Chapter Text
Still Swimming, Still Drowning
Dennis felt drained. Couldn't even tell you why. His shift was relatively normal without any mass casualties or tragedies. They still lost patients as was the circle of life in the ED, but nothing like the day of PittFest.
In fact, he was just finishing up his rounds before heading to the nurse's station for Dr. Robby's dismissal when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He wonders who it could be as he fishes for it distractedly. He turns his pocket inside out, but he doesn't bother fixing it. Not when the screen immediately lights up with the barest brush of his fingers over the corning glass. Immediately he sees five missed calls, three voice messages, and seven desperate texts all sent over the past two hours. All belonging to his daughter's daycare.
A pit forms in the bottom of his stomach.
He wastes no time and yet it feels like he can't dial the daycare's number fast enough.
If it were something really bad they would've heard of it on the news, right?
His hand is beginning to tremble as he glances around to make sure no one sees him sneak off to the (thankfully empty) staff room.
The call barely rings twice. The answer is immediate, that can't be good.
Fuck, he tugs at his hair beginning to pace back and forth when a kind voice greets him expectantly, "Mr. Whitaker."
"I'm so sorry," Dennis apologizes in a rush, "I was at work, we're not supposed to have our ringer on and I didn't feel my phone vibrate, I'm s-"
"We understand," the daycare teacher cuts him off, voice kind but firm, "we do, but we really need you to get here as soon as you can."
Dennis feels his breath hitch, the back of his throat suddenly dry, "what happened?"
"Some of the kids have been getting sick lately. You know, 'tis the season," the teacher says, voice now light in laughter at her "joke".
Dennis feels his shoulders slump in relief. So no tragedy. Good. That's good.
He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He feels the vice around his heart loosen just a bit.
"Ah, anyway, Charli started complaining of a headache a couple hours ago. As you know without a doctor's order we cannot administer any medications. However, the nurse did take a look at her and she has a mild fever. We think it's best if she gets home soon so she can rest and recover."
"Oh thank God," Dennis whispers mostly to himself. Definitely no tragedy. He can handle a low grade fever.
"Mr. Whitaker?"
"Yes, yes, I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you."
"Of course, any time."
He's about to hang up when the teacher continues, "Oh and Mr. Whitaker?"
"Yes?"
"We advise that you keep Charli home until she is no longer symptomatic for at least 24 hours. We want to prevent spreading whatever it is going around."
Dennis bites his lower lip and sighs, "yes, of course. Thank you."
"We'll see you soon."
The call disconnects and Dennis spaces out for a minute longer, rocking back and forth on his heels in contemplation.
He has a shift tomorrow and he doesn't have anyone who can look after his sick child. He glances out the small window embedded in the door separating him from the chaos of the ED. He notices day shift slowly trickling toward the nurse's station. He should go out there.
He tries to shove his phone back in his pocket only to wince when it clatters onto the linoleum floor. He picks it up, wrestles with his inside-out pocket in frustration, wins, and shoves his phone in victory.
First thing's first.
He needs to get to his daughter.
Then he needs to go to the pharmacy and pick up some medication. He wonders if the hospital's pharmacy will be cheaper than the CVS close to his daughter's daycare.
He'll have to worry about tomorrow later.
Decidedly, he joins day shift.
He's only been at PTMC in the ED for about a week, and he can honestly say that Dr. Robby's speeches might be his favorite part of his rotation with day shift thus far.
That and the mutual respect Dr. Robby shows to each and every one of his colleagues.
Dennis refuses to think of the shoulder pats, the firm hold of the back of his neck, the careful brush of a hand on his lower back, and all the other times Dr. Robby has intentionally or accidentally touched him.
That's for him to think about in the darkness of the hospital room on the eighth floor he and his daughter occupy. Actually, that's something Dennis shouldn't even entertain. It doesn't mean anything.
With a solid clap, Dr. Robby dismisses day shift and urges them to get some rest before tomorrow.
Dennis ignores the knot in his belly at the thought of missing work, but his priority is his daughter. Has been since he found out he was pregnant. Has been since he decided he wanted to keep her.
He moves on autopilot.
He doesn't stop for small talk, politely declines Mateo's invite to join the crew for a beer or two across the street. He even ignores Santos' attempt of grabbing his attention.
He grabs his weathered hoodie and wallet from his locker and rushes out the doors like a bat out of hell.
He misses the concerned looks as he dashes by in a hurry. Doesn't even hear the footsteps that follow him in curiosity.
Dennis makes it to the daycare in record time. What typically takes a twenty minute walk, he runs it in twelve.
He's breathless when he enters inside, cheeks flushed and bitten from the sharp wind.
"Mr. Whitaker!" The receptionist greets.
"Hi, Delores," He offers the older woman a strained smile, doesn't even have to ask where his kid is as he's waved through the nursery.
The teacher gives him an apologetic smile and meets him at the threshold so they dont accidentally wake any of the other kids.
"Sorry to pull you out of work," Charli's teacher begins, "she's finally calmed down some."
"It's okay," he assures, "thank you for taking care of her."
Gratefully, he takes the bundle that's his daughter into his arms.
Disgruntled, his daughter squints up at him, recognizes him and proceeds to bury her face in his chest with a sniffle, "dada!"
"Hey princess," Dennis coos, adjusting her weight, "heard you're not feeling so well."
"Aow," she babbles, knocking her fist weakly against her head, "aow dada."
"I know baby, we're going to get you some medicine and you'll start to feel all better soon, I promise," he kisses her forehead, frowning when he feels how warm she truly is.
Delores coos at them on their way out, trying to coax a smile out of Charli. Charli doesn't even look up.
The walk back to the hospital feels long and almost shameful. He should've realized his baby was sick before even sending her to daycare. He knows it's unreasonable, but he can't help feeling like a failure.
Charli closes her fist around one of the strings of his hoodie and snuggles closer into his warmth. Dennis uses his baby's blanket to cover her from the chill, wishing he had a better means of transport.
"This is temporary," he says to himself, "this won't be forever."
He tries to take comfort in that, truly he does.
But he finds himself walking all the way around the hospital to avoid being seen by anyone he might know from the emergency department. It's not that he's ashamed of his daughter or that he doesn't want to share her existence. He loves her. He is sure they would all love her if they met her. But he can't risk them finding out they're homeless. That he gets off of work too late to make it in time before the shelter is at capacity. He can't risk having her taken away from him when it's the only good thing he has left in his life.
He squeezes her tiny body a little too tightly, dragging a complaint from her rosy lips. He kisses the top of her head in apology, "sorry sweetpea, I'm so sorry, baby."
He's not sure what he's even apologizing for anymore.
Sorry he's a failure? Sorry he can't seem to do better? Sorry for the empty promises of finding them a stable home?
Dennis feels tears sting his eyes.
Finally, he reaches the pharmacy.
He takes a deep breath and wills the sting of tears away.
He finds the children's Tylenol quickly, winces at the cost and thanks the pharmacist all the same. She's kind, wishes Charli gets better soon and offers her a lollipop. He thanks her again before wandering the halls of the hospital, shoving the sweet treat in his pocket for later.
He snatches a couple sandwiches for dinner and a pitcher of water from one of the carts.
He takes the closest elevator he can find in the maze of halls to the eighth floor.
His footsteps echo through the abandoned floor until he reaches the room they've been calling theirs.
It's not perfect and everything sucks, but in the safety of their little hospital room Dennis can finally feel himself relax.
Santos knows something is up with Whitaker, she just can place what it is exactly.
It's been a week since meeting everyone at the ED and sure, he's hinted at a couple things about himself here and there, but the man is still a mystery.
She raises a brow when Mateo shakes his head, catches the tell end of him saying Whitaker blew them off again.
She frowns.
She's pretty sure Whitaker is the only one who hasn't joined them for their weekly decompression ritual of beers and greasy takeout at the park benches across PTMC.
She's just about to join them when the man himself blurrs by in a rush. She glances at day shift already cracking cans of beer from across the way and feels how her mouth practically salivates in response to the sound. It's like she's been Pavlov trained.
Her curiosity, however, wins over her thirst.
It's hard to keep up with Whitaker, she tries grabbing his attention, but it's like he can't hear her.
She's panting when the man finally slows down.
She glances at her watch.
She's almost angry that Whitaker deadass made her run a mile under twenty. Her high school gym teacher would be proud.
And then she realizes where Whitaker is headed to.
Her lips part in surprise when the man actually disappears inside the daycare, not even five minutes later reappearing with a bundle in his arms. She can't help but stare.
No way.
Is Whitaker a dad?
Maybe it's his little sister?
No, he's said all his family is still in Broken Bow, Nebraska.
She didn't even think Whitaker was dating anyone.
She doesn't approach even though she really wants to.
Her phone buzzes in her hand and distracts her from the itch of confrontation.
Javadi is asking where she is and what she wants from their favorite Thai place.
She follows Whitaker only because it looks like he's heading back to hospital as well.
She types out a quick response, letting her know she's on her way.
When she glances up, Whitaker and the baby are gone - lost in a sea of faces.
Fuck.