idiocy, his heart slowly wheezing beneath the full force of his common sense. “I wish they hadn't, but still. They had a solid amount of force behind it.”
Abbot hums, his fingers gently running across the edges of his ribs, firm enough not to tickle. The pressure is soothing, and Dennis relaxes, settling back into his skin a little bit more firmly.
He's not quite dozing, just enjoying the touch, even if a part of him feels guilty about it, when the curtains rattle again. He can guess who it is when Abbot starts to murmur, but he lets himself soak in the comfort, just this once, giving it a moment.
He cracks his eyes, reaching up to scrub a hand across his face, only to hiss when he accidentally bumps his jaw too hard.
A warm hand catches his, and he glances up to find Robby smiling down at him.
“I've got naproxen,” he murmurs, pressing two pills into his hand, arching an eyebrow pointedly until Dennis swallows them down, taking a sip from the water Abbot offers him, his hands shaking slightly. “Jack says you don't have broken or fractured ribs, but you know the deal. No strain, take it easy for the next couple of days.”
Dennis nods, only to still completely as Robby's hand shifts, coming up to gently hold his chin.
“You've got a bit of blood,” he says, and Dennis' eyes flutter shut as a warm, damp cloth gently presses into his skin.
The heat feels amazing against his skin, and he can feel himself go boneless, caught in Robby's strong grip.
Abbot still hasn't removed his hand, his fingers gently pressed against his ribs still, and for a moment, it feels like they care—far more than they should.
“There you are,” Robby says, and Dennis’ lashes slip open, the world coming back into focus.
Robby is still standing over him, worry lingering in the corner of his eyes, even as he smiles. Dennis can't tell if he's a fool for noticing, if it means he's been watching too closely, or if Robby is just expressive.
There's a soft noise, and then Abbot is beside him, his face caught in a tiny grin. He looks pleased, though Dennis thinks that he might still be angry, given the way his eyes are still dark.
Their heads are nearly brushing, Dennis realizes, and wants to cry.
“What's the matter, honey?” Abbot asks, and the pet name strikes right through the heart of him, his face twisting up, tears prickling in his eyes.
He just—he doesn't know what they want, with their touching and their careful words and the way they both cage him in, the way he feels safe between them.
He's tried to snuff it out of himself, has tried to force down that piece of him that sees them and wants to cling, and they're making it so stupidly hard.
He's so fucking afraid of doing something wrong, and he's so fucking sick of being afraid.
He doesn't realize he's been talking until he catches their expressions changing and snaps his mouth shut, wincing at the reverberations of pain.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Robby murmurs, looking thunderstruck. “We didn't mean to scare you like that.”
Dennis blinks at him, shrinking back as best he can, his cheeks burning.
“You don't have to pretend,” he whispers, dropping his gaze. He crosses his arms, ignoring the ache, wishing he were fully covered. “I'm sorry, that was inappropriate.”
Fabric rustles, and suddenly Dennis is draped in a body-warm hoodie, Robby tugging it into place. It smells like him, notes of bergamot and the break room's stale coffee, an underlying tinge of wood clinging.
“It's not pretend,” Abbot says, dragging Dennis’ attention back to him. He gently tugs at his arm until he's unfolded them, and ducks his head, peering closer at the burn. “I didn't realize we'd been so subtle.”
“Subtle?” Dennis echoes. He hisses when Abbot gently presses his hand into a bowl of cool water, the rush of pain clearing the way for a slow crawl of relief through his veins. “What does that even mean?”
Robby hums, his hand reaching out to settle on the back of his neck, his fingers easily sliding under the collar of his hoodie.
“We've been trying to coax you into our bed for weeks, sweetheart,” Robby says simply, as if he hasn't stopped Dennis’ whole world. “Explains why we weren't getting anywhere if you didn't even know.”
Dennis blinks at him, his mouth dropping open. “No,” he says, after a beat of tense silence, licking his lips. “You're—you can't—”
Abbot snorts, capturing his attention. “We do,” he mutters, his eyes darting up to meet Dennis’ gaze. “What the hell do you think all the invites out have been about?”
Dennis catches his lip between his teeth, flushing under their heavy regard. “Pity?” he offers after a beat. “You're both—” He shudders as Robby's hand curls and his nails drag across his skin. “I didn't—you didn't say anything.”
Robby sighs as Abbot barks a laugh, a smirk flickering across his face. “You've got us there,” he admits, winking. “Well, we're saying it now.”
His words rattle through Dennis.
“Just your bed?” he asks, after a quiet moment. He forces himself to be brave, makes himself look them both in the eyes, even though he wants to flinch from them. “Nowhere else?”
Both of their faces soften, fond smiles creeping over them. Haloed by the bright lights, they look as if Dennis’ own personal saviors, gentle kindness suffusing their every move.
“Not just our bed,” Robby rumbles, sounding pleased. His smile is twisting into something smugger with every beat that Dennis is caught in their spell, an odd sort of curl to his lips.
“Although I think we both would like to spend some time in it,” Abbot chimes in. He drags his fingers down the back of Dennis’ knuckles in the water, smirking when his hand twitches. “But, Robby's right—not just our bed.”
Dennis glances between the two of them, his mind spinning their words over and over.
His jaw aches. There's an awful burn in the center of his palm. He's definitely going to be bruised for at least a week across his ribs.
But the two of them are just looking at him, fondness clear on both of their faces. It settles something inside of him, an ache he's never shaken, a fear he can't explain—another ghost, lingering in the eaves.
“Okay,” he says, a kernel of warmth settling into his chest as he glances between them, watching both of their smiles get broader. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Abbot snorts. “Your enthusiasm is noted, kid,” he says, lifting Dennis’ hand from the bowl before Robby takes over, gently patting the burn dry. “I'll try not to let it inflate my ego so much.”
Dennis laughs, caught off guard, a genuine grin spreading across his face.
“Shit,” Robby says, his eyes twinkling when Dennis glances at him before he returns his attention to bandaging his palm. “Gonna be chasing that sound for a while, aren't we?”
“Sure are,” Abbot agrees, smirking when Dennis blushes. “So, kid, what do you say, dinner?”
“Yeah,” Dennis says, as Robby tapes down the final piece of gauze. He smiles at both of them, shy and tentative, awash with the faintest glow of hope. “I'd like that.”