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Dennis thought PittFest was bad.
To be fair, he hasn't seen just how bad this incident got. The night shift bore the brunt of the mess, had to face the fallout as the hospital got contaminated with a horrific chemical spill. They're still cleaning; Dennis isn't even supposed to be here. They sent everyone from the day shift a text explicitly asking to delay their arrival by two hours, as they'd only get in the way.
Naturally, half the staff ignored that text and showed up anyway, wanting to help - or perhaps to see the damage with some morbid curiosity. Even doctors, for all their ingrained moral coding, aren't immune to getting their kicks off of disasters.
A few nurses and doctor Ellis are crowded around the entrance of an ambulance out in the bay, and when Dennis walks past it, he sees Dr Abbot, hooked up to an IV and portable monitor, oxygen mask on. He looks gaunt, oddly fragile with his scrubs cut away, despite his bulk of muscle. There's a sheen of sweat on his pallid skin, pearly and stagnant, which is never a good sign.
The night shift attending spots him then, and suddenly seems to find a rush of energy, surging up. One of the night shift nurses tries to force him back down, but Abbot still has just enough strength to rip himself free from her grip and pull off his mask.
"Whitaker!" he calls out, and Dennis freezes in his tracks. "Whitaker. You gotta…" He devolves into violent coughs, breath and energy draining away quickly. It scares the hell out of Dennis.
He quickly walks up to the ambulance, hoping it'll make Dr Abbot less agitated. "What do you need?" he asks the attending.
"Robby," Abbot manages, panting heavily. "Robby." It's all he's got left in him for now as his lungs are audibly crackling from here, but it's enough. Dennis looks at the other staff.
"Where is he?" he asks, suspecting he already knows the answer. The nurse that tried to restrain Abbot gives a minute jerk of her head in the direction of the hospital, confirming Dennis' fears.
Stupid, he thinks to himself. Stupid man, self-destructive asshole. He shouldn't think ill of his senior attending, but he can't help it. It's easier to be angry than scared. He makes his way to the entrance where he finds Dana, the charge nurse as stubborn as the other doctors who ignored the warning text, already here to help divert traffic and making sure what patients remain are sent off to other hospitals with care and proper transferral of their medical files. When she sees his face, she shakes her head.
"I can't let you go in," she tells Dennis. "They're still cleaning in there."
"I can help."
"You'll get in the way, kid."
He shakes his head. "No - I can help with Dr Robby."
She studies his face for a moment, and he wonders how much the man told her after PittFest. Probably nothing, from what little Dennis knows about him. Dr Michael Robinavitch doesn't seem like the kind of guy to discuss his breakdowns if he can help it. And from the way Dennis has seen him interact with both Dana and Dr Abbot, they all seem to have the whole nonverbal communication thing between them down to an art form, eliminating the need for talk entirely by Robby's book.
Still, she must know something. She seems to see something in Dennis too, whether or not she knows just what went down between them.
In truth, Dennis doesn't even know. It had been so quick. He hadn't exactly said anything of comfort either last time; he basically just told the guy to man the fuck up and get back out there or his department would drown with him. It was what Robby had needed in the moment, but he'd felt like he'd struck the right chord purely by accident. It was only afterwards, when they ever-so-briefly touched on religion, that he felt a strange kind of kinship.
He's not sure if he's the right man for the job now, but Dr Abbot seemed to think so. And after studying him intently for a moment, so does Dana, because at last, she nods. "Alright," she sighs. "Let me help you get into some PPE."
"Does anyone know whereabouts he is in there?" Dennis asks as she hoists him into a protective suit. It's got a hood with a plastic vizor, ventilation strapped to the back. He vaguely recognises it from TV, feeling like they used similar ones back during the Covid outbreaks. When Dana appears back into view, she shakes her head.
"Somewhere on the ED floor," she replies, as if that hadn't been obvious. "That, or the roof, but no-one's seen him near the ledge. Clean-up crew are combing the area, still checking the exam rooms he's been working in." The walkie on her hip crackles, and she plucks it up to respond to whatever update is coming in.
Dennis swallows. Somehow, he feels like he knows exactly where to look - and it won't be in any of the exam rooms.
He manages to make his way past security with a hasty excuse and a flash of his hospital badge and heads straight for the Pediatrics room.
The blinds are drawn. He wonders if the clean-up crew know that automatically means someone must be in there, because if the room is empty, the staff make sure clear vision is maintained so other staff members know as much too and can give the room to any patient that needs it. Again, that anger rears its ugly head. If Dr Robby is injured in some way, help will come too late. He will have curled up in there like a dog hiding under the porch to die, and the worst thing is, Dennis can just see him do it. He may not know Dr Robby that well, but he knows that much, knows it for a fucking fact.
One of the beds has its curtains drawn around it, but Dennis can still see the feet beneath. They're clothed in PPE, which is something, and their owner seems to be standing, which is also promising. He carefully closes the door behind him, even though he feels like he shouldn't. Another PittFest memory raises its head; Dr Robby gesturing around the floor as he briefs them on how this MCI is going to be run. Everyone out in the open, so everyone can maintain an eye on everyone. But right now, his gut is telling him to give them as much privacy as possible. Robby is standing behind that curtain like a kid playing hide-and-seek, and Dennis can't bring himself to let the sounds of searching and cleaning drift into this place, which has grown into both a hideaway and a personal hell, a liminal space that exists out of time.
When he steps around the curtain, Robby is staring straight ahead at a painted fox on the wall, unblinking. There are tears pouring down his face, and his vizor is fogged up with rapid breath. His chest is rising too quickly, his breath is sitting too high. He's hyperventilating.
Dennis doesn't speak. It's not as easy to find the right words this time. The incident is over, only the clean-up remains. He can't shock Robby out of whatever he's feeling with some surprisingly harsh words to get him back to work, and something tells him he can't start reciting the Torah at him either. All he knows right now is that he needs to regulate Robby's breathing, but he doesn't dare remove their masks, in case the air isn't quite safe to breathe yet.
Another memory surfaces; this time an old one, from way back when he was little, when his mother was still gentle with her smallest boy, who was laid up, frightened and exhausted from his chicken pox.
He starts to hum something. He doesn't really know what, just that it's a melody dredged up from the fog of time, something his mom sang to soothe his fears. And to his surprise, Robby blinks, and his gaze shifts down to Dennis.
They simply look at each other for a moment as Dennis continues to hum, making his way through the song with wavering voice. By some miracle, Robby's breathing slows a little. But it's not enough.
When the song ends, his breathing picks up again. So Dennis switches to another, and this time, he reaches for Dr Robby's hand. The man flinches away, but he doesn't have any fight in him, so it's easy enough for Dennis to grab hold anyway. He pulls the hand towards him, and places it on his chest, fingers splayed to feel his breath and heartbeat.
That does the trick. Robby's breath starts to match his, skipping less often. They stand there for minutes, Dr Robby's hand on Dennis' chest, Dennis' hand laid over it. Dennis cycles through to another song, and they keep breathing together.
The spell is broken when the door opens - finally, the clean-up crew has found them. "Anybody in here?" someone calls out, and Robby nearly jumps back out of Dennis' grip, but the student doctor holds on tight and maintains eye contact.
"Yeah," he calls back. "Tell Dana and Dr Abbot that I've got Dr Robby with me."
"Okay, well, you can come out and tell them yourself. We'll take it from here."
"I don't think so," Dennis replies calmly. "We need a little more time. Just pass on the message, we'll make our way out when we're ready." Robby's breath has grown more laboured again. He'll have to fix that.
"Alright," the clerk sighs, "we'll pass it on. Oh, and you guys can take off the gear. We've pretty much cleared the area."
The door slips shut with a click, and they're alone again. Dennis studies Robby's face, or as much as he can see of it through the fog of his breath on the plastic. His brown eyes are wide and bloodshot, wet still with tears that can't seem to stop falling, and his face is blotchy, but he seems otherwise unharmed at first glance. Dennis will hear the story of what went down here some other day, from Dr Abbot, Dana, or someone else. For now, he focuses on settling back into breathing.
He starts up another song, and it calms Robby quickly this time. As they breathe, as Dennis hums and Robby listens, he slowly lets go of the hand on his chest. It remains there, which is good, that's what he was hoping for. Two hands free now, he carefully reaches up to lift the hood off Robby's suit and lets it lightly fall to the floor, before following up with removing his own.
The second Robby feels that first draft of unventilated air, he gulps it in like a drowning man surfaced. The tears, which had slowed, start up again. Dennis doesn't think he even realises they're falling, wonders if Robby is even really aware of anything that's happening around him, but is quickly given a rude awakening as the man finds his words again.
"Off," he pants, "off, get this thing - get it off —" He starts tugging and tearing at the suit, tangling himself up in the plastic until it tightens around his neck, thrashing in panic and Dennis has to duck to avoid getting socked in the eye.
"Hey, hey," he snaps, letting his voice rise for just a second to pierce through the panic before softening it again. Like calming a spooked horse, he thinks, feeling more old memories from a life on the farm resurface and guide his instincts. "Here. Come here." He grabs onto Robby, stills his limbs with an iron grip, forcing him to remain in place with nothing but the pressure of a sure, open hand and his body pressed against Robby's flank as he reaches back and unzips the man's suit with the other. He unclips the belt that held up the little engine for his ventilation, and finally peels the suit down and off the man.
He's not undressing him, not really, but it feels as intimate, in a way. Peeling off a protective layer that had grown restrictive, like releasing the pressure of a burn victim's skin by cutting into it, giving immediate relief but opening him up to vulnerability and infection. He's on his knees, feeling almost reverent in his care as he helps Robby step out of the suit one foot at a time, before standing back up and taking off his own.
Robby looks like he's about to fall apart, and Dennis still doesn't have the right words. So he does what he knows works by now and reaches out, but Robby, who clearly feels more exposed than ever, surges back, eyes wide. The panic is setting in again as he seems to realise just how vulnerable he is, how Dennis has seen him like this again, and then the thrashing returns.
But Dennis is prepared this time, and he won't allow the man to pull away again. Not this time. He pulls him close, wraps himself around Robby's broad chest, allowing his arms to remain free to push at him. Dennis doesn't mind; he isn't budging. The fight will leave Robby eventually, and when it does, he can lean on Dennis.
Indeed, when Robby deflates, he almost collapses in Dennis' arms with a shuddering breath. Dennis is humming again, a song he heard Trinity sing once in a language he doesn't speak, but it had soothed him, and it's soothing Robby now. They hold each other, Dennis gently swaying side to side.
He's not entirely sure how it happens, but he thinks Robby was the one to take the first step that turned the sway into a dance. They're too close to one another to call it anything proper; Dennis' old high school teacher Mrs Combs would have definitely yelled at him to leave room for Jesus if she saw this. But as it stands, Mrs Combs isn't here. No-one is. It's just Dennis and Robby, slow-waltzing to a tune of Dennis' making, in a children's room that is also a morgue.
It's unclear how much time passes. Dennis just lets it happen, lets his broken attending hold onto him and gently move them around the room as the coloured animals on the walls swirl into faded smears around them. He feels oddly soothed by it himself, by the movement, by Robby's warmth radiating off him and the predictability now of his pain. It feels odd somewhere that Robby is leading, but also not all that surprising. Time has slowed to a treacle, and again Dennis wondered what happened here tonight. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as PittFest - he can't imagine anything as bad as PittFest - but it was simply enough for Robby to see his friend and colleague hurt, or for Robby to wear the suit again that defined these wards around the time Dennis started medical school.
It doesn't matter. The suits are off, and Abbot is out. The department is clean again, and after what feels like an age, Robby slows them both to a stop. He doesn't let go just yet, though. Instead, he bows his head and mutters something akin to prayer before kissing the top of Dennis' head, right where a kippah would sit if he were Jewish. After that, Robby finally peels away.
"You lead the way," Dennis tells him with an assuring little nod, finally feeling safe enough in allowing the man to step away. "I'm right behind you."