chapter 2 of my hucklerobby fic is finally finished! here's a sneak peek
content warnings (for this preview only; tags for the entire fic are on ao3): auditory hallucinations, self harm, referenced character death, descriptions of pain/injury
Itâs been a mere three nights that Whitaker has stayed at Robbyâs place, but the man has already managed to sneak himself into all of Whitakerâs crevicesâ in the least perverse way possible.
He washes his clothes with Robbyâs laundry detergent. He bathes in his shower. He eats the food he makes. He drinks his favorite choice of bourbon. He sleeps in his guest bedroom. He prays under his roof. He wonders if Robby views him the same way: a worm thatâs wriggled its way into his life. A parasite he lets wean on him.
He should be grateful. He has a comfortable, safe place to call home for the time being, much more than what he had when he first moved to Pittsburg. And yet, he canât exactly say that things are getting better.
The itch under his skin grows more vicious whenever it arises. By the end of a 12-hour work shift, the pain has manifested itself into a festering colony of maggots in his stomach. Fire licking at his skin. As soon as they arrive at Robbyâs townhouse, he immediately excuses himself to the guest room to get changed, and throws himself down to his knees, vomiting up a prayer until the pain stops.
He vaguely remembers what Mohan told him about the pain sickle cell patients experience when off their meds. A burning, aching, sickening pain. Glass flushing through the bloodstream. I never thought of it that way, he had told her. How wickedly karmic.
To exacerbate the problem, the humming has started to bleed outside of his prayers. Even when its loudness made the inside of his skull vibrate, he was able to put up with it while praying if it meant getting rid of the pain. Now, though, it follows him in malign ways. Smothering out the sound of orders, patientsâ vitals, answers to important questions. Sometimes itâs a different sound, just subtly: the harmony of a choir, or a swarm of buzzing flies, or a far-away, prolonged shriek.
He roams the ER with baited breath, barely capable of doing his job in fear that anything could trigger the hum. It frightens him, the thought that the sound will one day consume him whole until itâs all he can hear, isolating him from the outside world.
Aside from praying, the one thing thatâs been able to quiet the noise is painâ the self-inflicted kind. His body has turned into a battlefield between himself and whatever has taken hold of him, and either way, he still loses. He spends whatever time he has available hiding in one of the bathroom stalls and gnawing at the thin flesh between his thumb and index finger. When heâs walking from patient to patient, or checking the board, or idly waiting for directions, heâll dig his nails into his palm or bite the inside of his cheek.
He still gets stares from staff as he walks around the ER, the usual ones of sympathy and pity, but now heâs getting ones of confusion and speculation. The heads that turn his direction when he enters a room alongside Robby, or when Robby comes up from behind to place a hand on the nape of his neck and asks him if heâs alright donât go unnoticed.
Of course people would grow suspicious. They come into work together, and leave together, too. Even when Robbyâs held up with a patient, Whitaker just stands by the lockers and waits for him like a loyal dog. His co-workers throw quizzical glances at him on their way out, and a shudder of shame crawls up his spine. He can only assume what theyâre thinking. It doesnât look good, and itâs a surprise that no oneâs contacted HR yet.
Needless to say, Whitaker surmises that his life is still taking a downward trajectory. The chance of things getting better, or at the very least going back to normal, seems to grow distant from him every day.
-/-
Thursday morning is tense already; the air is heavy with fog, the sun refuses to show its face, and Robby wonât even look him in the eye. Whitaker watches Robby shamble around the house, more high-strung than usual. Even in the brief time of living and working with him, he knows that Robby tends to get tightlipped about whateverâs bothering him and prefers not to be interrogatedâ he can relate. After a particularly heavy sigh on their way to work, though, Whitaker decides to prod.
âEverything alright, Dr. Robby?â
Robby glances at him for just a second before blinking away. He scratches the short hair on the back of his neck. His voice lowers like heâs about to deliver bad news to a patient.
âI⌠got a call from Abbot this morning. He let me know that the parents of the deceased kid from Monday finally showed up during their shift earlier today.â
âOh?â Whitaker almost falters in his steps. âW-what happened? Did they say why they were so late?â
âAbbot couldnât give me too many details, not on the phone, at least. Theyâre opening up a police investigation. Seems like some foul play was involved.â Robbyâs jaw sets, the corner of his mouth twitching like heâs already regretting saying too much.
He continues, his voice even softer. âI figured that youâd ought to know, since you were so worried about it before. But I donât want this weighing on you too much. Itâs⌠itâs going to be okay.â
Whitaker nods despite every fiber of his being fermenting with the utter wrongness of the situation. Nothing about this was okay. He couldnât get the image of the little boyâs body lying in the viewing room for hours, then moved to the morgue for daysâ unattended and unwantedâ out of his head. The humming commences, prolonged and strident, akin to a heart monitor flatlining.
-/-
âCanât believe youâre letting one of your subordinates stay in your guest bedroom. You naughty dog.â
Robbyâs momentary escape into the break room is rudely interrupted by Langdonâs ribbing. The resident sidles up next to him, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
âThereâs nothing ânaughtyâ about it. And who even told you about that?â
âRobby, nobody needed to tell me,â he scoffs. âIâve been watching him waiting for you by the lockers like a kid being picked up after school. Plus, heâs starting to smell like you. He walked into the bathroom while my back was turned and I swear to God I thought he was you at first. Itâs weird.â
âYou know he had a shitty Monday. Iâm just helping him out.â
âYeah, we all did. I donât see you hosting a staff sleepover at your place. Let Kiara handle it.â
âI will. Heâs already been talking to her, but I think he needs a little extra assistance. Iâm keeping a close eye on him, that's all.â He takes a long sip of his coffee before he says anything more incriminating.
âA little extra TLC, huh? Taking your sweet time. Youâre starting to act like Mohan.â
Robby glares at him, and Langdon raises a defensive hand. Before he can reprimand him for the comment, the door swings open, and Dana pops her head in.
âCar crash coming in five minutes. Three people, two in really bad shape. Get your butts out here.â
Langdon gives him a knowing raise of the eyebrows before chugging the last half of his coffee and leaving. Robby follows suit before Dana snags his arm in the doorway.
âYou alright?â
ââCourse. When am I not alright?â
âAnd Whitakerâs okay, too?â
âYeah, doing better.â He kicks himself mentally as soon as the words leave him. He rolls his eyes at Danaâs astute grin. âI wouldnât know, but he seems fine.â
She chuckles before letting him out.
-/-
Whitakerâs polite smile promptly falls as he shuts a curtain to one of the patient rooms behind him. He slips off his used pair of gloves and tosses them into a nearby trash can. He opts to not dispense hand sanitizer into them, knowing that the alcohol would only further irritate the teeth and nail marks heâs ingrained into himself. Heâs about to go discharge his patient when somebody bumps his shoulder in an all too familiar way.
âHowâs life treating you, Huckleberry?â Santos asks.
He quickly stuffs his hand into his pocket. He shrugs, feigning an air of nonchalance. âFine. Why?â
âJust being friendly. Iâve noticed you being a little off your game. Yâknow, since MondayâŚâ Her tone turns more solemn at the end.
âI- I guess so. I havenât been sleeping well. But really, itâs nothing. Iâm fine.â
She puckers her lips, nodding slowly in a way that screams bullshit. She changes the subject, pressing down on a different wound this time.
âSo, I donât know if this is just a rumor or not, butââ Whitakerâs jaw already tightens. âPeople are saying that youâve been staying with Dr. Robby. Is thatâŚ?â
âI-itâs just for the time being. Iâve been looking for a place to stay, so heâs been helping me out with that.â
Santosâ face glazes over with a look that Whitakerâs never quite seen on her before. Itâs completely unlike her usual sardonic self. Her tone is deadly sober when she speaks again.
âAnd things have been normal so far? He hasnât⌠done anything weird? Or inappropriate? I mean, staying at your attendingâs house is already bordering on inappropriate, butââ
âWhat? No, of course not. Look.â He stops and turns to her, lowering his voice. âI- I know people are gossiping about us, but itâs not like that. Please donât go around saying anything thatâll get him in trouble. I donât want him to get punished just for trying to help me.â
She silently stares him down, waiting for him to confess anything else. When she doesnât get a further response, she merely nods.
âOkay, gotcha. Just⌠be careful.â
The ambulance bay doors burst open with three gurneys rolling in, two straight into either trauma room and the third into one in south. Doctors and surgeons start flooding into each room.
Robby and Langdon intercept them from the north hallway. Robby falters in his steps for just a second to look over his shoulder at the pair.
âWhitaker, hey, I want you in Trauma 1 with me and Langdon. Dr. Santos, youâre with Garcia and Mohan in 2,â he orders before continuing on his way towards the trauma rooms.
The hair on the back of Whitakerâs neck is already standing up. He must look a little worse for wear, because Santos throws him a reassuring grin.
âDonât sweat it, Huckleberry. Thisâll be a cake walk. Say, whoeverâs team finishes first buys the other something from the vending machine.â She pats him on the shoulder before rushing off to Trauma 2. He follows a beat after.
Every fiber of his being is screaming at him not to go in there, but he pushes through the doors anyways. Robbyâs already in there with Langdon and a handful of nurses tending to the patient. The overhead lights are killing him, his vision blurring momentarily before he blinks hard. He gloves up, snapping the latex against his wrist for good measure, before joining Robbyâs side. The patient is a woman in her mid-30s, one of the drivers involved in the incident and the mother of the third, less injured patient.
People are yelling out stats for oxygen levels and blood pressure, pointing out broken bones and internal bleeding and fluid where fluid shouldnât be. Someoneâs already intubating her, another marking out the incisions to be made across her bare chest.
He doesnât even realize just how hard heâs breathing until Robby touches the small of his back. His breath hitches in his throat.
âWhitaker, listen up. Weâre gonna need you for this. Langdon will do the incisions on the left side, and youâll finish off on the right. Got that?â
Whitaker nods, even though the words sound far away, like his headâs been dunked underwater. He watches as Langdon cuts into the flesh and muscle with a scalpel. It flays open, blood oozing out.
Thatâs when the humming starts up, and Whitaker silently panics. He grinds the soft, gummy meat of his cheek between his molars until he tastes metal, and yet he canât get the noise to quiet down enough to hear what anyone is saying. Itâs still so loud by the time Langdon finishes his half. He holds out the scalpel to him, and Whitaker takes it with hands that are so shaky that Landgon hesitates to release it at first. The nurses cast dubious looks at him, then at Robby.
He can see them mouthing Robbyâs name, shaking their heads. Langdon reaches his hand out again, urging Whitaker to give him back the scalpel. His head swims with shame; of course no one would trust him to do this right, not after what he did last time.
Heâs about to return the scalpel to Langdon just as Robby steps into his space and grabs his wrist. The older manâs hips slot just above his own, his chest pressing into the back of his shoulder. His larger hand guides Whitakerâs down towards the blue line of marker.
âSteady, steady. Youâre alright.â
Robbyâs husky whisper penetrates the wall of insufferable humming in that brief moment. Itâs the only voiceâ the only thingâ he can hear, and it startles him just as much as it calms him. He looks out the corner of his eye and catches the firm nod Robby gives him.
In his periphery, the eyes around them widen and brows furrow, incredulous. Langdonâs neck goes taut as he barks something at Robby, but whatever heâs telling him to do, Robby doesnât follow. He presses his index finger down onto Whitakerâs, gliding the blade over the womanâs chest with precision. Robby releases a slow, shaky sigh that brushes against the lobe of Whitakerâs ear.
As soon as the incision is done, Robby takes the scalpel out of his hand and pulls him away from the operating table. Whitaker stands back in a daze, staring at Robbyâs back until the man turns his head and tilts it towards the door, signaling for him to leave. He does, and he doesnât stop until he pushes through the ambulance bay doors.
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