Chapter Text
whitaker had been staring at the same med room cabinet for thirty seconds, trying to remember what he'd come in here for, when he caught his reflection in the window.
oh.
right.
he looked like he'd lost a fight in a slasher film.
the femoral artery GSW had been brutal. the kind of trauma that made even the seasoned attendings tense up, everyone moving fast and precise while blood sprayed across gowns, gloves and apparently whitaker's entire front half. he'd been second assist, which meant he'd been right in the splash zone when they'd finally gotten control of the wound.
patient was stable now. in surgery. whitaker should feel good about that.
instead he just felt sticky.
his scrubs were soaked through, cold and stiff against his skin. he should change. he absolutely should change. but there were three more patients coming in from a pileup on the parkway, and dr. king needed him to brief a family, and the blood bank was calling about inventory, and santos wanted help with her fucking charting, and he just…
didn't have time.
"whitaker."
he turned. robby was in the doorway, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, looking at him with that flat expression that somehow conveyed both complete indifference and total awareness.
"yeah?"
robby's gaze dropped to whitaker's blood-soaked scrubs, tracked back up. he didn't say anything for a beat. just set his coffee down on the counter, reached back, and shrugged out of the jacket he'd been wearing. the navy blue zip-up he always had on, worn soft at the elbows.
he held it out.
whitaker blinked once, sheepishly. "what?"
"you're a murder scene walking," robby said. "put it on."
"i can just go change—"
"time is of the essence.” robby pushed the jacket into whitaker's hands. the fabric was still warm. “dana needs you on the floor. all hands on deck. wear it."
before he could even gather any semblance of a response, he was already leaving, attention back on the tablet, like the interaction had never happened. like it was nothing.
dennis stood there, holding the jacket.
he put it on.
the thing was, whitaker did eventually get time to change. around hour eight, during a lull that felt like a gift from the universe, he ducked into the locker room and swapped his ruined scrubs for clean ones.
he should have taken off robby's jacket then. should have folded it, left it in robby's locker with a “thank you :p” note.
instead he zipped it back on.
it was comfortable. that was all. the pitt was always too cold and the jacket was snug and it smelled like coffee and something else, something distinctly robby. something he feared he could get used to.
"that robinavitch’s?" joy asked, passing him in the hallway.
whitaker looked down at himself. "yeah. he lent it to me earlier."
"huh." her expression was unreadable. "didn't know he did that."
"did what?"
"lent things. cared about things. you know. human stuff."
whitaker frowned. "he's human."
"if you say so." joy had already dismissed the conversation, pulled toward a patient room by al-hashimi’s urgent wave. maybe she needed a save from ogilvie’s insufferable blabbering.
whitaker fidgeted with the jacket's zipper. robby was human. he'd seen the proof of it, that night after the shooting, robby's hands shaking; breathing ragged and eyes unfocused behind the thin curtains at pedes. he'd seen robby try to teach him through his own exhaustion, seen him fight for patients, seen him crack the smallest smile when dennis managed to get something right.
robby was so fucking human it hurt to watch.
he didn't see robby again before the end of his shift.
whitaker found himself in the locker room at midnight, slumped on the bench, still wearing the jacket. he should take it off. he had to.
but robby was already gone and it felt weird now, after wearing it all shift, to just leave it folded on a bench.
he'd take it home. wash it. return it clean tomorrow.
that was the nice thing to do. just the way his mama had raised him.
he took the jacket home.
the apartment was quiet. whitaker headed straight for his room, robby's jacket still on, exhaustion making his movements slow and clumsy.
"you planning to sleep in that too?"
he turned. santos was leaning against her doorframe, toothbrush in hand, eyebrow raised.
"what?"
“robinavitch’s jacket." she gestured at him with the toothbrush. "you've been wearing it all day. are we adding it to your wardrobe permanently or is this a phase?"
"i'm giving it back tomorrow," whitaker said, finally unzipping it. "i just didn't see him before he left."
“uh-huh.” santos's smile was sharp. "and you couldn't leave it in his locker because...?"
"because i'm going to wash it first. it went through a whole shift."
"how thoughtful."
"it is thoughtful."
"sure." santos pushed off the doorframe. "just saying, if you're gonna moon over the guy, maybe don't do it while wearing his clothes. bit on the nose."
"i'm not—“
"night, whitaker." she was already walking past him toward her room, patting his shoulder as she went. "sweet dreams about dr. robby."
"i don't—"
her door clicked shut.
whitaker stood in the hallway, jacket in his hands, face warm.
he wasn't mooning.
he was just being considerate. wasn’t he?
he should sleep. he had another shift in ten hours.
instead he stood in the small kitchen, playing around with the loose threads of the fabric, debating.
he should wash it. it probably had hospital germs on it, and anyway it would be weird to return it unwashed, right?
whitaker checked the pockets before tossing it in the machine.
his notepad was in the left pocket.
oh. he'd been looking for that earlier. must have slipped it into the jacket pocket at some point during the shift without thinking. he did that sometimes, borrowed pockets when his scrub pockets were full or inconvenient. trinity was usually his preferred victim.
whitaker pulled it out. small, spiral-bound, the cover slightly bent. he'd been using this one for a few weeks now.
he should just set it aside. put the jacket in the wash. go to bed.
instead he flipped it open.
patient notes from the day. medication dosages for the GSW. a reminder to follow up on the car accident patients. his handwriting was messier than usual, rushed.
but there were other things too.
in the margins: doodles. he always doodled when he was thinking. small sketches of anatomical structures he was trying to memorize. a terrible drawing of what was supposed to be a heart but looked more like a blob. a stick figure version of santos making her so-called “resting bitch face”.
a few pages in, he'd apparently gotten bored and drawn what he thought robby's motorcycle might look like based on the half a conversation he'd overheard last week. it was probably completely wrong.
there was a to-do list from yesterday:
- call mom back
- study for rounds
- ask robby about ICU elective
- return santos' tupperware (3 weeks overdue)
- sleep at some point maybe?
and then, tucked near the middle, something he'd written during a quiet moment he barely remembered:
robby's leaving soon. three month sabbatical. the pitt's going to be weird without him. i'm going to be weird without him teaching me stuff. need to make sure i learn as much as possible before he goes.
whitaker snapped the notepad shut.
he stood there for a second, holding his own notepad, holding the jacket.
the jacket that still smelled like robby. he had handed him the piece of clothing without hesitation, like it was a daily chore, like lending whitaker things was just something he did.
if whitaker had robby's jacket, then robby could have his notepad, he supposed.
he opened the notepad again. found a blank page near the back. his pen hovered over the stripped nothingness.
this was stupid. he should just return the jacket tomorrow with a quick, polite thanks and move on like a normal person.
but, still, when he did try, his handwriting looked too careful, too deliberate:
thanks for the jacket. probably saved me from terrifying at least five patients and one attending. this is my notepad though so i guess we're even now? fair warning: my drawings are not as good as whatever you can probably do. also i think i got your motorcycle completely wrong? please check for accuracy :) - w
he stared at it.
too much? too weird?
probably.
fuck it.
he tucked the notepad back in the jacket pocket, then walked to his room. he draped the jacket carefully over his desk chair, the fabric dark against the light wood.
tomorrow he'd give it back. robby would find the notepad, maybe read the note, maybe not.
whitaker told himself he didn't care either way.
he was a terrible liar.
he didn't sleep well. when he did sleep, he dreamed of arterial spray and maybe robby's hands, always a little rough around the edges, and the weight of a jacket that wasn't his.
when his alarm went off at seven, the jacket was still draped over his chair, waiting.