Santos saying โyou keep pausing the tv to ask the dumbest questionsโ has made me want to hear about the average tv watching experience with Dennis and hot shot ๐ญ๐ญ๐ญ
curiosity (did not) kill the cat - dennis whitaker x f!reader
he's so fucking hot im feral thank u anon for inspiring this and also to phil lester for constantly asking dan howell the most ridiculous questions which absolutely fueled this
cw/tags: established relationship, no use of y/n, swearing. reader and dennis are watching a general zombie apocalypse show so warnings associated with that lol
word count: 690ish
masterlist
this was written with hot shot in mind but doesn't have to be read like that!
โYou wannaโ watch something?โ You ask, already reaching for the remote, turning the TV on. Dennis sits beside you on the couch, holding two bowls of pasta, nodding. You put on another episode of the show that youโve been watching for a couple weeks, slowly but surely getting through the first season. He hands you your bowl, and the two of you settle into the cushions, legs entangled and blanket tossed over your laps.ย
Dennis reaches for the remote, pausing it a few minutes in.ย
โDo you think youโd survive if this happened?โ He asks, the question completely genuine and nowhere near the oddest one heโs asked while watching TV.ย
โMaybe,โ You say. โI like to think I have some survival instincts.โ
He nods, accepting the answer, hitting play again.ย
You set your bowl on the coffee table once youโre done eating, laying down completely, your feet in his lap. The show stops again, and you turn slightly to look at him, already anticipating the question.ย
โThat doesnโt really make any sense,โ He says, not actually asking anything at first. โIf the virus is airborne then it probably wouldnโt also spread through blood.โ
You donโt talk for a second, wondering if he has more to say.ย
โRight?โ He asks.ย
โYouโre the doctor,โ You counter. โBut yeah, probably not. Just makes the story more interesting, I guess.โ
Play.ย
โWhoโs that again?โ He questions, not bothering to pause this time.ย
You shrug. โThe scientist, she was working at the CDC before the outbreak.โ
โRight, right. How long was she working there for?โ
You smile, laughing a bit. โI dunnoโ, they never said.โ
Two characters end up in a cramped room together trying to evade a group of infected, and he speaks up again.ย
โAre they gonnaโ end up together?โ
โSeems like they might,โ You say, sliding your socked foot underneath his shirt, trying to warm it up.ย
โWould you wannaโ be with me during the apocalypse?โ
โOf course.โ
He sits back, lifting his shirt up to let you in, hands taking hold of your ankles.ย
You get to the end of the episode before he says your name.
โYeah, baby?โ
โWhat would you do if I got the virus?โ
โIโd find a cure, duh,โ You say, raising your eyebrows.ย
โBut what if there was no cure?โ
You think for a moment, humming. โI donโt know, Den, I guess Iโd be pretty sad.โ
โThatโs it?โ
You snort. โI think so?โ
He shakes his head. โIโd keep you locked in a room and bring you food after you turned so we could be together.โ
โDenny, what the fuck,โ You say. โThatโs insane.โ
He shrugs. โGuess I love you more then you love me.โ
โOh, yeah, you must,โ You say, sarcastically. โSorry I wouldnโt force you to live as a mindless zombie just so I could keep you around.โ
โIโฆdidnโt really think about it like that,โ He says. โTouchรฉ.โ
The next episode starts to play, but you barely make it to the intro before it stops again. You lift your head up.ย
โWho from the ED would you want with you if this happened?โ He asks. โExcluding me, Iโm already there.โ
โHow many people can I pick?โ
โHmโฆthree.โ
โJack, Dana, andโฆโ You trail off for a moment. โCan I pick anyone in the hospital? Or just ER staff?โ
โJust ER,โ He clarifies.ย
โThen Santos,โ You say.ย
โWhy?โ
โWell, Jackโs obvious,โ You explain. โDana because sheโd definitely be able to pull society back from the brink of collapse, and Trinity because sheโs not afraid to fight.โ
โGood picks,โ He agrees. โIโd kindaโ want a surgeon there though, just in case.โ
โYou said ER only!โ You exclaim, teasingly, tossing a pillow in his direction. Your cat squints, letting out a disgruntled meow before lowering his head back down and closing his eyes again.ย
โWell, yeah, they work there too,โ He argues, both of you fighting back smiles.ย
โThen I want Garcia instead of Santos,โ You correct. โNot afraid to fight someone and a surgeon.โ
He repeats the names back, including yours and his, nodding. โI think weโd survive.โ
summary: a pair of your panties ends up in the dryer, much to the dismay of your roommate
warnings: all-male POV, dennis is a fucking simp
a/n: had the thought of a roommate!er!reader series, possibly? haven't seen a lot of whitaker on my feed though so if people aren't into him lmk (which would be crazy) | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
Since he moved into your spare room, both you and Dennis have shared the exact same work schedule. To the point that, over the past couple of months, your separate orbits have slowly merged into one.
By the time your third alarm goes off each morning and you lug your cranky, night owl's body out of bed, Dennis has coffee ready for you so neither of you will be late. In the evenings, when it's Dennis's turn to be completely useless and, inversely, you're wired on adrenaline, you start dinner while he's in the shower.
A mutually symbiotic relationship would be the best term for it, Dennis supposes. It's actually kind of jarring to think about functioning without you in his peripheral. The two of you even go to the gym together. He can't afford a membership right now โa fact that is at the very bottom of the laundry list of consequences regarding his financial statusโ and yours allows for a guest.
One boundary you do have, though, is laundry. Your unit miraculously came with a washer and dryer, and you're pretty particular about your clothes. You insist on washing them yourself, and asked that he leave your clothes in the washer until you are able to switch them to the dryer. It's not that weird, Dennis thinks, that you don't want his clothes mixed in with yours. With all the other facets of your life he's managed to squirm his way into, your desire to have your laundry separate from his is totally fair.
A weight of guilt perpetually sits upon Dennis's shoulders when he thinks about all that you do for him. You offered him a place to stay at the end of your very first shift together, cutting him a huge deal on rent and bills because of his crushing student loan debt. You always buy extra groceries that you claim come from 'shopping while hungry', but in reality he's pretty sure you're selecting them especially for his benefit.
You're a golden light of a person, and most of the time he feels like a parasite, leeching all your extra resources. Not from anything you've said or done, of course, just the narrative he's spun in his own head.
The least he can do is make you coffee every morning, wash the dishes after dinner, and respect your laundry preferences.
You've gone out with some friends for the first time in weeks, getting drinks at a bar not too far from your apartment building. Dennis has the apartment to himself, which is a rarity considering the nearly codependent orbit the two of you have fallen into.
He could have met Santos and Garcia for a drink, or Victoria and Emma for a movie, but Dennis decides to enjoy the apartment alone. Take a long shower, start a new TV show, eat the last of the spaghetti leftovers in his pajamas, and catch up on his laundry. It's been weeks since he's started a load, which he attributes to his time at the hospital. His residency at the PTMC emergency department takes up more time than the allotted twelve-hour shifts, what with staying late to chart and his volunteer work on the street team. It'll be nice to decompress for a while tonight, sit in silence and breathe without worrying about taking up someone else's air.
Dennis is glad you're out tonight, and not just because it means he can have the communal space to himself. Emergency medicine takes its toll on all its practitioners, and he's noticed the shift in your gait lately. The bags under your eyes, the way you're even more unresponsive in the mornings than normal. Robby always tells him not to take his work home with him, and Dennis does his best. But he wonders sometimes if you never got the memo.
Still, space is healthy, even between two roommates who live mostly intertwined lives. Space from the hospital, space from each other. Space from his own thoughts. His mind usually wanders when he tries to sit and watch a TV show, or read a book that isn't a medical journal, or sit with himself and try not to find thirty different things to panic about.
But tonight, Dennis's mind sits blissfully empty. A sitcom provides for background noise as he chows down on the last of the spaghetti you'd made a couple nights ago, hunched on the couch with his plate perched on his palm, two inches below his chin.
Just as he cleans his plate, the washing machine buzzes obnoxiously from the hall closet. He sets his plate down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and pauses the TV all in the same breath, then flips open the top of the washing machine to examine his now-clean clothes.
He opens the front-load dryer too, the metal door creaking on its ancient hinge, then bundles the wet, clean clothes in his arms. He squats, poised to shove his armful of clothes into the dryer, but freezes when he sees them.
Golden light halos around a pair of red bikini panties, clinging to the air holes at the back of the dryer's interior.
Dennis Whitaker, M.D, loses his balance and falls flat onto his ass. In fact, the entire world slows down.
The clothes in his arms land in a jumpled heap in his lap, and Dennis swears his mouth goes dry.
All he can think is underwear, underwear, this is your underwear.
Suddenly he's more panicked than he's ever been with a critical patient, than he's ever been presenting a case to Dr. Robby, than he's ever been in the emergency department โ in a place designed to house emergencies.
Your panties are in the dryer, and it's all Dennis can do not to think about them on your body.
Your body. Your perfect, generously plush body, that he's admonished himself time and time again for thinking about. Under those baggy black scrubs that hide your figure is a set of delicious hips and luscious thighs that house these panties.
Dennis's pajama pants suddenly feel a little tighter. His jaw tenses like he ate a handful of sour candy.
It should be so easy to reach in to the dryer, pull out what a normal person would refer to as a pair of perfectly clean underwear, and place them in your room. On your bed, maybe, or even folded neatly in your underwear drawer so a discussion won't even be prompted.
But they feel radioactive to him right now, as he maintains eye contact with the lacy elastic band around the top. He can't touch them, can he? They're your underpants. And you're so particular about your laundry. This has never happened before in the three months he's lived with you. This isn't outlined anywhere in the I Moved in with a Coworker I Find Attractive Handbook.
Dennis lifts his palms to his face, then inhales and exhales with a great, concerted effort, resolving to do something about the underwear. This cannot โ and he doesn't think he's being dramatic by thinking this โ be the thing that breaks him. He's maintained such a strong sense of self-control the entire time he's been your roommate.
He hardly notices the mole on your collarbone anymore, or the way you stick your tongue out when you're really trying to concentrate. It's not as much of a scintillating, meticulous torture to watch you pull your hair into a clip anymore.
He barely spares a glance when you swallow the coffee he prepares for you every morning, your throat bobbing up and down slowly. Or when you laugh at one of Santos's stupid jokes, or when you refer to his judgment on a case, trusting his opinion in the process of your own decision-making.
I'm so fucking fucked, he thought that first night when he stepped into this apartment with you and you showed him to the spare room, when he realized he'd have to occupy close quarters with someone he thought was deliriously beautiful. And brilliant.
He can do this. Dennis drops his hands, shoves all his clothes off his lap, and squares his shoulders. He's a farm boy, for Christ's sake, and an ER doctor. He's birthed calves and reset bones and drank real, homemade country moonshine. He killed a rat with his bare hands on his first day in the pit. He can remove your underwear from the dryer.
Dennis blows all the air out of his lungs, then shifts back up into a squat. He narrows his eyes, and stretches his hand into the dryer with a surgeon's precision.
Then, upon further inspection, he comes to the devastating realization that your red bikini panties are dotted with little white hearts.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his hand hovering in the empty dryer drum that separates his person from the panties. Both of Dennis's hands then shoot up to hang on to the top of the appliance, bracing himself in a squat not unlike the devastated subject of a Renaissance painting.
Another sharp breath cycles through him, and he gives himself a mental countdown.
3โฆ2โฆ1โฆ
In the swift swipe of a thief, Dennis snatches the panties from the back of the dryer and stands up, all in the same breath. He marches to your room purposefully, a renewed vigor backing each step. He comes to a screeching halt, however, when his nose is parallel with the closed bedroom door.
You're not an abnormally private person, but Dennis realizes that he can't recall a time he's been past the threshold of your bedroom. He's had no need to.
"Fuck," he curses beneath his breath. He clutches the panties tightly, about two inches of fabric dangling from the bottom of his closed fist.
"Okay," he whispers to psych himself up. "Okay, Whitaker, you can do this." He huffs out a quick, round breath, and opens the door.
Your bedroom is so inexplicably you that he could fall to his ass a second time. Your bed is a wrinkled heap of sheets and blankets, your walls bare save for a small cluster of photos taped beside the dresser.
Dennis drags himself to the dresser, panties still undoubtedly wrinkled in his closed fist. Good luck prevails when he finds the top drawer dedicated to your underwear, folded in neat little stacks of four or five pairs high. Something twists in his stomach as he realizes he's staring at your collection as a whole. Most are like the pair in his hands โ solidly colored or patterned, bikini-style with a band of elastic around the top. But as he folds the pair in his hand and places them gingerly on top of the pile closest to him, he spots a stack ofโฆ lacier pairs.
Lacier, in that, they appear to be made entirely of lace. There's only four pairs or so, tucked in the back corner in such a way that suggests disuse, but still. The rock in Dennis's throat falls to the pit of his stomach. He can't tell the shape since all the pairs are folded, but the thicker, stringy bit in the middle gives away enough.
The thought of you, bared before him in nothing but these lacy panties that leave little to the imagination does something damaging to Dennis's psyche.
He averts his eyes from the drawer as if he were on display, then closes it. His gaze lands upon the photographs taped on the wall just above the top of the dresser. Most are of people he doesn't recognize โ family, probably. Maybe a few friends from college, judging by a sweatshirt in one of them. But then, right on the edge, bordered by two short pieces of scotch tape, is a photo of you and him.
It was taken at the bar closest to the hospital โ Shirley's. PTMC workers often frequent the sticky, dusty establishment after a long shift, and, about a month ago, Dennis found himself there with a small group of coworkers. Santos, Mohan, Mateo, Donnie, and you.
His arm is slung around your shoulders in this photo, which he barely remembers posing for. In his hand is a bottle of beer, and you have both palms wrapped around a vodka cranberry. The smile on your face, lit brighter by the flash โnecessary for any photos taken in the poorly lit bar โ is blurry, but undeniable. Your shoulder is pressed in to the space under his arm, and the calm glow of your eyes indicates a comfort he's never noticed.
You feel safe with him. You must, otherwise why would he still be living here? You see him as a friend. You must, otherwise why would this photo be tacked on your wall? When did you even have time to print it off?
God, Dennis thinks. I'm a fucking idiot.
He exits back into the hall. He closes the door with a pointed thud, punctuating to himself and whichever universal deity is listening that he will never touch your underwear again.
Even if they are as soft as how he imagined clouds would be as a kid.
Because it would fuck everything up. His dynamic with you at work, his friendship with you outside of work, his living situation, all of it. It would fuck everything up.
If he even so much as admitted to himself that he wanted to touch your underwear.
The bubbling feelings in his chest threaten to spill out, like an overpoured glass, so Dennis shoves them down. It isn't fair to you to think this way about you, not when you've been so generous to him. Not when you have your own shit to worry about. Not when you view him as someone safe and comfortable and worthy of allowing in your space.
He returns to his own laundry, gathering all the scrubs and boxers and t-shirts and socks from the floor, the heaves them all into the dryer. He slams shut the metal door, twists the dial and punches the start button harder than necessary.
As the rumbling of the appliance drowns out the pounding between his ears, Dennis rubs his hands over his face, dragging his fingers over his cheeks, as if he's trying to pull off his own skin. He busies himself with the dishes, then sweeps and mops the kitchen floor, then scrubs the toilet clean, all in a cloying, desperate attempt to shove you into the deepest, most untouchable recesses of his mind.
His quiet night alone at the apartment to quickly transforms into an evening of distraction and self-admonishment, for thinking he had any right to look at you the way he had been. You deserve to feel safe and to have someone to come home to โeven if he is just your friendโ that understands your every expression and tone.
He can be that for you, Dennis decides. But he can't do that and pine after you at the same time.
He's laying on his back in bed by the time you get home, and it takes everything in him not to check on you when he hears you stumbling โpresumedly buzzed from your night outโ in and out of the bathroom, and into your bedroom. He folds his forearms over his face and blows out another long, tired, breath.
His last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep โmuch to his dismayโ is of the little white hearts dotted all over those panties. And, subsequently, that he's totally fucking fucked.
goodnight n go ( dennis whitaker x night shift!reader, slow burn, and they were roommates !! *tucks hair behind ear*,, heyyy so i birthed this last night after my third eye opened for whitaker and now here we are pls lock IN also pretend this is after a couple shifts and not right away that den moves in !! and thereโs like a 15 min interval in between the changing of the shifts bc i say so and this is when they interact,, thankyeww )
You were hunched over the sink, shoveling cereal into your mouth when the door unlocked and your roommate came in,โTrin, Iโm late as fuck, I canโt find my stethoscope, and I simultaneously havenโt had a bowel movement all week but think I might just shit my pants, how fucking bad is it?โ
A throat cleared.
Oh fuckโฆ
You turned around, aaand your roommate wasnโt alone.
โOh, heyโฆโ You forced a smile onto your face, giving your friend a look that clearly said dude, what the fuck?! and she returned it with a shrug and an impassive look that said we can discuss it later. You wanted to scream, instead you chose to rise above and introduce yourself,โPlease ignore everything you heard when you first walked in, Trinity didnโt think to warn me she picked up a stray on the way home.โ
โTried calling, you were dead.โ Trinity busied herself with toeing off her shoes and removing her jacket.
โDennis.โ The guy with her went to shake your hand, but Trinity flicked him and motioned to his shoes, a blush crawled up his neck as he stood back and untied them as he looked back up at you,โWhitaker. Iโm on day shift with Santos, she said itโd be cool if I took the loft.โ
โNight shift.โ You said back,โItโs cool, you likely wonโt see me much, I sometimes donโt make it to my bed and crash on the couch, but feel free to come and go, Iโm a heavy sleeper as you just heard.โ You checked your watch and groaned,โAnd I am late as shit, Trin, your stethoscope? Please.โ
She tossed one end at you and you caught it, pulling it around your neck and blowing her a kiss as she retreated to her room down the hall. You shoved your feet through your shoes and gave Whitaker one last look.
โSee ya!โ
He was left standing with one shoe still on, alone, and blushing still.
Dennis didnโt see you again for another week, and when he finally didโฆ he was in the bathroom. Showering.
โFuck, Iโm so sorry, this is rude, but Iโm late as fuck, and I just have to brush my teeth.โ You barged in without announcing yourself, knocking things around as you fumbled for your toothbrush,โIโm not looking, I swear.โ
He ceased all movement.
โUh, itโs, um, fine.โ He stood under the stream, still as a statue for a whole minute while you brushed and spit and gargled.
โK, thanks, bye!โ You let out a small laugh as you left, shutting the door loudly behind you.
He gulped, slowly resuming his shower. Heโd come home post shift, immediately wanting to be clean, not having thought about you having to rush to get to work right away. Santos had ditched him for her so-called plans, and truthfully he just wanted to jump into bed after an extra long day.
It wasnโt until he stepped out of the shower a few minutes later that he realized youโd mixed up your toothbrush with his.
After living with you and Santos for a little over a week, heโd come to learn a few things about you.
One: you loved sleep, and whenever you werenโt at work you were off catching sheep. In your room, on the couch, and once heโd found you on the floor of the bathroom, still in scrubs, toothbrush hanging from your mouth. Two: you loved coffee. He had never bothered with it, and Trinity was more of a tea girl. But you drank it every time you woke up for a shift, and very often throughout the day, as given away by the various cups often left around the house. Trinity told him once you claimed it helped with both waking you up and making you sleepy, something about the smell of it soothed you.
And lastly: you cursed, a lot.
He was used to it, of course, having worked alongside Santos and other people like her before. His father was a big swearer too, but for him and his brothers it had always been frowned upon, and the habit of not doing so had kind of stuck.
Your favorites included fuck, shit, and son of a bitch. You were also fond of the word cunt, but he wasnโt sure if that counted as a swear word, just that you said it in a tone that implied it that way.
Dennis had also come to realize that he was truly and utterly fucked.
He knew what to expect from Santos when she said he could move in with the two of you, heโd worked with her and was witness to her flirting with various women (pretty badly) the whole week. Not only that, but he wasnโt really into the whole bully thing. As a friend, sure, more than that? Consider him out. But you?
Not only were youโฆ visually appealing, to say the least, but during your small and limited interactions you were nothing but nice to him. Santos hadnโt showed him around much, but youโd left him a note before heading to bed indicating where everything he might need would be, as well as the nearest grocery store and pharmacy store, and your favorite local coffee shop (he hadnโt gotten around to telling you he didnโt care for it yet). Heโd only worked with you once, during the PittFest incident, and youโd mainly kept to the night crew, as they had been the ones instructing you. According to Trinity, youโd started your internship a week before hers.
She had let him know the basics, how you were roommates during college, and figured getting an apartment together was a good move because your paths were similar enough. You were close, but not that close (in her eyes, anyway), and you mainly hung out at night time during off days because you were such a night owl. While Santos was shooting for a double residency with surgery and the e.d., you mainly cared to stick it out in emergency medicine. You liked the rush, and didnโt much care to see your patients through the rest of their outcome.
You were able to separate yourself from it all.
And he, who had absolutely nothing to offer, should do the same before he went and got his heart stomped on. Oh, and you had a cat.
Your shift had dragged last night. A sigh left your lips as you leaned your forehead against the coolness of the door, taking a small moment to collect yourself.
Youโd run into Trinity at the hospital, sheโd arrived over thirty minutes earlier to see if you had any good cases you could hand over to her. Youโd snorted and complained to her about your shift while you finished up your final charts, and then you teasingly tugged on her ponytail as you left for home, wishing her luck.
Walking had been a drag, but you didnโt live far and there was no point for a car.
I need a shower, you thought, but sleeeep, UGH.
The creak of the loft ladder forced you to look up in surprise, youโd completely forgotten he was still here. You kicked your shoes off and discarded your jacket,โMorning.โ
He smiled softly,โGoodnight.โ
You turned away, hiding your grin with your under scrub t-shirt while you fiddled with the coffee machine, already craving your next cup before bed.
โRough night?โ Whitaker asked.
โNo.โ You shook your head, still looking down,โJust boring, drawn out, was dying to get home and hit my bed the whole time.โ
โAh, well, donโt let me keep you, Iโm about to head out.โ You heard him unzip his backpack, presumably going through his things and making sure he had everything,โSantos leave already?โ
โOver thirty ago.โ You scoffed.
You hadnโt know what to think of him yet, Dennis Whitaker. He and Trinity were sort of friends? Youโd spent a couple nights on the couch together, discussing him when he hadnโt been around.
According to Trinity he was like a little lost puppy, and she took pity upon finding out heโd been camping out in the hospital, unhoused. Sheโd remembered the unnecessary loft that came with the apartment you two shared, and offered it up without really thinking twice. It wasnโt really a room, as it had no walls or doors, but it was high enough above that he wouldnโt be bothered, plus who would dare to complain when the other option was homelessness? You had always been chill about pretty much everything and she took a chance on it, thinking you wouldnโt mind.
You didnโt.
And in the following days, you tried to help him settle. He didnโt have much and youโre pretty sure the first night heโd slept on a pile of his clothes. Youโd left a note next to the coffee machine telling him where all the toiletries could be found, as well as the nearest stores in case he might need something you two didnโt already have. Heโd hauled a mattress up there at some point, you were sure, and he didnโt make a fuss about the small space.
It was almost like you never got a third roommate.
That wasโฆ until you started to notice him. He lost his socks around the apartment often, and youโd begun to notice Trinity putting double the amount of avocados in the basket when you went grocery shopping (those were expensive!!), not only that but sheโd brought up letting him join couch rotting with you two.
Sheโd reclaimed her armchair, stating that he could keep you warm on the couch instead of her now, but it just resulted in you gathering more blankets instead. You had a variety of tv shows you shuffled through; BoJack Horseman, Shameless, Greyโs Anatomy (you and Trinity started hate watching in college, but neither of you would admit you were secretly into the drama), and youโd recently started Derry Girls. You and Trinity liked to mimic the accents, but Dennis refused to give it a try, and youโd wondered later that night if he wasnโt quite comfortable around you yet.
It was all fine and dandy, though.
Up until your cat was in your room less and less. Youโd ripped open a package of one of her favorite treats, excited to give it to her before you left for work, only to hear soft purring coming from his loft.
And that was where the little traitor had been all night too, you noted, watching the feline trail after him and seemingly say goodbye to him at the door. Dennis bent down and ran his fingers under her chin, cooing silently at her before looking up at you with another small smile,โSleep well.โ
You meant to say have a good shift in return, but heโd gone before you could and when the door finally shut you turned to your cat and hissed,โTraitor! You really like him more than me?! And after I saved your orphan ass!โ As if she could understand you, she lifted her tail and sauntered away, sassily making her way down the hallway and toward your room.
A gasp left your lips at her audacity as you gave up messing with the coffee machine, opting to head to bed instead.
Series summary: over a series of night shifts you become acquainted with your coworker Jack Abbot. He's a stranger to you more than a coworker, but as work pushes you closer together, tensions rise and what is supposed to be a friendly relationship becomes something more. Slow burn Jack Abbot x sunshine!reader (all images from pinterest)
Chapter summary: When Jack gets himself injured on the job, the last thing he needs is what seems to be his newly developed work crush patching him up.
Authors note: this was inspired by a post I saw of a scene from season one that was cut where Jack says "meow".
Jack should have been paying more attention. He usually does when he's in the ER but today was an off day. Not because anything in particular was going wrong, but that his focus just kept getting drawn away.
By you.
Jack found his eyes wandering every few minutes, scanning the ER to see if you were around. If you were free or busy. If he had the time to talk to you. Because Jack has been craving your company lately, and he's unsure what that's about.
He's been run off his feet with patients for almost the entire shift. An old lady with a stomach ache, a man with chest pain, a kid with a missing toenail, just to name a few. It's all piled up into a mass of a workload, and if Jack didn't know any better he would think that maybe he was having withdrawals from you upbeat, bright nature. Hardly any of your familiar shine has found it's way to him this shift, and he's missing it.
So Jack is usually paying attention to where he's going. But not today. His mind is wandering endlessly when he hears the "incoming!" yelled across the ER. He isn't focused enough to register the word before the patient comes flying at him with an IV pole. Why the fuck does he have one of those?
The patient is waving it around like a lightsaber as he runs through the halls, and abbot, for lack of dodging, gets hit right on the forehead by the end of it. The impact isn't too hard, but it knocks him back as the IV poles hooks drag across the skin above his brows.
โWhat the fuck?โ Abbot stumbles some more, bringing a hand to his forehead as the patient runs off down another hall.
โShit! Dr. Abbot, are you okay?โ Shen has stopped chasing after the patient, letting security continue as he comes to a stop beside Jack.
โWho the hell was that?โ Jack says in way of reply, looking at the blood on his fingers once he pulls them away from the scrapes on his head.
โThe patient from seven, hallucinations after a really bad trip.โ Shen places a hand on Jackโs shoulder that he shoves off dismissively. โYou might need stitches.โ
โIโm fine. I got it.โ
He doesnโt let Shen argue with him about it, adjusting his stance and moving forward before another word can be spoken.
-
Jack is trying to find a quiet room to stitch himself up in when you spot him. Itโs probably the second time heโs seen you all day, and at first your expression is light and pretty, making Jackโs stomach twist in the way your smile always does. And then it changes to a look of concern, and shock, and before long youโre rushing across the ER to his side.
โWhat happened to your face?โ Youโre reaching for him, for the cut on his head before youโve even come to a halt.
โIโm fine,โ Jack says just like he told Shen a minute ago.
โWas it the guy from seven? With the pole?โ You must have seen him running through the halls if you put it together that quick. Jack just nods, and scans around for a free room.
You notice his shifting gaze and place a hand on his back, ushering him to the left. โOver here.โ You lead him to an empty bed, and force him to sit. Not that he argues with you much at all. Youโre hard for him to say no to.
He watches as you pull on some gloves, before you go and grab a suture kit and some other supplies. "I can do this myself you know." Jack can feel the sting of the cut on his forehead as he tries to frown at you.
"I know you can." you step toward him, smile back in place as you open a disinfectant to put on his cut.
"They why don't you get back to work and let me do it?" he canโt help but notice the flirtatiousness in his own tone, something that he can't help but let slip.
"First of all, this is what I do for work, and secondly, I don't want to." you step closer, placing a hand on his chin and tilting his head upward. It melts him a little and he has to physically suppress the groan that almost slips.
You pull the wheeled tray of supplies over to you as you step between his legs, and it leaves Jack speechless at how close you are by the end of the set of movements.
"This might sting a little." you say as your fingers come up to gently fix the cut on his forehead. He doesn't care. You could stab him, kick him, burn him alive and Jack doesn't think he'd feel a thing besides the goddamn zoo in his stomach.
He's too busy noting the little star hairclips you're wearing, and the glitter you've put on your eyelids that shimmers with each blink under the fluorescents.
You smell good too. The same scent from the day you slammed into him in the staff lounge. The one he raved to Ellis about. You smell sweet, like he could take a bite of you here and now and you'd dissolve like sugar in his mouth.
What the fuck is he thinking? Focus. Focus on the sting of the antiseptic on his skin. Focus on the sounds of the ER, the beeping, the feet rushing on the floor, the sound of your voiceโ
"Jack, you okay?" You have a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. There's concern littering your features, and he wants to brush the frown you hold away with his thumb.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." he tries for a smile, because even though he doesn't feel like smiling, you make him want to.
"I lost you for a second there, you were in your own little world." you chuckle with the words, and place your fingers back on his forehead again, "I'm almost done, don't worry."
Almost done. It occurs truly to Jack now that this is the most time he's spent near you all day. He wants to prolong it, and that fact scares the shit out of him.
"Shen said I might need stitches." He blurts, almost hoping you agree. But you shake your head, your lips upturning on the right side.
"Shen is a drama queen, you're fine." but just to make sure you take his chin gently in your hand and tilt his head left to right. He lets you, Jesus, he's extremely compliant when you touch him.
"You know I've gotta ask you the special questions though." you let go of his face and pull out your light from your pocket. "Do you have a headache, dizziness, nausea, confusion, or sensitivity to light or sound?" you list the symptoms of concussion off fast because you know Jack knows the drill. He shakes his head with a scoff as you shine the light in his eyes.
"I do not have a concussion."
"Not what I asked Dr. Abbot."
"Fine, then no to all of the above."
You tilt your head to the side, as if deciding whether you believe him. "Are you telling me the truth?" there's a seriousness to your question, and Jack feels himself sit up a little straighter at the very slight change in tone.
"I wouldn't lie to you." It's true. Jack doesn't think it's possible for him to do so, if only because his heart pounds loud enough to give him away at the mere thought of trying to.
You nod once, the action like a period at the end of a sentence. A finalization of your assessment. "Okay. All done, handsome. You're free to go." you step away from him with a smile, and pull off your gloves with a snap.
His heart stutters, but he stands from his position on the bed, bringing a hand up to his forehead. "Ah-ah, don't touch." you smack his arm lightly, and he listens, again, unable to help himself. His hands fall to his sides as his eyes scan over your face. The sparkles on your eyelids drawing his attention once more. Pretty. So pretty.
"Thank you," he mutters, avoiding the urge to reach for the cut on his head again. You've fixed it, he trusts that you have. Then he adds, "You think I'm handsome, huh?" he's got his confidence back, and it's the first time he's tried teasing you about something like this. But he also wants to know the answer, has to know. He watches your eyes widen, revels in the reaction. You recover quickly though.
"Everyone in this ER thinks you're handsome, Jack. With the exception of Garcia." you nudge past him playfully, and dammit he can almost feel a piece of your sunshine seeping through the shoulder of his scrubs. He practically chases after you, a dog on a leash.
"You're not so bad yourself." he says, sliding as casually as he can to your side as you walk.
"Not so bad?" you ask, and the question seems so genuine that he feels sick. You're smart enough to know what he meant by it, but what if you didn't? What if he's hurt your feelings inadvertently? But then you grin at him, wide and bright, and it's okay. You understand, and you might just be flirting back.
Flirting? Is that what he's doing? Of course that's what he's doing.
"Not bad at all." he says, and yeah, he's fucking flirting.
"Glad to hear it." you say, and there's something different behind your eyes now, a mischief he hasn't seen from you yet.
You stop walking suddenly, as if something has just occurred to you. Reaching into your scrubs pocket you pull out a sheet of paper, a sheet that Abbot recognizes. You're not doing what he thinks you're doing are you?
You unfold the corners that have crumpled a little, before holding it out to him. "Since you were one of my patients today, and you were just so brave," you tease "you get to pick a sticker."
Jack shakes his head, disbelieving. This isn't out of character for you, and he should have seen it coming, but still.
"I am not picking a sticker."
"If you don't pick a sticker then I will pick one for you and you do not want that." the way you say it is threatening, and Jack believes wholeheartedly that you will pick the most embarrassing one if he doesn't participate.
He looks down at the sheet of stickers in your hands, looking over possibilities. Finally he points to one in the center.
"Meow?" you say, holding back a laugh as you examine the sticker he's chosen. A yellow sticker with a black cat in the middle, the word MEOW! in bold purple lettering beneath.
"Meow." Jack confirms, straight-faced, though a smile hides in his eyes. He likes the light laugh that leaves you as you peel the sticker away from the paper, and he loves the way you press the sticker on to the front of his scrubs, patting it onto his chest proudly.
"Your badge of honor." you declare, and Abbot wishes your hand would have stayed touching his chest a little longer. "Wear it proudly." you salute him, and a few other doctors and nurses look your way. If it was anyone else, he might have been embarrassed, but he can't seem to be when it's you. To Jack's own surprise, he finds himself saluting back, even as the whispers start around the nurses station.
He's tired, but there's a warmth in his chest, and he doesn't care who sees the smile that accompanies the feeling. You wander off to see to your next patient, and Jack moves to do the same. And he notices as he walks, that his steps feel lighter.
<3
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a little bit of sunshine taglist /the pitt taglist
I saw where you have begun to take the pitt requests and i have had this thought in my brain and its making me lose it and i need to read it so here goes! so like what if reader is best friends with trinity and she meets dennis and they hit it off (and exchange numbers) but reader knows how over protective trinity can be so they donโt say anything until one night dennis stays the night at readers place and reader wakes up to a phone ringing and without thinking answers it (oh no itโs dennisโ phone) and trinity is like why are you answering his phone and dennis is still just snoring quietly away while readers now like uhhhhhh and idk maybe she freaks out and hangs up and the next morning they have a lot of explaining to do. does this make sense?
oh my god they were roommates | dennis whittaker x gn!reader
like, reblog & comment! requests are open; refer to the pinned post
Summary: You lie to Trinity Santos? You lie about your relationship with Dennis Whitaker, her Huckleberry??? Oh! Oh! Jail for you! Jail for you for One Thousand years!!!!
pairing: dennis whitaker x gn!reader (i really hope nothing escapes through the gaps bc i don't proofread like ever) platonic trinity santos x gn!reader
cw/tw: literally nothing, just fluff and some really tiny allusions to smut bc i'm a coward
disclaimer: for some reason it ended up being more santos centered but i just love her sm guys i'm sorry
quick note: damn guys, if i knew you were going to be so ravenous for The Pitt content, i would have started writing a lot sooner lmao. i've never gotten that many notes in so little time, it's a bit overwhelming but very nice :) or maybe y'all just want that robby cookie sooo bad (completely understandable)
Trinity Santos is a lot of things. All kinds of people from all sorts of walks of life have tried to fit her in many boxes, some of them more pleasant than others, but none of them as good as yours. For you have the honour (and the luck, but you would never let her hear this, for fear of her ego getting any bigger, thank you very much) to call her your best friend. It is always a treat to see others do the maths in their head as they see the two of you together. You couldnโt be more different.
For one, when you had met at orientation on the first day of university, you had immediately hit it off, despite your vastly different degrees. In truth, it had all consisted of the usual โadoptionโ of the introvert by the extrovert. You can only thank the universe so many times for putting the two of you next to each other in the crowded assembly hall. From then on, it had been all smooth sailing, and while you never ended up sharing an apartment or anything like that, Trinity and you were inseparable. Daily hangouts, sleepovers, laughing at each otherโs subjectsโฆ But the most important thing was an implicit trust that surrounded your friendship and did not leave any space for any secrets of any kind.
It is because of this last thing that youโre feeling like an asshole now. Fault can only be traced back to your traitorous heart who decided, against all reason, to fall in love with Trinityโs new flatmate and so-called โfoster failโ. The universe, always eager for a good joke, had not contented itself with giving you an unrequited crush, but instead had Dennis Whitaker, also known as Huckleberry, reciprocating your feelings. As a result of this development, your mind had thought up the best course of action, which involved not telling a soul about the blossoming relationship. Yes, including Trinity.
For you see, Trinity Santos is also a very protective person with those she loves. You were aware of that the moment you stepped in her flat that fateful Friday night, after a gruelling shift that had Trinity dependent of your company as a โbalm for all the shittinessโ as she called it, whatever the hell that meant. Opening the front door with your key you had earned with your best friend privileges, you had almost jumped out of your skin when your eyes landed on brown ones that definitely did not belong to Trinity.
โUmโฆโ You raised an eyebrow. โHi?โ
โH-Hi.โ Oh, it had been a painful introduction. Thank the stars for Santos suddenly appearing in the kitchenetteโs door to cut the interaction short. As soon as she saw you, her face visibly brightened.
โHey, beshy! You finally arrived.โ Her countenance changed as she turned to look at the guy in her couch. โHuckleberry, youโd better not scare my best friend away!โ
Huckleberry stiffened up and opened and closed his mouth, searching for an answer in vain. He ultimately opted to give up and groan. โIโm not doing anything! And I told you to stop me calling that.โ
โYeah,โ Trinity snorted. โWhatever you say, Huckleberry.โ
She turned back to look at you, who had been watching the scene with amusement. โCome with me for a second?โ
A nod, and the two of you were in the small but cozy kitchenette. You left your handbag on a chair and leaned back on the counter, crossing your arms. โSoโฆ care to explain?โ
Trinity nodded. โYes, yes. I know I should have warned you, but itโs been so short notice!โ
โDo I even want to know?โ
She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. โHe was living on the eighth floor of the hospital.โ
At your confused expression, she sighed. โThe abandoned wing. I couldnโt just leave him there! So, I offered him to stay here.โ
You smirked. โIs it just my imagination or is Trinity Santos becoming a softie?โ
โYeah, in your dreams,โ she laughed and hit your arm lightly. โBetter go back there. Knowing Huckleberry, he might think weโre conspiring to kill him and dispose of his corpse.โ
โWouldnโt dream of it.โ
Afterwards, conversation had flowed seamlessly, and you had the chance to learn Huckleberryโs real name, Dennis Whitaker. He became a key component of this friendship triangle the three of you had formed, fitting perfectly between Trinity and you.
It is because of a few chance shifts the two of them donโt share, that you find yourself getting to know Dennis better. He starts out a bit awkward, but soon enough, you have him out of his shell, and to your pleasant surprise, he is funny and thoughtful. Truly the best combination one could find in anyone.
Visits to Trinityโs flat start being more than about seeing your best friend. Your heart does little somersaults whenever Dennis looks at you, and there must be thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. You can only imagine how that would look in an X-ray. You start looking forward to his smiles, shared with yours in front of the old TV in the living room as some ridiculous movie plays in it, hidden partially by the dimness of your surroundings.
Three months after your first meeting, he gathers the courage to move his fingers towards your hand during one of your movie nights. The sudden contact has you retract your fingers out of pure reflex, but you quickly correct your action, linking your pinky with his. That moment of connection becomes the start of your relationship. No shared glances needed, just his warm skin against yours.
From then on, you two become inseparable. Trinity could not be gladder of it, but she thinks of it as purely platonic, and you donโt want to dissuade her of that notion. Dennis agrees with you, although he thinks it would be better not to hide something like that. His upbringing makes lies nigh impossible to keep, but he tries for you. A fragile balance is kept between your sentimental life and your friendship with Trinity. Some days, you feel like two different persons, neither knowing who the original is.
The scales are tipped one fateful day, after a frankly stupid mistake. It is routine for you and Dennis to stay at your flat whenever you want to sleep together, so as not to risk Trinity coming in and catching you in the act. You are unaware of what excuse Dennis gives her of his whereabouts, and you donโt insist.
In your defence, Dennis Whitaker, although awkward looking, is very capable in bed, deft with both mouth and hands, that work better in relaxing you than any sleeping pill or melatonin gummy has ever had. Therefore, it is not your fault when you wake up in a haze to your phone lightly vibrating in your nightstand and answer without thinking after seeing Trinityโs caller ID on the screen.
โMm, hey, Trin,โ you cover a yawn with your free hand. โWhatโs up?โ
โWhat the fuck?โ
You furrow your eyebrows and make a noise with your throat. โHm?โ
โWhy the fuck are you answering Huckleberryโs phone?โ The canned voice penetrates your eardrums, but your brain is still sluggish with sleep to truly understand the meaning behind her words. โWhere are you?โ
โโm not answering Dennisโs phone. This is my phone.โ
โUm, no? I think I know the difference between your names.โ
The last dregs of sleep fall off your eyes like an invisible veil, and you look down at the sleeping figure of Dennis, who has his head tucked in the crook of your neck, soft snores tickling the little hairs there. A few seconds more are needed to compute the entire situation, and as it dawns on you how much youโve fucked up, your blood grows cold.
โHellooo?โ
โShit,โ is the only thing you say before slamming the red button on your screen and terminating the call.
Your chest feels like itโs being crushed by a big weight, and you force yourself to do light breathing exercises so as not to cry and wake up Dennis. The remaining hours of the night are spent wide awake as you mull over how utterly fucked up you are.
Dennis has just had one of the best nights of his life. He could only think about how much he loved you as he made you fall apart in your bed, and how blissed out you looked. Therefore, he notices the discomfort in your face the next morning, one you try to hide behind not-very-convincing smiles. He tries to get you to tell him whatโs wrong, but you deflect any attempt, so he chooses to let you tell him in your own terms and prepares for another day shift at PTMC.
What he really doesnโt expect is for a shout to mark his first step into the ED. No one really wants to see Trinity Santos barrel toward them first thing in the morning, and least of all with that expression in her face that promises retribution by her own hand. Without a word, she harshly grabs his wrist and drags the two of them to an empty room. In the way, they pass Robby who swallows whatever he has to say when he sees Santosโs set jaw and chooses to let them go with only a worried glance at their backs.
Trinity closes the door and pounces at him with a finger digging into his chest.
โMy best friend?!โ
Dennis lifts his hands in surrender and tries to make his plea. โI can explain.โ
Trinity grits her teeth and crosses her arms. โItโd better be a fucking good one.โ
It is the best chance heโs going to get, so Dennis tells her about your relationship. He can see her bristling at what he thinks is not being told about it by her most trusted companions. He swallows as he thinks over the next course of action and ultimately chooses to tell the truth. โWe were going to tell you eventually.โ
Trinity scoffs. โRight. When then? After I keeled over and died?โ
โNo.โ Dennis grimaces. โThey were just scared.โ
At this, her face falls. Whether in disbelief, hurt or both, is not clear. โOf what?โ
โIโm really not the indicated person to talk about this.โ
Trinity nods absentmindedly, muttering something Dennis canโt understand, and leaves without another word. The rest of the shift is silent between them. In a quiet moment between patients, she shoots you a text: can we talk?
The entire day has been spent in pacing around your apartment, dreading the moment Trinityโs shift ends and she comes over for the long-coming conversation. The key turning in the front door has you almost jumping and you rush to open it. Trinity simply looks at you with a question in her eyes that you answer with a nod. She comes in and sits in the couch. You also sit, not daring to look at her for more than a few seconds at a time.
โSo,โ she breaks the silence. โHuckleberry and you.โ
A โyesโ so small comes from your mouth it would have been hard to hear had it not been for the apartment being as silent as it was. Trinity does, though, and she nods, as if bracing herself for her next words.
โWhy didnโt you want to tell me?โ
Your lower lip trembles and you clear your throat of any tears that might have lodged there. โI thought you would get mad.โ
No response to that. You dare to look up and are met with a baffled expression from Trinity. โWhat the fuck are you talking about? Why would I get mad?โ
โYou care a lot about Dennis.โ
โDuh, of course I care about Huckleberry. What does that have to do with anything?โ
โI thought you would not agree with our relationship.โ
โAre we in the fucking 14th century and I didnโt notice? You donโt need my permission to date anyone!โ
โI know,โ you insist. โBut you have complained about other people before.โ
โDuh, because they were all assholes! You didnโt deserve that. Huckleberry, however? Thereโs no way he could ever hurt a fly. But if he ever does anything to you, believe me, I will beat his ass. You were here first.โ
You chuckle at her eager and loud protection of you. โAnd I thought you cared about him.โ
โOh, I do. Heโs like an annoying little brother.โ She looks at you softer now. โAre you sure youโre okay?โ
โYeah, yeah.โ You wipe your eyes. โIโm better now. You really donโt mind?โ
โMy two best friends happy together? I might just be the happiest person in Pittsburgh, probably the world.โ
calling dennis a freak, a weirdo, perverted, gross, asshole ect when you are dating
it pisses him off especially when you do it while you're all cuddled up to him or run away form him. maybe he shoved your face in his crotch to show you how gross he can get or something idk im getting nasty
and like idk maybe he rubs his cock all on your cheek and smears his precum all over the skin there. your glare immediately melting when you see the look in his eye. disappointmentโhe huffs out how easy you can be, if you want attention that this isnโt the way to get it. he doesnโt like treating you like this but obviously something needs to be done.
asking if you think heโs so gross, why are you so eager to get his pants off? fumbling with his zipper while he stares down at you. remember youโre the one who likes it when he fucks your throat until youโre drooling down your chin. โyou like it messyโ you had said.
heโs a pervert right? says the one who can barely keep their hands from feeling him up? hands groping over him at any chance he gives you. as if he didnโt come home after a 12hr to find you fucking yourself silly with one of his dirty shirts pressed to your nose.
heโs the weird one when you constantly ask him to try this and that in the bedroom. all of which youโd be mortified of if he mentioned it to your friends or did you forget?
dennis is the type to lay out ALL the dirt he has on you when you wanna act some typa way w him. staring you down with a confused grin on his face when you sputter out a response.
what if you were having a BAD DAY at WORK and then your LESBIAN SITUATIONSHIP said NO FIREWORKS DATE letโs keep it CASUAL and then you got invited to a FURRY CONVENTION
A/n: Theres a written part in this!! donโt miss it๐ its like the entire point of the chapter. also mildly proof-read mind the typos and whatnot
TAGLIST CLOSED๐ I forgot abt the 50 ppl limit but i will forever honor the two tags in the comments because I said yes before I realized, my apologies๐ฅน
The doors automatically part way for you. The immediate cool air unit above the doors replacing the heat from outside.
Dana is the first to see you, your hand is weirdly stretched out but it takes her a minute to really register what's happeningย
โCame to bring dad lunch?โ Her eyes flit down to your hand and the tablet she was holding immediately slides across the front desk with how fast she put it down.ย
โWhat the hell! What happened?โ The glasses that rest on her head are quickly moved to her nose as she rushes towards you, your outstretched hand now in her careful ones as she tries not to bump the scalpel. She bends at the waist, getting close to your hand as she examines the entrance and exit wounds.
You canโt help but tear up at her concern, some of it because of pain. Dana is like your mother- the only womanly figure in your life other than Collins.
โEmergency surgery mishap, miscalculated hand movement.โ You sniffled a bit, tears drying across your waterline as you realized you were in good hands. She stiffens a bit before looking up at you
โWas it used? Did you move it at all?โ
โNo and no but there were a lot of bumps on the wayโ She sighs and stands up straight now, moving to your side as she carefully guides you by your waist to the first free room she can find. Once youโre settled she peeks her head out the door, squinting up at the charting screenย
โDad's busy, sorry bug. Does he know youโre here?โ You pout slightly at the information
โYeah, told him I was on the wayโ she hums at your response before looking back at the screen. โuhhhhhโฆโ She trails off as her eyes switch back and forth between times and names.ย
โCan somebody get Whitaker?โ she yells out to the front office. Your heart drops to your ass as you force yourself to lock in immediately. You hear Princessโs unmistakable voice, and, if possible, your heart drops even further as you pull out your phone to text Mateo. โGot it!โ
Dana walks over to the wall, pulling out two medium-sized gloves from the box before wiggling them onto her hands, grabbing gauze from a drawer, and coming towards you again, dabbing up the pooled blood at the base of the scalpel blade
โโs gonna need stitchesโ she chuckles at her own poor obvious joke and throws away the gauze
โReally now?โ You tilt your head for a moment in faux concern and playfulness before you sit up straight at the sound of the curtain opening, Dennis walking in with a tablet in hand while looking down at it, taking a deep anxious sigh before speaking.
โMy name is Dr. Whitaker, what seems to be- โ His head lifts from his tablet and his eyes widen in shock.
โOh! It-itโs youโ He straightens up his posture a bit and Dana gives him a weird look with her eyebrow raised before turning back to you, who looks at Dennis like he built you a white house with blue shutters.
โItโs me!โ You raise your hand quickly to give him a wave, only to hiss at the pain as you realize it was your bad hand you tried to wave with. Dennis and Dana immediately rush to your side, Dennis now examining your hand with his eyes. You watch him squint before walking away and putting on gloves.
โThatโs reallyโฆbad. โs gonna need stitches.โ Dana opens her mouth to speak as he sits down in the rolling stool, trying to tell him you already know the procedure but you beat her to talking.
โReally? Is it going to hurt?โ Dana whips her head at you, making a half-confused, half-disgusted face before her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you and Whitaker before she starts to talk.
โI figured I would help just numb her up and pull it out and Iโll leave you to stitch it up?โ Her suggestion flows as a question but Dennis just nods as he flips your hand to look for an exit wound, and thereโs a sour face when he realizes there isnโt one.ย
โWas the scalpel used?โ You shake your head but realize he isnโt looking up at you- so you opt to speak โUh..no.โ He nods again and after some shuffling from Dana behind him, he holds out his hand and she hands him a syringe of what you could guess would be an anesthetic
โJust an anesthetic- small pinch.โ
โI know the drill.โ
โGood- real good, makes it a lot easier.โ
God, heโs so hot. You admire his features as the needle goes in, the slight burn of the lidocaine not compared to the hotness of your face as you trail your eyes from his nose to his lips. The numbing works quickly and Dennis presses his fingers around your wound.
โCan you feel that?โ
โBarelyโ
โGood.โ He wraps another piece of gauze around the handle of the scalpel tugging slightly.
โWhat about that?โ
โNope.โ
โDo you want a countdown?โ He looks up at you now, concern dazzled all across his face- crush or not, it's obvious he cares deeply for his patients.
โUmโฆno you can just- you can just pull it out.โ You lean your head back and close your eyes, not wanting to see it come out. Nor the blood that would accumulate in the palm of your hand.
โItโs out!โ Well, he sounds happy. You look back down to see the Scalpel being handed to Dana and a piece of gauze already pressed to your palm to soak up the blood.
โHoly fuck. Thanks Dr. Whitakerโ He hums.
โWell! Iโll leave you to it Whitakerโ Dana smiles and pats him on the shoulder before exiting the curtain. Thank God for her social awareness, flirting in front of mom is just something youโre not up for.
โYou can just call me Dennis.โ
โHuh?โ
โYou called me Dr. Whitaker- you can call me Dennis, itโs kinda weird to be so formal with someone I plan to..โ he stutters for a moment and adds another piece of gauze like an excuse. His eyes focused on your hand like thereโs a tiny ant in your palm building a colony out of red blood cells. โ..be friends with.โย
โYeahโฆwell, Dennis, I'm sorry about this being our second time talking to each other.โ
โDonโt worry about it- it happens. Well uh- let's get you stitched up!โ He looks up at you andโฆsmiles? He tucked his lips and gave you a strange-looking face, similar to his profile picture on Instagram. Sliding away a bit in the rolling stool to grab the suture kit Dana left on the table.
In a world where everyone is OOC and reader is a veterinary technician who has a big fat crush on the new doctor at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center after a forgotten lunch incidentโฆwhere her father- Dr. Robby and uncleโฆDr. Abbot work.
โ๏ธDennis Whitaker x !Robinavitch reader |TAGLIST CLOSED| EXTRA: all my reaction pics
