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The ambulance bay is a bustle of activity far below Dennis’s dangling feet. No one looks up – no reason to- and it wouldn’t matter if they did. Between the darkness and the height of the building, his silhouette would be nearly impossible to pick out.
Dennis is as safe up here as he allows himself to be, and that might just be his whole problem.
The chilled metal of the railing presses into his back, goosebumps skittering up his neck. The hospital-issue scrubs do depressingly little to warm him, but he doesn’t dare cross his arms. That would require him to lift his hands from the ledge they’re currently planted on, and he wouldn’t be able to tell his colleagues that his fall was accidental if he were to be blown off the roof.
Dennis doesn’t want to jump – not really. He considered it briefly on the climb up the stairwell, but even his own subconscious wouldn’t let him waffle with the idea for any significant length of time. It would be a gruesome sight. Dr. Robby would likely be the one calling off resuscitative efforts and pronouncing his time of death. Dennis wouldn’t do that to them – his coworkers, his friends - especially after the night they’ve all had.
The weather in Pittsburgh had been dicey lately – blankets of fog limiting visibility and obscuring iced-over roads. Better conditions for an eighteen-car pileup couldn’t have been engineered in a lab. It was the perfect storm, and it descended on the PTMC with a vengeance the likes of which hadn’t been seen since PittFest almost a year ago.
In some ways, Dennis thinks, PittFest had been easier because the damage from a gunshot is easier – an entrance wound, possibly an exit wound, but both are clear indicators of where to start fixing. With car accidents like these, the damage is everywhere. Limbs splayed at odd angles if they’re attached at all, so much blood it was impossible to tell where it was even coming from, patients begging Dennis not to let them die.
“P-please, man, you have to call my parents. I need to talk to-“
Dennis blinks, and the memory resolves into the familiar outline of the treetops in the park across the street.
This shift had truly been a nightmare, but the true horror arrived in the form of an unexpected, unwelcomephone call from his parents. Dennis is embittered by his own ingratitude. He should be thankful he got the chance to speak with them when so many people will never get the opportunity again after tonight.
Selfish, just like his mom always says, and she will readily remind him that selfish hearts have no room for God.
Dennis isn’t even sure God exists anymore, not after a year in the ED. A nihilistic whisper in the back of his mind wonders if he’s being punished for his doubt. He wouldn’t be surprised. Sins have been piling up since he left Broken Bow – the lies to his parents, the debilitating crush on his male attending. It’s only fair that God – or the universe, or whatever’s keeping score – would eventually come to settle his tab.
But why should others have to suffer for his misgivings?
The question strikes him somewhere tender, and Dennis is suddenly and completely overcome with impotent rage. He wants to throw something off the roof, split his knuckles against the wall, scream until his esophagus bleeds. There’s nowhere to put this anger, no one to help carry it, no one to unleash it on. God is silent, the sky is empty.
The anger turns inward, and Dennis collapses into himself like a dying star, sobbing into his chest.
The roof access door is shoved open, slamming against the wall hard enough that Dennis nearly flinches himself right over the edge. He keeps his gaze fixed resolutely ahead, using his shoulders to frenetically scrub away the tacky tear tracks on his cheeks.
Dennis can’t decide who he’d least like to see right now. Trinity would rib him about this for the rest of his natural life, but the worst person to see him in this state, by far, would be Dr. Ro-
“Jack, what-“ A short pause, then approaching footsteps. “Oh, Dr. Whitaker.”
Fuck.
Dennis hears Dr. Robby stop at the railing just behind him. He’s close enough that Dennis can practically feel the warmth radiating off him.
“I thought you’d gone home already,” Dr. Robby says, a question and something else in his tone.
As if his night needed to get worse, his attending and the unknowing source of a large portion of his Catholic guilt has just caught him sobbing on the rooftop. Whether God exists or not is irrelevant, Dennis decides – something is punishing him.
Dr. Robby is going to think he needs a psych consult. Maybe he does.
“Hey, Dr. Robby, I just-“ Dennis carefully shifts himself to his feet. “Just needed some air.”
He turns toward the railing. Dr. Robby stands on the other side of it, in his scrubs and devastatingly handsome in a way that Dennis has tried and failed to ignore. His hands rest on the metal, but even Dennis can sense the undercurrent of energy coursing through them. Dr. Robby is ready to act, one way or another.
Dennis takes a wobbling step, but the sudden change in his center of gravity after sitting for so long has him tilting precariously. With a sharp inhale and a bitten off curse, his hand flies for the railing just as Dr. Robby lunges, fist tangling in the front of his scrubs, hauling him forward.
Suddenly, Dennis is closer to Dr. Robby’s face than he’s ever been. The strands of white threading through his beard reflect the white-knuckled grip he’s got on Dennis, and there’s a charming dusting of freckles across the bridge of Dr. Robby’s nose that he’d never seen.
The examination is cut short when Dr. Robby grinds out, inches from Dennis’s ear, “Jesus, fuck, Whitaker.”
Oh, right.
Dennis ducks under the rail, forcing Dr. Robby to release his hold with a quiet, “Easy, kid.”
There’s barely time to lament the loss of contact before it’s replaced, one hand locking around Dennis’s forearm and another pressed firmly on top of his head, ensuring he doesn’t crack it into the metal. It’s the first bit of warmth Dennis has felt since he came up to the roof.
Dr. Robby is pointedly not letting go of Dennis, as though he’s liable to launch himself off the roof at any moment. A rough, callused hand draws him one, two steps away from the railing, squeezing his wrist lightly before withdrawing.
“There are safer places to get air, Dr. Whitaker.”
A tight-lipped smile accentuates the crow’s feet adorning Dr. Robby’s eyes, and Dennis realizes with blinding certainty that he is fucked. Hopelessly enamored and hell-bound.
The adrenaline of his almost-fall and subsequent emotional turmoil bleed from him with each passing second, leaving only exhaustion and a solemn sort of grief in its wake. Dennis wants to cry, he wants a hug, he wants to sleep.
His throat tightens. He is reluctant to speak, doesn’t trust his voice, but Dr. Robby seems to be waiting for it anyway.
“I’m good now,” Dennis says, but it sounds weak even to himself.
Dr. Robby crosses his arms, brow quirked, and Dennis is an insect under a microscope.
“Seriously, I’m good,” Dennis turns toward the door, painfully aware of how much this looks like escape. “So, I’m just gonna-“
A hand closes around his bicep. Warm, callused, familiar.
“Stay.”
And that’s all it takes for Dennis to abandon his retreat.
Dr. Robby tugs him back toward the railing – ironic – before pulling away and folding his arms on the metal. He leans his weight forward, surveying the park, watching an ambulance pull away from the hospital.
After a beat, Dennis mirrors his posture, positioning his own arms scant centimeters from his attending’s.
He grits his teeth, willing his heart to settle. A hospital is probably the most ideal place to have a heart attack, but he’d hate for Dr. Robby to have to lug his dead weight down all those stairs. His back is already screwed up enough.
Silence reigns. Dennis props up an elbow, resting his chin in his palm. His eyelids droop.
“Please, please, don’t let me die, I don’t wanna-“
“Dr. Whitaker, BP’s tanking!”
Dennis’s eyes snap open with a soft gasp. He glances to the side to find Dr. Robby already observing him, motionless.
“Rough day?” He offers with a commiserating smile.
Dennis huffs a laugh, utterly devoid of humor. That’s the understatement of the century, but Dr. Robby already knows that – he had both a front row seat and an active role in Dennis’s ‘rough day.’
Dennis really doesn’t want to get into it. If he starts talking about this, about anything, he’d be swinging a sledgehammer at the dam of his composure. There’s no way of knowing how many swings it would take to collapse the whole thing and unleash the deluge, drowning them both.
That can’t happen. He needs Dr. Robby to believe he has his shit together. He’s a resident, for God’s sake, he should be better at compartmentalization by now.
But Dr. Robby is still scrutinizing him expectantly, and Dennis has to give him something, so he settles on:
“Felt like PittFest all over again.”
Shit, that was a huge swing at the dam. Heat already prickles the backs of his eyes, a lump rising hard in his throat. He sinks his molars into his cheek, looking away and blinking furiously.
Please, God, don’t let him cry in front of Dr. Robby.
The man in question is silent for several agonizing moments before saying, softly, “And just like with PittFest, you kept your head on straight and helped a lot of people.”
God has never deigned to hear his prayers before. Dennis doesn’t know why he expected this one to be any different.
Tears sear their way down his cheeks, and he traps a sob behind his teeth.
He didn’t keep his head on – not at all. If he had, Peter would still be alive. People with their heads on straight don’t scurry up to the roof to have panic attacks and hide from their superiors.
Currently, Dennis doesn’t have the faculties to articulate all of this. Instead, he just says, “Let a lot of people die, Dr. R-Robby.”
And doesn’t that just sum up his time as a medical professional?
Dennis crumples, strength gone from his legs. He drops into a loose crouch, gripping the mid-rail like he’s about to be torn away from it. He folds over himself, pressing his forehead into the backs of his hands, chest hitching, eyes screwed shut.
This is it – the dam has given way, the floodgates have burst open, and now Dr. Robby is going to see how not together his shit is. The grief none of them ever have time to process, the shame rotting his insides, the humiliation of reducing himself to a sniveling mess in front of his boss, his crush – it’s all compounding, sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs.
He sobs and sobs and sobs. Pitiful, ugly sounds tear themselves from his chest.
Dr. Robby doesn’t say a word.
The city hums around them, indifferent. Sirens come and go; the rooftop machinery drones quietly at his back. Cold metal bites into his palms, anchoring him whether he wants it to or not.
There’s a soft rustle of fabric. Dennis cracks his eyes just enough to see the other man lowering himself to sit beside him, legs extending beyond the railing, tattered sneakers nearly brushing the edge.
Somehow, Dennis’s addled brain registers this as a vulnerable position for Dr. Robby to place himself in. The only other time he’s ever seen him on the ground was in the makeshift morgue after PittFest.
Just another similarity, he supposes.
A hand settles on his back, tentatively gentle at first - as if Dennis might wrench himself away. As if he could.
The palm smooths up his spine, then back down again. Up and down, slow and steady, like Dr. Robby is setting a rhythm Dennis can borrow until he finds his own again.
Dennis latches onto it, a drowning swimmer clinging to a life preserver. He counts the passes without meaning to, each one giving his lungs fractionally more room to expand.
The pressure shifts, focusing into a persistent tug at the back of his scrubs. Dennis caves to it readily, allowing himself to be pulled down until he’s sitting next to Dr. Robby, pressing firmly into his side.
The warmth is cathartic. For a moment, Dennis forgets about God.
He leans into Dr. Robby.
The hand on his back resumes its ministrations with the occasional scrape of blunt fingernails, making Dennis shudder.
He drags angry fists over his eyes, scrubbing away the moisture until they burn. The shame remains, a dull heat in his cheeks.
“Dr. Whitaker.” The voice is pitched low and soothing, spoken directly into his ear. His chest aches.
Dennis works his jaw, staring down at his hands where they sit uselessly in his lap. Useless, indeed, because they hadn’t saved-
“Dennis, look at me.”
Dr. Robby’s voice has, impossibly, softened even further. Dennis thinks that if he looks up, he might start to cry again. He takes a fortifying breath and does it anyway.
This close, despite the sickly rooftop lighting, Dennis can see the rings of green circling Dr. Robby’s irises. He can see every fine line that stress and time have etched into his features, every twitch in his temple as he tenses his jaw.
Their eyes meet.
“You listening?” Dr. Robby asks, tilting his head just so.
Like Dennis could be doing anything else. He nods.
Dr. Robby holds his gaze, unwavering, and says, “You did everything right.”
The first few tears have fallen onto his hands before Dennis even registers them. Something splinters in Dr. Robby’s expression, and then the hand on Dennis’s back is guiding his head gently down to Dr. Robby’s shoulder.
He lets Dennis cry, alternating between dragging fingernails softly over his scalp and gliding his hand across his shoulder blades, up and down his shuddering back. All the while, Dr. Robby murmurs quiet reassurances into his hair.
“I know. I know, kid.”
They sit in charged silence until Dennis’s quivering abates again, but Dr. Robby never takes his hand off him.
Dennis draws in a ragged breath, then blows it out through his lips. It doesn’t feel good – not yet – but it’s certainly better.
He lets the full weight of his head settle on Dr. Robby’s shoulder and is immediately rewarded by the feeling of a cheek resting against his crown. The pressure is a blessed counterweight to the chaos rattling around in his mind.
“How have you done this for so long?” Dennis asks, voice crackling and threadbare.
One year in the ED is already almost too much for him to stomach, but Dr. Robby has been in the field for decades. It seems like an impossible burden for one person to bear.
Dr. Robby exhales a soft huff and shrugs, jostling Dennis’s head only slightly. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding surprised by his own admission. “But I do know I have a lot of good people around me who are all in the same boat.” His voice warms. “Hard to sink with such a solid crew.”
Dennis hums, feeling a smile tug at his lips, the first in a while. He shifts his head a bit, so Dr. Robby’s scrubs wick up the last few stubborn tears. “Didn’t know you were such a poet, Dr. Robby.”
Deft fingers dig into his ribs, playful, and Dennis jolts with a yelp.
He makes a halfhearted attempt to squirm away, but the movement barely gets him anywhere. The hand returns to his back, keeping him firmly in place.
He stills.
After a stretch, Dennis asks, quietly, “Does it get easier?”
He hopes it does, but his sense of hope has become a small, fragile thing. He would pray that it does, but there would be little point. The line is dead. No one is listening.
Dr. Robby hums, low and thoughtful. The sound vibrates faintly where Dennis is pressed against him.
“In a way,” he says at last. “You get better at dealing with it. Helps to talk about it, though.”
His beard brushes Dennis’s hair as he speaks, catching slightly every so often.
“You were there,” Dennis says, shuffling a little closer and resenting the familiar spike of guilt that follows when he indulges himself. “You saw what happened.”
“Yeah,” Dr. Robby says simply. “I did.”
Dennis waits.
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Maybe reassurance, or correction, or something motivational about the merits of opening up. None of that comes, though, and the silence that stretches between them becomes intentional.
Screw it. Dennis has already obliterated his professional reputation; he may as well go all in.
“The boy with the GI perf,” he begins, and he feels Dr. Robby nod against him.
The kid hadn’t been much younger than Dennis, extricated from the center of the pile-up and crushed into his steering wheel so violently that the firefighters had to peel away the mangled remains of his sedan from around him. Dennis hadn’t even needed his diagnostic machinery – one look at the boy’s mottled, distended abdomen told him everything from his sternum to his pelvis had been eviscerated irreparably.
The GI perforation wasn’t even the worst of the trauma – it was just the thing that killed him first.
Dennis blinks hard, clenching his jaw until it aches. “He just… reminded me of myself, I guess.”
The explanation feels inadequate, but it’s the closest he can get.
The memory hits Dennis with physical weight.
Even delirious and fighting through unimaginable agony, the boy had clutched the gold cross pendant around his neck with blood-slick fingers and begged Dennis to call his parents. He needed to apologize, he had said. Needed to tell them that he would see them in heaven.
Dennis had nodded, said okay, lied gently in the way they’re taught to.
The kid flatlined before Dennis had even reached for the laryngoscope.
“How so?” Dr. Robby asks, watching the myriad emotions flicker across Dennis’s face like shadows on a wall.
Dennis sits up, stiff, and he’s sure there’s a red indentation on his cheek in the shape of Dr. Robby’s shoulder, a tangible brand of the comfort he’d taken.
“Were you religious growing up?”
Dr. Robby’s eyes widen marginally, his usual clinical poise offset. “Went to the synagogue damn near every morning with my grandma.”
“And now?” Dennis presses.
Dr. Robby presses his lips together, eyes roving over the swaying treetops across the street before returning to Dennis, weary and browbeaten. “God’s been pretty quiet lately.”
Dennis nods, relieved that he’s not alone in the silence. His head falls back to Dr. Robby’s shoulder, who easily accepts his weight. This will be easier if he doesn’t have to look his attending in the eye.
“I was raised Catholic,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Sermons and Bible studies day and night. Three older brothers meant constant harassment, but that wasn’t even the worst part. Couldn’t even be alone in my own head ‘cause I thought God was listening in.”
Dennis thinks of his childhood bedroom and of staring up at the underside of the top bunk. He remembers cold sweats and sleepless nights spent believing he would burn for eternity because he had an ‘impure’ thought about the boy who sat near him in school.
He sighs, and the memory recedes like a tide. “Every man in my family is clergy in some way or another, so imagine their disappointment when little Dennis wanted more from life.” His voice adopts a sardonic edge. “They weren’t too thrilled when I left for med school. Figured minoring in theology would get ‘em off my case.”
A cool breeze drifts over the rooftop, and Dr. Robby tightens his grip on Dennis.
“Did it?” He murmurs.
Dennis lifts one shoulder in an aborted shrug. “For a while. They made me swear I’d find a church to join wherever I went, but that didn’t last either.”
An ambulance passes by below them, sirens wailing.
Dr. Robby waits for him to continue.
“Right after I clocked out tonight, my parents called,” Dennis grits out, the words tasting like copper. “We haven’t talked in a while, so they were grilling me about work and church and tithing, and I was just-“
Dennis balls his fists in his scrub pants, the fabric bunching between trembling fingers. “I was exhausted and stressed and I snapped. Told them I haven’t stepped foot in a church in years, told them I don’t even believe in God anymore.”
The admission hangs heavily in the air. It’s the second time he’s spoken it aloud, and just like the first time, Dennis internally braces. He waits for God to strike him down or demons to drag him to Hell, but nothing happens.
Dennis rubs at his forehead, feeling the clammy heat of his own skin. Dr. Robby’s presence at his side is solid and grounding.
“My mom was… inconsolable,” Dennis says, swallowing around yet another lump in his throat. “Howling like that kid’s mom when I told her that her only child was dead. My dad said that the devil had taken his son away from him. Told me I could rejoin the family when I repent and ‘purify my heart,’ whatever the hell that means.” Dennis embellishes his dad’s words with air quotes. They leave a bitter taste on his tongue.
He sighs, long and aggrieved, too drained for more tears.
“If I end up like GI perf kid or any of the other people that don’t make it out of the ED, my parents’ last words to me will have been ‘turn or burn,’ and I don’t even think they’d feel guilty about it.”
Dr. Robby hums, contemplative. “Did you mean what you said to them? That you don’t believe in God?”
Dennis shifts, surprised that out of everything he just spilled, this is what Dr. Robby fixated on.
“I don’t-“ Dennis cuts himself off, considers his words. “I don’t even know. I’m starting to think God is like,” he gestures abortively at the dark sky, trying to catch the thought that keeps slipping away. “A concept or something.”
Well, Dr. Robby will definitely be ordering that psych consult now.
He soldiers on. “I hear more heartfelt prayers in the ED than I ever heard in church. People praying for God to save their wife or kid or brother, thanking God when the patient pulls through.”
Dennis scoots closer and Dr. Robby accommodates automatically.
“There are countless stories in the Bible about God healing the sick and injured, but isn’t that what we do?” Dennis asserts fervently. “I’ve never seen God doing CPR on a drowned nine-year-old, but I have seen you doing it.”
The man at his side tenses almost imperceptibly.
“Never seen God putting in a chest tube or doing a spinal tap, but I have watched Dr. Santos and Dr. King do it.” Dennis fidgets with the drawstring of his scrubs. “So, what’s a doctor if not God, y’know?”
Silence follows, so heavy that Dennis thinks he made a mistake, crossed a line somehow. He’s about to backtrack when Dr. Robby’s voice cuts him off.
“What was his name?”
Dennis lifts his head again. “Huh?”
“GI perf kid – what was his name?” Dr. Robby’s gaze is almost electric in its intensity.
“Peter,” Dennis whispers.
Dr. Robby nods. “Did you try your best for Peter?”
Dennis bites back his own offense at the inane question. “Of course I-“
“Did you do everything you could think to do?”
Dennis deflates, affront fizzling out like a firework. He thinks of Peter and the bloody golden cross. “Yeah,” he says, voice small.
“Then I forgive you,” Dr. Robby says decisively.
Tilting his head, Dennis quirks a disbelieving brow. “I don’t think you can-“
“Sure, I can.” A lopsided grin tugs at the corners of Dr. Robby’s mouth. “You said it yourself – we’re both God, right?”
Dennis hadn’t intended for his exhausted rambling to be taken quite so literally, but he nods anyway.
“Do you forgive me for losing that woman with the head lac?” Dr. Robby asks, tension lacing through his features.
Dennis finds himself nodding before the question is even finished. He remembers her ultrasound images; the damage was catastrophic – she was beyond saving. “Yes, Dr. Robby, there was nothing anyone could’ve done-“
Dr. Robby levels him with a stare, pointed and heavy.
“Got it,” Dennis mumbles, more to himself. “So does this mean we have to start forgiving ourselves?”
Dr. Robby’s smile is a small ghost of a thing. They both know it won’t be that easy.
“We’ll work on it, Whitaker,” he says, clapping him on the back. Dr. Robby uses the railing to haul himself to his feet, grumbling about his back before extending a hand to Dennis. He takes it, studiously ignoring the difference in the size of their palms. They linger where they stand, and Dennis wonders if Dr. Robby is as reluctant to walk away as he is.
“And I don’t have a lot of room to talk about family matters,” Dr. Robby says, voice rougher now. “But I can say that you’ve got people here who care about you. Me, Jack, Dana... everyone else,” He looks down at Dennis, sincerity laid bare. “We want good things for you, kid.”
Dennis smiles wryly. “Sounds like you just described a family.”
“Guess I did,” Dr. Robby huffs. “But next time you feel like you,” he pauses, nose twitching once, “need some air – come find me, yeah?”
An expectation of reliance. Dennis doesn’t know if he can abide, unused to the notion as he is, so he just gazes up at Dr. Robby and asks, “Are you going to do the same?”
They hadn’t discussed why Dr. Robby ended up on the roof in the first place, but Dennis knew it wasn’t to enjoy the view.
Dr. Robby doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. But Dennis already knows what he’d say.
They stand there for a long moment, shoulders almost touching, looking out over the park.
They’ll work on it.
Very little changes in the weeks following their rooftop chat. Dennis isn’t sure whether to be grateful or resentful of that fact.
Dr. Robby still squeezes his shoulders with the same firm confidence, still gives him hearty pats on the back. He consults with Dennis on cases and treats him like a resident who very much has his shit together, despite what they both know to be true.
Life continues, as it is wont to do, and the days melt into a watercolor blur.
That is, until another particularly brutal shift arrives and every case feels like a test Dennis didn’t study for. The kind of day that lingers in your mind, like the smell of Peter’s blood lingered in Trauma 2.
Dennis makes it through; they all do, of course, because there is no other option.
But when the last patient is wheeled to the OR and the night shift starts to trickle in, Dr. Robby tracks him down. He asks Dennis if he wants to get some air with him.
Dennis follows him up the stairs without hesitation and without expectations. The roof access door clicks shut behind them, the clamor of the hospital fades into obscurity, and they fill the night air with low voices talking about everything and nothing.
After that, their conversations become a cherished part of Dennis’s routine.
They’re not a cure-all, but that was never the presumption. Dennis still carries his own weight, and Dr. Robby does too, oftentimes with the weight of many others.
Sometimes Dennis finds him on the floor again, just like Dr. Robby sometimes finds Dennis hunched over a sink, scrubbing his hands raw.
Peter’s case isn’t the first to stick to Dennis like tar, and it won’t be the last. The guilt persists.
But when things get hard, he doesn’t do it alone anymore.
Because Dr. Robby is there, and they’ll work on it.
Together.