Chapter Text
There’s something to be said about the way your sleep schedule is affected by working at the ED.
Dennis, as a person, isn’t unused to working through exhaustion— as a kid, he’d spend long hours mucking stalls, feeding and looking after animals, only to fall into bed with enough time for two hours of sleep before he’d have to do it all again.
This didn’t change once he’d left Nebraska.
He truthfully didn’t know if med school only added to his insomnia, or if he was just like this no matter where he was.
When he’d been working on his theology degree, he often had sleepless nights; a terrible sense of nostalgia flooding him each time he’d stare up at the ceiling of his dorm room in complete darkness.
How can you sleep, knowing you’re lying—
That you’re still asking for signs from god all these years later, so far away from home?
How can you sleep when all that answers your questions is the tinnitus in your own ears?
If you’d asked him now, he has no clue how he graduated at all— let alone have good enough grades to get a foot in the door at medical school.
All he can remember is coffee and an unsaid penance for being alive and ungrateful for the very god he’d been learning about.
Then, when he’d moved to the city and lost a stable place to live, his sleepless nights became more and more frequent.
There’s no way to sleep peacefully when you’re unhoused.
Between cops shooing him away from parks with the threat of arresting him, and the general dangers of a city after dark, the fear kept him awake.
Even when he’d discovered the eighth floor, he was still restless— terrified he’d be discovered, that not only would he be arrested for tresspassing, but he’d lose everything he’s worked for these past few years.
So he just…slept sparingly.
Until Trinity took him in after that first shift.
It was only when the door to the room— his room clicked shut behind him did he feel his face heat up, tears pricking in his eyes.
No threat of being caught, no fear of being in trouble for just existing, no horrific silence of a prayer unanswered—
He could just…go to bed.
It didn’t seem real, pulling the blankets over himself, letting his head settle into a pillow that didn’t smell like dust and antiseptic; a bed— a real, actual bed.
He barely remembers falling asleep that first night, just closing his eyes and a dreamless night taking him without even realizing it.
***
He loves his family.
If anybody asked him, he’d tell them how he misses the farm he’d grown up on back in Nebraska— misses the cold morning air that’d meet him when he’d go out to help his brothers with the animals, the smell of the barn— despite how distinct it was.
If you asked if he misses his parents?
He’d say he owes them a lot.
Partly because it’s true, and partly because…
He doesn’t know if you can describe what he feels when he thinks of his parents as ‘missing them’.
Over the years, he’s been speaking to them less and less;
Not consciously, he’d never say it was on purpose— but over time, as the miles between him and home grew further and further apart, it feels like a deeper connection to home was being severed.
The phone calls have become a rarity; most are from his mother, asking him when he’s coming back to visit, how Pittsburgh is this time of year and—
“What Church have you been attending up there?”
Everytime she asks, his breath freezes in his lungs.
What does he even say? How do you explain to the people who raised you, who want the best for you, that you no longer believe?
He’d been able to side step the question in the past— a degree in the topic always helps with the lies he tells.
Lying through your teeth is hard, however, when you’re going to be face to face with a man you haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to in years.
He’s in between patients, only a few hours from the end of his night, when his phone rings.
Pulling it from his pocket, he looks at the caller ID and freezes.
What the fuck—
Looking around to see nobody was looking, he ducks into the bathroom as quickly as possible.
His fingers shake as he answers the phone.
”Hey, Dad.” he swallows the spit in his mouth, trying to rid himself of the waver in his voice. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Dennis, everything’s fine.” He forgot how much weight that voice can hold— how much importance.
breathe. fuck, why is it hard to breathe?
“I’m actually— I’m at work right now, Dad. Could I call you back—“
“I’m coming to see you in around a week.” He doesn’t let Dennis even take the words in before he’s continuing. “Your mother says you still haven’t found a church to attend while over there, is that right?”
He feels cold— like his blood is freezing in his veins as the hand that holds his phone grows numb.
He swallows back the bile in his throat.
“…Yes.”
“Yes you found one, or no you haven’t?”
He shakes his head, his unoccupied hand twitching at his side.
“N-no, I haven’t found one yet— but you don’t have to come up just because of that! I'll find one!”
He hears silence over the phone, but he’s too scared to check and see if the call ended.
Instead, he hears a sigh over the line.
“Not just for that.”
His jaw moves, like his mind is desperate to find something to say so he could stop this from happening, but his voice dies in his throat.
“I’ll be there in a week.”
The line goes dead, but he barely hears it.
He’s still holding the phone up to his ear, barely able to keep his grip on the device with how numb his entire body feels.
This has happened before, where he’s outside of himself.
When he was a child, the first time it happened, he believed it was some kind of divine gift from God— to escape from his body in times of danger— but now he knows what it is.
The bile is climbing in his throat, tears spilling from his eyes as he stumbled, dazed, towards a stall, before locking the door behind him and falling to his knees.
His stomach churns, leaving him dry heaving above the bowl as he pulls at his own hair.
His dad is coming.
He feels his lunch emerge from his stomach, leaving him trembling.
He tries to get his mind in order, to figure out a plan of action, but he can’t, not right now—
Time passes, but he can’t move from the cold floor of the bathroom, eyes refusing to blink as he trembles on the ground.
He pukes until his body can’t even produce stomach acid, his body cramping from the need to purge this feeling from itself— to rid himself of the fear that’s invaded.
Leaning back, he presses his forehead into the toilet paper dispenser, letting the metal cool his overheated skin as he cries silently.
Why can’t he just be normal?
He pushes his palms into his eyes, gritting his teeth to try and force himself to calm down.
His dad wasn’t a bad man— neither of his parents were!
Raising five kids would be difficult for anybody—
And it’s not as if disciplining your child was abnormal for people in his town— if anything, he had it easy!
Things were different now, too. He was an adult, living away from home and working as a doctor— that had to count for something, right?
So why did the idea of his father seeing this— the entire life he’s made for himself out here, terrify him?
Hearing the sound of the bathroom door open, he froze.
How long have I been here?
Watching from under the door, he can see shoes begin to approach the stall he’s currently occupying before a soft knock rings out.
“Dennis? You all good in there?”
He bites back something between a curse and a sob, hiding his face in his hands.
Why him? Why’d it have to be his fucking boss?
“Dennis?” He calls again, and it makes his chest burn with frustration.
”I’m fine, Doctor Robby.“ he bites, trying to steady his breath. “I’m just—“ bracing his hand on the wall, he forces his unstable legs under him and stands from the floor. “Stomach issues, that’s it.”
Reaching over, he flushes the toilet, disposing of whatever proof was left of his own panic just moments ago.
He wipes his face the best he can before unlocking the stall and stepping out, unable to meet the gaze of his attending.
As he walks to the sink to wash his hands, he can feel the other man’s eyes on him— but he can’t look. He refuses to face whatever disappointed or pity filled expression is painting Doctor Robby’s face.
“Let’s see,” He can hear him pause, and can almost see the other man look down at his watch. “It's about an hour away from your shift ending. If you need, we can always—“
He finally turns around at that, snapping again at his attending. “I don’t need to go home early, damn it—“
he didn’t even register his chest growing tight, refusing him the ability to fucking breathe, like he’s supposed to— he’s mad, and he doesn’t even know why.
Robby’s brows are raised, something in his jaw tightening just a fraction at the outburst.
he’s mad. You fucked up, you fucked it all up—
“I’m sorry, I—“ his voice breaks before he covers his mouth with his hand, shutting himself up.
The older man puts up his hands, palms out like he’s calming a cornered animal. “Whitaker— breathe, kid. You look like you’re about to drop.”
Dropping his hand from his mouth, he takes a deep breath.
As he continues to breathe, his vision begins to clear for the first time in the past hour, the muggy grey that clings to everything fading.
“Better?” Robby asks, crouching a bit to get into Dennis’ field of vision.
He only shrugs..
His attending hums, stepping back. “Okay, so here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re going home.”
“But I can still—“
He’s cut off with the gesture of a hand and a stern look, like an unreasonable child.
“You’re going to get some rest, some electrolytes in your system, and whatever else you need before you come in tomorrow, okay?”
Hanging his head, he sighs.
“Okay.”
He doesn’t mean to, but he flinches at the hand on his shoulder.
Blinking, he looks up to see robby with his hand hanging in the air, expression unreadable.
“Sorry, I’m just— Tired.”
His voice sounds weak, even to himself.
He wants to puke again.
Turning on his heel, he leaves the bathroom as quickly as he could without looking insane.
He refuses to look back, even when he thinks he hears his name being called in confusion.
***
He gets home only a few minutes before the time he was meant to clock off.
It feels wrong, to lay in his bed under a soft comforter, while his coworkers had to pick up his slack.
Whats worse is the feeling he has in his bones now, looking up at the ceiling.
He can’t sleep.
It’s not for lack of trying, obviously;
He has a mug of tea on his bedside table, and downed two melatonin when he first got in the apartment, but so far, nothing is making his body calm down.
He covers his head with the blanket, unwilling to stare up at the stark white ceiling any longer, pressing his hands into his eye sockets the same way he had back in the bathroom.
Just calm the fuck down— Breathe.
He has a week to prepare; to make himself, and his life look the way his parents are expecting of him— he has enough time.
He has to have enough time, because he shudders to think of what’ll happen if he doesn’t.
It’s only when he’s gripping his hair painfully that the thought hits him:
I need to cut my hair.