Work Text:
Daniel Jones lay on his back, staring at the water stains of the ER ceiling like they were the night sky. It wasn’t much of a view, but at least it calmed the insanity inside his head.
Technically, he wasn’t even supposed to be here anymore. His vitals had stabilized hours ago, the headache that had sent him reeling had downgraded from throbbing death hammer to mildly annoying woodpecker. Something about a “vasovagal episode” caused by dehydration, stress, and possibly forgetting to eat for two days — Dr. Santos’ words, not his. Now he's bored out of his mind.
He was fine, though. Mostly. The medical center, oddly enough, was nice for him. He had people to interact with him as compared to...home. And weirdly, Daniel didn’t mind it. There was something strangely peaceful about the chaos — the beeping monitors, the footsteps, the soft murmur of clipped medical jargon. It was like white noise for his brain.
He could live here, probably. Not that anyone at home would notice.
He exhaled through his nose and folded his hands over his stomach, content to drift. That is, until someone on the next bed over hissed, “Pssst. Hey. Psst, man.”
Daniel turned his head lazily. The guy beside him, leaned over his gurney—a burly patient with an arm brace and a mean, gnarly scar across his eye—was looking at him like he’d just discovered buried treasure. Around him, a few other patients perked up, antennae raised.
“Yo,” the guy whispered, nodding across the room. “Do you see that man over there? My three o’clock. What’s his name?”
Daniel followed the man’s gaze. Standing a few meters away, IV tube in hand, was a familiar figure. Polished black scrub. Easy smile and tired eyes that seem to hold the universe within them. His hair defied gravity as he spoke to a patient with that calm, yet awkward tone that made people want to confess their sins.
Ah. Dennis Whitaker
“Hm,” Daniel supplied, voice dry. “Dr. Whitaker.”
“Ohhh yeah,” came another voice, an old woman in a wheelchair near the curtain divider. “We call him pretty boy.”
The guy with the brace sat up a bit, grinning. “Yeah, I bet. They got a policy about flirting with the doctors here?”
A next woman rolled her eyes, younger. “Come on, man. They’re saving your life, and you wanna think with your dick?”
“Man, I’m just saying — if I’m dying, I’d at least die trying to shoot my shot.”
That set off an argument — a soft, ridiculous one carried in hushed tones so the doctors wouldn’t toss them all out. Daniel watched it unfold with mild amusement, his head turning back and forth like he was watching drama on television. Except this was so much better.
Then, because the world loved a plot twist, his gaze caught on something he hadn’t noticed before. Dr. Whitaker was inserting the IV tube into the patient, and when his hand lifted, the fluorescent lights hit something gold. A glint of a golden band with a shiny diamond on Dr. Whitaker’s left ring finger. He's very well at hiding it, but once you see it, it's impossible to miss it again.
Daniel blinked, tilting his head. “Yeah, no,” he said casually. “Pretty sure he’s married.”
Instant silence. The sentence had the effect of tossing a grenade into the room. Then a collective, harmonized what!?
“I’m serious,” Daniel said, gesturing with a lazy hand. “Look at his finger.”
Half of the nearby patients tilted their necks. Even the old man waiting for a CT scan lifted his head to squint. A collective silence fell again among them, followed by synchronized sighs of disappointment.
“Damn,” said a younger man. “Chance missed. Hard luck, gentlemen.”
The gauze-wrapped man squinted stubbornly. “Man, hell nah. Maybe it’s just for show. You know — ring to ward off the creeps.”
Daniel gave him a look. “ You do know you’re literally the creep it’s meant to ward off.” That earned him a chorus of snickers and a soft curse from the man.
Another patient intervened, “Okay, okay. But weirdo with the scar has a point. Dr. Whitaker practically lives here. I always see him when I come back here. How’s a man like that got time for a spouse?"
Daniel tilted his head. Fair point, actually. He’d been here a few times before — nothing serious, just enough to make the nurses greet him like an old regular because his body is fragile like that. And come to think of it, despite being fairly young (well, Daniel assumes Dr. Whitaker is young because he certainly looks the part--), Daniel always sees Dr. Whitaker working himself down to the bone.
And looking back at it, there was one doctor Whitaker seemed... different around.
“Maybe,” Daniel said slowly, “he’s married to one of the doctors in here."
That stopped all conversation cold. Then, as if rehearsed, every patient turned toward him in perfect sync. That did it. For a moment, the air was static — like he’d just announced the ER was haunted.
Then came the flurry.
“No way, bro!”
“Like hell!”
“That’s—actually—wait, that’s possible.”
“Which one, though? There’s like fifteen!”
The debate blossomed into a full-blown whisper riot. Daniel just sighed and leaned back on his pillow, letting the sound wash over him as a hushed storm of speculation followed, muffled names and theories. Someone suggested the nurse with a ponytail. Someone else swore they’d seen Whitaker talking too softly to Dr. Santos. Yeah, but Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Langdon share this heated eye contact, Daniel heard someone say.
Nobody was saying the name of the doctor whom Daniel suspected. Strange, was he the only one who saw it?
He was about to drift off when the man with the arm brace suddenly snapped his fingers, an unholy light in his eyes.
“Alright,” The scar man (--Daniel thinks he's excellent at nicknames) announced, loud enough to earn a nurse’s side-eye. “New game. We make a bet.”
“Oh, Jesus,” someone muttered.
The man ignored it, grinning. “We find out who Dr. Whitaker’s significant other is within four hours. Whoever’s right wins.”
“Wins what?” the old woman asked.
The man paused. “…wins respect.”
There was a groan. “Man, I'm fucking hungry and I'm a broke college student. ”
“Fine,” he said, thinking hard. “Winner gets some of the cafeteria pudding cups. For free.”
Well, Daniel wasn't going to participate in this foolish game when he already knew he was going to win against delusional patients on pills. But...the cafeteria pudding cups? It's the best thing Daniel has ever eaten, which isn't anything grand, given that he hardly eats substantial food--regardless, he was considering it now.
Putting these losers to shame and getting free pudding cups? Fuck yeah. Everyone else seemed to realize how heavenly the pudding cups were and muttered a soft agreement. It was so absurd that Daniel laughed a bit.
Because, seriously? Watching a group of half-sedated, IV-attached patients turn into amateur detectives was probably the funniest thing that had happened to him in weeks.
And thus began the most entertaining four hours of his life in the ER.
--
Daniel didn’t consider himself a gossip, really. He just… appreciated observational science and didn't like losing. So far, his theory made sense — perfectly sound, logically unshakable. Dr. Whitaker’s mysterious spouse had to be someone who had been working here for a long time. A stern and determined attending, someone who could give comfort to Dr. Whitaker.
But then again, everyone seemed to adore Whitaker.
Since Daniel had been admitted, he’d watched an endless parade of nurses, policemen, residents, and even patients light up whenever the man walked by. Pretty Boy, indeed.
So, now Daniel's theories wavered a bit. By the next minute, he’d convinced a doctor to unhook him for a “brief supervised walk.” She said he had three minutes. He heard “three hours.”
So off he went, IV pole in tow, wandering like a nosy ghost through the hallways. He peeked through doorways, squinted at name badges until he caught sight of two doctors in the staff lounge: Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker. Daniel slowed his steps, then casually leaned against the wall beside the half-closed door, pretending to check the posters on the wall (“Wash your hands!” “Hydration is sexy!”) while his ears tuned out everything else.
“Whoa man, you look like shit,” came Dr. Santos’s dry voice. “What’s up?”
Whitaker groaned softly. “I just— I have no idea what to get him.”
“Huh?” Santos teased. “Ohhh. Him.”
“Don’t start,” Whitaker said, but there was no bite in it. “His birthday’s soon and he keeps saying he doesn’t want anything, which means I’m supposed to magically know what he wants.”
Santos laughed. “Oh hell, you’re doomed.”
“Thanks for the support,” He muttered, amusement tugging at the corner of his voice. “I thought about getting him a new watch, but he really likes wearing his old ones.”
“Romantic,” she deadpanned. “Maybe just frame that line on a card instead.”
Daniel grinned at the poster. Okay, so confirmed: Dr. Whitaker had a husband. Mystery: half-solved.
The man continued, voice softening. “He works too hard. I just want to give him something that feels like… him, you know? Something that says I notice how much he gives to me...to us.”
Her tone warmed. “You’re disgustingly sweet, huckleberry. Go, before I start gagging into my coffee.”
Daniel almost smiled. There was something disarmingly gentle in the way Whitaker said him — a kind of fondness that made Daniel think maybe love wasn’t as overrated as it looked in cringy movies.
He didn’t linger long. The last thing he needed was a nurse catching him “admiring the poster for fifteen minutes.” So he shuffled back to his gurney, waiting a while for the rest of them to return.
The Gossip Club reassembled immediately.
Scar-face man flopped onto his bed. “Alright, intel drop. I think it’s Dr. Santos.”
“What?” said the young woman. “No way, dude. Your gaydar’s broken. She’s definitely a lesbian. I think it’s Dr. Javadi.”
He snorted. “Javadi? She’s way too soft for Dr. Whitaker. Not a chance.”
Daniel sighed dramatically. “You’re all wrong.”
Every head turned.
“Oh yeah?” Scar-face man challenged. “And what makes you so sure, Sherlock?”
Daniel stretched, “Because I overheard Dr. Whitaker, and he was referring to his spouse as him. So it’s a man."
There was a collective gasp worthy of a soap opera.
“I knew Dr. Whitaker was gay!” the older lady exclaimed triumphantly, rolling her wheelchair closer. “You could see it — the look in his eyes! The toned voice!”
The other man leaned forward eagerly. “Hey, what else did you hear?”
Daniel smirked, making himself comfortable on his gurney like a king withholding secrets. “That’s all the info you’re getting from me. This is an individual bet, people. May the best investigator win.”
Groans, protests, and muffled curses followed as Daniel folded his hands behind his head, eyes falling shut.
Let them scramble. He’d already gotten the biggest clue of the night. He was going to get those pudding cups.
--
It was about two hours after Daniel got some sleep, and then he woke up to stretch a little. Besides, his headache had faded, replaced by a buzzing curiosity that sleep couldn’t touch. As far as Daniel knew, Scar-face man was bribing nurses with compliments, and the lady in the wheelchair had attempted to “accidentally” drop her water cup near the desk just to eavesdrop.
Daniel rolled his eyes. Amateurs.
He took to wandering again, slowly and calculated. The corridor was quieter now — the lull before the night shift storm. Somewhere in the distance, a monitor beeped steadily, like the heartbeat of the hospital itself. He didn’t plan to overhear anything this time. Honest. He was just walking. Stretching his stiff legs. Reaching the corner near the bathroom, when a low, gruff voice caught his ear.
“Dennis, I saw you rush in here - Oh God, baby. Blessing, what’s wrong?” Daniel froze mid-step. Blessing?
The nickname alone made his heart lurch. He glanced toward the door, heart thudding in disbelief. No way that’s his husband in there. He recognized Dr. Whitaker’s voice immediately in reply, soft and trembling around the edges.
“Nothing, just— another one of those days.” His voice sounded frayed, distorted.
Daniel tried his best to creep closer to the door, trying so hard not to burst open the door and see who this mysterious man was. But no, he had decorum, and he was not going to enter the staff bathroom just because he needed a face to match the low growly voice. He listened like any other detective.
The deeper voice gentled. “Having a bad day?”
A sigh, “A couple of, uh, trauma cases. Too many people, not enough beds. You - you start thinking you can help everyone, and then the world reminds you you’re just -” Dr. Whitaker said, voice dripping with exhaustion. “A person as well.”
The mysterious man hummed, a low, thoughtful sound that somehow carried through the door and right into Daniel’s chest. “You’ve got the biggest heart in this whole place, blessing. It’s okay to take a break sometimes and talk to me, yeah?”
Blessing. The word hit like a small prayer.
Daniel leaned against the wall closest to the door, suddenly feeling like an intruder in something sacred.
A pause stretched — gentle, easy silence between two people who’d long stopped needing to fill it.
Then the man’s voice again, teasing this time, “You know, today was supposed to be your day off.”
Whitaker groaned softly. “Please don't remind me.”
“You were supposed to be home, and then I’d come back and be greeted by the sight of you sleeping and drooling all over our bed, wearing my shirt.”
Daniel heard the soft, warm laugh Dr. Whitaker emitted, “You, uh, make it sound so scandalous -“
“Because it is, sweetheart. My shirt has never looked better.”
Ah, Daniel wishes he could find love as sweet as theirs. One can only dream…
“Yeah, but even if I did stay home - who would be here to stabilize you?” Daniel heard Whitaker teasing. “I remember what you said about my ‘energy hugs.’
The man’s laugh was a deep, rich thing — that soft, worn sound Daniel had only ever heard from people who’d worked nine hours and still managed to find something good in the world.
“Okay now, don’t rub it in my face.”
There was a pause again — soft shuffling, a tap of something against tile, maybe a hand brushing someone’s arm.
“C’mon, wash your face. We only have a few more hours. When we get home, I promise I’ll make your favorite pasta.” The mysterious man said.
Daniel blinked, and to his absolute horror, he felt his eyes sting. He didn’t know jackshit about marriage and love, but it…doesn’t sound as bad as the movies make it out to be. It was ridiculous — tearing up in a hospital hallway because two doctors were being disgustingly in love behind a bathroom door.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, huffing out a soft laugh. “Alright,” he whispered to himself. “Of course, my single ass is crying. What the hell, Daniel.” He straightened, cleared his throat, and walked away before he could get caught.
Okay. New mission. Match any of the male doctors' voices to the one he heard in the bathroom. Simple, right?
…
It was indeed not simple.
Over the next hour, Daniel became a self-appointed sound analyst of the ER. Whenever a male doctor spoke nearby, he’d tilt his head like a bloodhound catching a scent.
He ticked off every other male doctor in the ER who didn’t match, which wasn’t much, and that made Daniel’s job so much easier. He ended with three doctors.
Dr. Langdon — whiny undertone, but a close match to the one he heard.
Dr. Abbot — close call as well, but a slight waver in the pitch of his voice.
Dr. Robby — Perfect match except for the times when his voice got loud and harsh.
Why the hell did all three of their voices sound the same? They had that same mid-range baritone that could’ve matched the man from earlier.
Daniel’s brain was starting to ache again, which was either from overthinking or mild dehydration. Possibly both. He was still trying to compare imaginary audio files in his head when a doctor appeared beside him.
“Mr. Jones? What are you doing walking around? It’s time to check your vitals and see if we can release you early.” Ah. Dr. McKay.
“Uh, now?” Daniel blinked. “Can’t it wait, like, two minutes?”
She gave him the look — the universal doctor look that could silence patients. “No, Mr. Jones . Now.”
Daniel reluctantly followed, dragging his feet on the floor. Dr. McKay led him toward a room near the staff bathroom. She sat him down, cuffed his arm, and started inflating the blood pressure sleeve.
“Try to relax,” she said, voice sweet but firm.
Relax, sure — except his curiosity chose that exact moment to be rewarded. The bathroom door swung open, and out walked Dr. Whitaker, looking marginally less exhausted and more flushed, blush painting his cheeks. Huh.
And right behind him — a tall man with brown hair.
Daniel’s eyes went wide. Oh, come on, not now!
Unfortunately, his view was partially blocked by a gurney and a janitor with a mop, and by the time he craned his neck, Dr. McKay pressed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sit still, please.”
“But—”
“Sit. Still.”
He obeyed, barely, squirming as he caught flashes of the scene through the narrow gap between the mop handle and the gurney. At this point, he might as well break his neck. The tall man leaned down slightly, saying something Daniel couldn’t hear. Dr. Whitaker smiled —all shy teeth, tired, but real — and then the man’s hand came up, briefly yet softly touching his cheek.
And then they hugged. Quick, easy, and Daniel thinks they’re not very subtle about touching in the workplace. Oh, for fuck's sake.
Daniel practically vibrated with frustrated energy. “I swear if that mop wasn’t there with that damn janitor—”
“Blood pressure’s a little high,” she noted dryly. “Maybe stop swearing at our cleaners.”
Daniel sighed and slumped back. “Yeah, sure, fine.”
By the time Dr. McKay had finished, Dr. Whitaker and the mystery man were gone, vanished down separate hallways.
He rubbed his temple, exhaling. “Great. Almost had it.” Daniel was already craving the pudding cups in his mouth, damn.
Well, one thing was certain: Dr. Jack Abbot was off the list — his hair was gray as shit. That left two suspects with brown hair: Dr. Robby and Dr Langdon.
The bet had less than thirty minutes left on the clock, and Daniel had to admit he was feeling the pressure. He wanted those pudding cups, sure — but more than that, he wanted to know. Because if you saw the way Dr. Whitaker smiled at that man, even for two seconds through a gap in a mop handle, you couldn’t help but be curious.
--
For a man who’d come in with a headache, Daniel had thought he might pass out with one again. It was so unbelievably hard to find information in a short time when all doctors had different patients to attend to, and patients couldn’t go to certain areas.
He chewed his pen cap and muttered to himself, “Langdon or Robby… Robby or Langdon…” like it was a moral dilemma instead of a gossip bet fueled by sugar-free pudding cups.
The problem was, Daniel didn’t see Dr. Robby around much to speculate about the kind of person he was. So his mind was telling him Dr. Langdon was the safer bet.
But when he lurked by the desk for more than thirteen minutes, pretending to stare off in the distance, he heard something. Nearby, two doctors were gossiping freely — probably assuming the quiet patient with the tired eyes wasn’t paying attention.
“Did you see Dr. Robby yesterday?” one said, lowering her voice. “Some patient called Whitaker ‘sweetheart’, caressed his arm, and Robby looked ready to explode with jealousy.”
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up. Oh, interesting.
The other doctor snorted. “Please. Robby’s like that with everyone. He picks a favorite, gets all touchy and protective, and then moves on.”
“Oh, right, fair point. But I do feel bad for Whitaker’s spouse, though. They’re probably at home waiting for Whitaker, and yet here he is, allowing Dr. Robby to feel him up."
It seemed like the nurses and doctors didn’t know who Whitaker’s husband was either.
Daniel frowned. Moves on and favorites, huh? The man in the bathroom hadn’t sounded like someone who moved on. He’d sounded anchored.
Still, Daniel had been developing a bias for Dr. Robby to be the mysterious husband. “Protective of Whitaker,” “touchy,” “Jealous." It fit enough pieces that Daniel started to feel the glow of victory. Robby had to be it. He even smiled to himself — until he rounded the corner and heard doors bust open, and he was met with the sight of Dr. Whitaker and Dr. Langdon in the flesh.
“Frank - I’m telling you, it wasn’t my faul-”
“Don’t give me that, Dennis! You always do this! Don’t go barging into shit that doesn’t concern you.”
“It, uh - kinda did -"
“Don’t act so coy and sweet because that’s not going to work this time -" Their voices faded off into the distance as they walked together, and Daniel’s theory completely disappeared.
What.
Daniel blinked. The rhythm of their argument — quick, practiced, vaguely affectionate — sounded eerily like a married couple mid-fight about dishes.
His stomach twisted. No. No, that can’t be it. Because everything in his chest screamed that it wasn’t Langdon. It couldn’t be. The voices felt too sharp, too loud, too unlike the softness he’d overheard earlier.
It should’ve made him happy that he finally figured out who the mysterious husband was. No, it just made him… weirdly sad.
Because his heart didn’t believe it. Because the idea of Dr. Whitaker being with someone other than that gentle-voiced man who called him blessing felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.
He sighed, sulking heavily, and trudged back toward his gurney like a soldier returning from war.
Daniel sat for the few remaining minutes and thought about his decision again. By the time the rest of the Gossip Committee had assembled, Daniel was staring at the same water stain on the ceiling that had distracted him earlier.
“Alright, my people. It’s officially been four hours. let’s say who we think pretty boy is married to.” Scar-face declared, the idiot who started this mess.
It didn’t feel right — his chest told him as much — but after everything he’d seen, what else could he do? He sighed and opened his mouth to give his answer when the automatic doors across from them whooshed open.
Out came Dr Whitaker and Dr Robby — both masked down, still in scrubs, hair disheveled in that exhausted way. They were talking in low voices, and Daniel’s eyes stayed on them.
He wasn’t sure what made him hesitant; the way Dr. Robby was looking at Whitaker or the way his big hand rested against the doctor's back as if it belonged there, like it was so fucking obvious.
“Yo, dude?” A patient says, “Hello? Can you hurry up and say your guess before I flatline from suspense?”
Daniel was about to look away when it happened.
That same low, smooth voice. He heard it before.
“You were amazing in there, blessing.”
Blessing.
Daniel’s head whipped up, eyes wide. He gasped loud enough that half the room turned to stare.
“What?” hissed the woman in the wheelchair, “you saw a ghost or something?”
Daniel’s pulse jumped, Oh my God, he thought. It’s him. It’s actually him. He fucking knew it.
Well. Only one way to end this.
He turned towards the other man, “Hey scar face man-“
“My name is Arthur.”
“Yeah, whatever. How much would I have to pay you to go over there and flirt with Dr Whitaker right now?”
Arthur blinked, “Fuck man, I’d do it for free. Why now, though?”
“Because,” Daniel started, “my money is on Dr. Robby, and we’re about to prove it.”
Arthur shrugged and stretched, cracked his neck, and sauntered across the hall with misplaced confidence. He slid between the two doctors like a human wedge.
“Hey there, Doc,” he said to Whitaker, turning on a smile supposedly meant to charm the doctor (Daniel was pretty sure it was doing the opposite). He continued, “You got a minute to check my heart? I think it stopped when I saw you.”
Oh God.
Whitaker blinked, horrified. “Um- sir, that’s-“
Daniel bit his knuckle to keep from laughing. Dr. Robby’s face, meanwhile, had gone through several stages of emotion in three seconds, ending between annoyed and ready to commit homicide.
“Sir,” Dr. Robby said tightly, so sharp that half the ER was trying to subtly listen to the drama. “Is there something you need from him?”
The man didn’t even look at him, just kept staring at Dr Whitaker, “Just medical attention and if he handles me with care, maybe dinner.”
“H-huh?” Dr. Whitaker rasped.
Dr. Robby’s jaw tightened. “You’re clearly flirting with a man who has a ring on his finger.”
Arthur raises his brows, “So what? Never heard the phrase 'Don't let your husband stop you from finding your boyfriend?” He paused, "Unless, you're his boyfriend?"
The room went silent. Even the monitors seemed to pause, holding their electronic breath. Holy shit.
Dr. Robby’s eyes flicked from the patient to Whitaker, then back again.
“I’m not his boyfriend.” He said.
Arthur turned, triumphant. “See, dude?!” He called towards Daniel. “You were totally wro-“
“I’m his husband.”
The words landed like a crash, sudden and hard.
Before anyone could react, Dr. Robby stepped forward, one hand sliding to Whitaker’s jaw, and kissed him — so sweet that it made Daniel yearn for love. A ripple of gasps swept the ER, followed by someone dropping their cup of coffee.
Dr. Whitaker blinked up at him, flustered and embarrassed. “R-Robby, we’re in public.”
“Yeah,” The other doctor murmured, brushing a thumb over his cheek, “guess the secret’s out now.”
Chaos erupted. Half the staff cheered, someone whistled, and a few patients clapped.
“What the hell?”
“They’re married?”
“That explains why Dr. Robby is so touchy with him.”
Daniel just laughed, warm and triumphant, the sound bubbling out of him like champagne. He turned towards Arthur, who strolled back, dazed and defeated. “So. Where’s my pudding?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”
Before Daniel got released to go home, he accepted his victory prize with a flourish, peeling back the lid as the ER buzzed with delighted gossip.
Across the room, Robby’s thumb brushed the corner of Whitaker’s smile, gentle even through the chaos. Whitaker looked embarrassed but happy — really, truly happy — and Daniel felt something loosen in his chest. He took a bite of the pudding, sweet and cool on his tongue, and smiled.
Love, it turned out, really was the best medicine.
→←