SURE THING (i) | Dennis Whitaker
It's Holiday season at the Pitt, and you, along with Dr. Ellis, are loaned to the day shift for a month. Long enough to notice two things: (1) there's a betting pool on when your oldest and dearest friend, Trinity Santos, finally gets laid, and (2) Santos looks really good standing next to Ellis. So you do the sensible thing. You rig the odds a little, and you drag Dennis Whitaker in it with you. Thirty bucks says you're right. ㅤ
ㅤ PAIRINGS. dr. dennis whitaker × f!resident!reader + dr. trinity santos × dr. parker ellis WORDS. 6.9k GENRE. medical procedural rom-com (???) WARNINGS. post S2 and slightly off canon, holiday-season ER setting, canonical medical content (trauma, MVA, wound debridement, central lines, brief graphic-medical descriptions), mild alcohol use, mutual pining and slow-burn - no smut in this part NOTE. christmas + end of year vibes in the middle of july, anyone? now this one is a real labour of love and this draft has been torturing me for days on days on days now, so i decided, fuck it, i'm breaking her up into two parts. part two drops next week? maybe?? we'll see we'll see - in the meantime: enjoy! title inspo: Sure Thing by Miguel ㅤ
ㅤ The night shift has a different gravity. Things fall slow. The overheads are dimmed to a sodium hum, the waiting room half-empty, and the ambient panic of the day burned off to a low coal-glow, so that when nothing is actively on fire, you can hear the vending machine in the corridor cycling its compressor like something breathing in its sleep.
Lena comes through the double doors with her coat already on, which is how you know the news is bad before she opens her mouth. On her day off, coming toward you and Ellis at four in the morning, like the eye of a storm you can do nothing but stand there and wait for.
"Don't shoot the messenger," she says, which is how every genuinely irritating thing at the Pitt begins.
The messenger's message is this: Al-Hashimi is drowning. The day shift is down two residents, one to the flu and one to a wedding, Robby is still not back, and the December census is doing what December always does. Which is fill the Pitt with the lonely, the drunk, the newly diagnosed, and the people whose bodies chose the holidays to finally give out. Administration, in its wisdom, has decided the solution is to borrow from nights. For the month. Effective tomorrow.
You already know. You knew the second Lena walked in with her coat on, that you're one of the heads to roll.
"And me," Ellis says, before Lena can say it, because Ellis is never surprised by anything.
"And you," Lena confirms. "Al-Hashimi asked for you specifically."
Ellis looks at you, and there is a whole conversation in it, the kind you can only have with someone you've stood beside at three in the morning while a heart refused to restart. Days, the look says.
"Well," you say helpfully. "At least we'll be miserable together."
"That's the spirit," Lena pats you both on the shoulder. ㅤ
ㅤ Ellis meets you at the entrance to the ER on Monday, bag over her shoulder, her expression the particular blank one she wore when she was bracing for something she couldn't control.
"You ready?" she says.
"No."
"Good. Me neither."
The day shift is already moving when you step inside. Not the night shift's low, spreading murmur; this is a full orchestra tuning up, all the instruments at once, nobody quite in sync but everyone trying. Overhead pages overlapping. A kid crying somewhere in peds. Two nurses arguing about a schedule swap near the med room. The lights feel harsher, somehow, even though they were the same fluorescents. Someone has hung paper snowflakes from the ceiling above the central desk. They turn slowly in the ventilation current.
"Snowflakes," Ellis points a finger to them.
"I see them."
Al-Hashimi materializes beside you before you've taken three steps. She has a dry-erase marker in one hand and her hair is unruly, just slightly, like she's been moving since she got here and hasn't stopped to fix it.
"You're the night owls." She shakes your hand, then Ellis's. Her grip is quick, already moving on to the next thing. "I'm Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi. Dr. Ellis, you're on fast track. Bay Three, they're already backed up. And Dr. Y/LN, you're with me on the incoming. I’ll let you settle two in. Meet me back here in 5?"
"Yes ma’am.” You say, faithfully.
"Good." She’s already walking. "Coffee's in the break room. It's not good but it's hot." She turns the corner and disappears, in the same fashion she appeared.
"She seems efficient," Ellis hums. “Think I’m in love with her, a little bit.” Ellis shoots you a small grin at that. "Give it a week. You'll revise your feelings.” She hikes her bag up on her shoulder. “Doctor,” She bows her head slightly, by way of goodbye. “Doctor.” You bring two fingers up in a mock salute. She heads down the corridor, weaving through the morning traffic with the ease of someone who's spent years navigating chaos, and you watch her go until the crowd swallows her up.
‘Incoming’ with Al-Hashimi turns out to mean you're running the floor beside her. A chest pain in Central Four that was really just reflux and a man who'd eaten too much spicy food before bed. A kid with a forehead lac who'd fallen off a swing set and was more upset about missing recess than the stitches. A woman in her sixties with abdominal pain that Al-Hashimi palpated once, twice, and then called surgery with the kind of calm authority that made you want to be her when you grew up.
Between traumas she glances at you. "You're quiet."
"I'm taking notes."
"On what?"
"How you got surgery down here in under four minutes. That's a record."
She smiles at that. “I've been feuding with the surgical attending for two months. He knows if he makes me wait, I'll send him every consult on the board out of spite." She checks her pager. "I need to call the ICU about bed space. You good to float?"
"I’m good."
You're halfway to the central desk to check the board when you pass Bay Two and hear a voice you'd know anywhere.
" -- not a suggestion. Lasix, respiratory, and tell the lab I want that troponin back before I finish this scan. If they give you a problem, tell them Dr. Santos is asking."
A med student bolts past you through the curtain, looking like he's just been asked to disarm a bomb. You pull the curtain aside.
Santos has a patient on the table. Older woman, mid-seventies, drifted off under the sedation, her breath coming in short, wet gasps even through the oxygen mask. Santos is running a portable ultrasound over the woman's chest with one hand while the other adjusts the drip. She hasn't seen you yet.
"Poor kid's going to quit before lunch," you say.
Santos looks up. Her face does something: a flash of recognition, then a quick, crooked warmth. "He'll be fine. The scared ones stick around." She turns back to the screen, frowning at something. "Are you going to stand there, or are you going to glove up?"
"What are we doing?"
"Central line. Mrs. Delgado's drowning and her pressures are dropping. She's under, but barely. I want this in before she wakes up and panics."
You pull on gloves and move to the opposite side of the table. The woman's eyes are closed, face slack, her breathing shallow but steadying as the oxygen does its work. Santos has the gown open and is palpating the woman's neck, finding the landmark.
You open the kit on the tray table while Santos gloves up, sterile. She drapes the patient, preps the site, then holds out her hand. "Ultrasound. Transverse."
You position the probe. The internal jugular comes into view on the screen, a dark oval beside the carotid's pulsing circle. Santos works the needle in, slow and steady. The tip appears in the vessel, a bright point of light.
"Nice," you murmur.
"Don't jinx it."
"You haven't missed a line since third year."
She lets that go. She threads the guidewire, slides the catheter in, sutures it down. The whole thing takes maybe eight minutes. When she's done, she strips off her gloves and leans back against the counter, exhaling.
You both watch the monitor for a moment. The sats are climbing. The pressure's stabilizing. The woman's face is peaceful now, the work done.
“So,” you continue. “When are you finally giving me the spare room?” “It’s not a spare room. Whitaker’s in it.” “The spare room in your heart, Santos.”
She rolls her eyes. “How much longer are you sticking around again?
"Just for the month. Both me and Ellis."
"Ellis." She says the name like she's filing it. "She nearly flattened me in the hall about an hour ago. I had a chart up, didn't see her, just walked right into her. Didn't move. Said, 'You're not the suture kit I ordered.'"
"She does that."
"She just stands there?"
"Unflappable. It's her whole thing."
“Hm.” She checks Mrs. Delgado's line one more time, then lowers her voice. "Garcia texted me last night."
The shift in tone is so sudden you almost miss it. One moment she's trading barbs, the next she's somewhere else entirely. You lean against the counter and wait.
"Said she'd been thinking. Wanted to try again. Try harder." Santos makes a face. "Her words."
"What'd you say?"
"I said I'd think about it."
"And?"
"And nothing. I said I'd think about it." She busies herself with the line, adjusting the drip even though it doesn't need adjusting. "What am I supposed to say? 'Thanks for spending a year treating me like a convenience, let's give it another shot'?"
"You could say no."
"I know I could say no."
"But you don't want to."
She doesn't answer. Mrs. Delgado's monitor beeps softly on the other side.
"I hate this," Santos says finally. "I hate that she can still do this. One phone call and I'm right back there. Waiting. Like nothing changed."
"Has anything changed?"
"I don't know." She looks at you, and for a moment the mask is gone entirely. "I don't know what I want. I don't know if I want her back or if I just want her to want me back. Which is pathetic."
"It's not pathetic."
"It feels pathetic."
"It's human. There's a difference."
She holds your gaze for a beat longer, then looks away. The monitor beeps. The med student reappears at the curtain, clutching a lab printout like it might explode.
"Dr. Santos? The- the troponin-"
Santos glances at it. "Non-STEMI. Page cardiology. Tell them we've got a seventy-four-year-old female with pulmonary edema and elevated troponin, likely demand ischemia. They'll want to admit." The med student nods and vanishes again. Santos turns back to you. "Dinner Friday? My place. Don’t bring anything."
"Not even wine?"
"Especially not wine. You have awful taste." She pauses at the curtain, hand on the fabric. "It's good to see you."
"Going soft on me now, Trincess?"
“Awful, awful taste.” She says it with quiet resignation as she leaves, and you stand there for a moment in the quiet of the bay, the monitor beeping, Mrs. Delgado's breath slowly easing, the familiar, steadying warmth of having your friend back in the same orbit. ㅤ
ㅤ The break room is small and smells like burnt toast and a very particular brand of disinfectant used on the day shift. Someone has left a box of donuts on the table with a sticky note that says TAKE ONE in aggressive capitals, underlined three times. You take one. You're not a coward.
You're pouring coffee when the door opens behind you.
"Don't drink that," Whitaker says.
You turn. He's in scrubs that have already seen a shift, a granola bar wrapper sticking out of his pocket. "Why not?"
"Because they made it an hour ago and it's already burnt. The day shift pot runs hot." He opens the cabinet above the sink, pulls down a French press. "Dr. Robby got me this for my birthday. I keep it here. You want some?"
"You know how to use a French press?"
"I know how to use a French press. I'm from Nebraska, not the moon."
You lean against the counter and watch him work. He moves slowly. Careful, unhurried, like the coffee will wait for him and not the other way around.
"Heard you got loaned out for the month," he says, spooning grounds into the press.
"Me and Ellis."
"She know about that?"
"She was standing next to me when they told us."
"Not Ellis." He rolls his eyes at your weak joke. "I mean Santos. She know you're in today?"
"Found her in Bay Two earlier today. We put in a central line together. It was nice."
He hums. The kettle clicks off. He pours it over the grounds in a slow spiral. "Lately she's been..." He stops, reconsiders. "Well. You saw her."
Before you can say anything, the door bangs open and a nurse you haven't met strides in, sharp-eyed, making a beeline for the donuts. "Whitaker. New girl." She points at you with the donut. "Y/LN, right. Santos's night shift friend. Oh, French press. Fancy." She bites into the donut. "Ahmad's setting up a new grid. You should come see it. It's educational." Then she's gone.
"Princess," Whitaker says, as though that's an explanation.
"I gathered."
"You get used to her."
"Have you?"
"No." He presses the plunger down, pours two cups, hands you one. It's good. Better than yours, which you don't say. "Come on."
He leads you toward the ambulance bay entrance, where the security dispatch nook is tucked into the wall. It's a small room, more of a booth really, with a bank of camera monitors flickering on the wall: the ambulance bay, the waiting room, the triage entrance. Ahmad is standing in front of a whiteboard mounted on the wall, a dry-erase marker in his hand, wiping it clean. Whatever was on there before, schedules, incident notes, and you think you catch a glimpse of a doodle of a cat, disappears under the eraser.
"New grid," Ahmad announces to no one in particular. "Topic: Dr. Santos."
The room is already gathering staff. Princess slips in first, already pulling cash from her pocket. Perlah follows, typing on her phone. Donnie leans in the doorway. Mohan drifts past, White Monster in hand, stopping briefly to see what's happening.
Ahmad uncaps his marker and starts drawing columns. The whiteboard fills with his blocky handwriting: a timeline across the top, spaces for names and bets down the side. At the very top, in letters larger than the rest: WHEN IS SANTOS GETTING LAID?
Whitaker makes a sound beside you that's somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Of course."
Princess slaps a twenty on the counter beside the whiteboard. "By Christmas."
"You're an optimist," Donnie says.
"She's wound so tight she's going to land on the first person who blinks at her."
Ahmad writes her name on the board in the "Christmas" column. He turns and catches you and Whitaker at the edge of the group.
"New face," he says, pointing the marker at you. "Y/LN, right?"
"That's me."
"You know the rules? Cash only. No IOUs. You pick a column, you lay your money, your name goes on the board. Whoever's closest when it happens takes the pot."
"When what happens?"
Ahmad taps the whiteboard. WHEN IS SANTOS GETTING LAID?
"Right," you say. "Simple."
You're about to add something, a joke, a deflection, when your eye catches one of the security monitors. The camera feed from the central floor is showing the fast track, where Ellis is charting, her back half-turned to the noise. In the same frame, Santos is coming out of Bay Two, stripping off gloves. For a second they're suspended there on the grainy screen: Ellis looking up from her chart, Santos pausing at the sink.
You think about You're not the suture kit I ordered. You think about the way Santos said Hm. One syllable, filed away. You think about Ellis, unflappable. Santos, waiting to be left.
The pieces click together, quiet and final.
"That's a terrible window," you hear yourself say.
Ahmad looks up. "Excuse me?"
"Betting on when. That's a terrible window. She's not going to just trip and fall into someone's bed. You'd have to -- " You stop. The shape of it is still forming, but the edges are there.
Princess tilts her head. "What are you saying?"
You look at her. Then at the whiteboard. Then at Whitaker, who is watching you with the particular expression of a man who knows you well enough to be worried.
"Put me down for December," you say. "Before New Year's. And put Whitaker down too. Thirty." Whitaker blinks. "I didn't --"
"You're in. We talked about this."
"We didn't talk about anything. We talked about coffee."
"Same thing." You turn back to Ahmad. "Y/LN and Whitaker. Thirty. December. Before New Year's."
Ahmad raises an eyebrow. "You're that confident."
"I'm that specific." You chirp, sliding the cash across the counter. "Write it down."
He writes it on the whiteboard, your names side by side in the December column. Perlah is grinning like you've just made her whole week.
Whitaker is still staring at you. "What just happened?"
You grab his arm and pull him out of the dispatch nook, into the corridor, squarely out of Perlah's earshot. She's already turning to Princess with the particular energy of someone about to start a whole new conversation.
"Ellis," you say, low.
"What about her?"
A nurse cuts between you two with a crash cart. You flatten against the wall, and Whitaker pulls you into the alcove by the med room, out of the traffic. The space is small and smells like antiseptic and sanitizer. Through the wall, you can hear the muffled beeping of a monitor in one of the bays, the distant overhead page for respiratory to Central Two.
"She doesn't flinch," you say. "And Santos needs someone who doesn't flinch. They're on the same floor for a month."
"So, what, you want to set them up?"
"I want to bring the water to the horse. See if it'll drink."
Before he can say anything, “Dr. Whitaker." A nurse is calling him from down the hall. "Central Six. Your post-op's asking."
"Be there in a minute." He's already moving toward the central bays, and you fall into step beside him. "Well, whatever you did, you just bet thirty dollars of my hard earned money."
"You'll thank me when we win."
"If we win. If Santos doesn't kill us first." He shoulders open the door to Central Six, and you catch the shift in his voice as he crosses the threshold, the warm, easy register he uses for patients. "Mr. Okonkwo. How's that incision feeling?"
The door swings shut. You're still standing there when Dana's voice cuts across the floor from the central desk.
"Y/LN. Incoming MVA, two critical, one's coding in the rig. Bay One and Two." She's already on the phone, already gesturing at a nurse with her free hand, directing the traffic only she can see. "Al-Hashimi is on her way. Go." ㅤ
ㅤ The building is a fourth-floor walk-up in Squirrel Hill. The stairwell smells like onions and garlic and someone's wet dog, and the light on the second-floor landing flickers the way it's flickered for two years because the landlord won't fix it and Santos has stopped asking. You've been climbing these stairs long enough that your legs know the rhythm without your brain getting involved: third step creaks, fifth step has a loose nail, the railing wobbles at the turn.
You let yourself in with your key. The apartment hits you warm and immediate: the sour-rich smell of sinigang that's been simmering since the afternoon, mixing in with the faint chemical tang of the cleaning spray Santos uses on the counters obsessively. An unlikely combination of smells, and still somehow just right. The radiator is clanking in the corner, a sound you've learned to tune out the way you tune out the vending machine on nights.
"Kitchen," Santos calls.
She's at the stove with her back to you, stirring a pot that's big enough to feed six, because she never learned to cook for fewer than that. The windows behind her are fogged with steam. Whitaker is at the small table, a half-empty beer in front of him, another one waiting at the empty seat beside him. The mail from the week is piled on the counter where neither of them has sorted it.
"You brought wine," Santos says without turning around.
"It’s the fancy kind. Twelve dollars, but you can't tell from the label."
"I can tell from you." She points the ladle at you. "Come taste this."
You lean over the pot. She holds out the ladle, one hand cupped beneath it so it doesn't drip. The broth is rich and sour, the way sinigang should be, but there's something missing at the back of it, a depth that hasn't quite arrived yet.
"Salt," you say.
She adds more salt. Tastes. Nods once. "Garcia texted again. Yesterday."
You don't say anything. You lean against the counter and wait.
"I told her no." She sets the ladle down, wipes her hands on a towel. "She said she understood. Said she hoped I'd find what I was looking for. Like a blessing. Like she was releasing me from something."
"And how do you feel?" Whitaker prompts from outside the kitchen.
"Like I got hit by a truck. Also fifty pounds lighter. Both." She picks up the ladle again. “Soup’s ready.”
Dinner moves the way dinners at Trinity’s always move. Loud, overlapping, full of the shorthand that comes from knowing each other too long. She tells a story about a med student who fainted during an arterial line and knocked over a whole tray of instruments, and Whitaker counters with one about a man who came in with a ferret in his pants that he'd been trying to smuggle into a Penguins game, and by the time Santos pushes back from the table the wine is half gone and the kitchen is warm and easy and you've almost forgotten why you're really here.
"You know," Whitaker says, holding up his glass, "This is actually not bad. For a twelve-dollar bottle."
"Right? Thank you! It has good mouthfeel," you say.
Santos stares at you with the mildest look of disgust. "Did you just say mouthfeel?"
"It's a wine term, Trincess. Top note, middle note, bouquet, mouthfeel.”
Whitaker is laughing now, the quiet, helpless kind that makes his shoulders shake. "Please stop saying mouthfeel."
“And stop calling me Trincess.” Santos snaps, but the bite isn’t really there. She gets up to clear the bowls, and the moment passes. The radiator clanks back to life.
"So this Dr. Ellis," she says, scraping rice into a container. Her back is to you, her voice carefully flat.
You silently swat at Whitaker's knees under the table, raising your eyebrows at him with wide, urgent eyes. He blinks back at you and you mouth ELLIS! with what you hope is a meaningful expression. Realization crosses over his face and he mouths back OH! just as fervently.
"Yeah?" you say to Santos. "What about her?"
"She showed me a photo of a degloving. In the break room." Santos closes the container and puts it in the fridge. "Just pulled it up on her phone while I was eating. Said, 'Isn't the fascia beautiful?' Like she was talking about a sunset."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. I looked at it." She leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "It was beautiful, she was right.”
The radiator clanks again. Whitaker gets up and kicks it, a practiced motion, and it quiets.
"She's interesting," Santos says. "I thought she was just no-nonsense. Methodical, you know?" She pauses, searching for the word. "But she's pleasant. To be around. I don't know. I feel like I could learn a lot from her."
She says it the way she'd say I think I'll pick up an extra shift or the cafeteria's out of the good yogurt. Flat. Casual. A fact among facts.
You don't look at Whitaker this time. You don't have to. You both know exactly what pleasant to be around means in Trinity's language. It means she's been paying attention. It means she's been watching Ellis the way she watches a complex case, running differentials.
"Anyway," she says, pushing off the counter. "I switched my shift around. Earlier starts for a bit." She turns off the water, dries her hands. "See how it goes."
She hangs the dishtowel over the oven handle and disappears down the hall. The bathroom door clicks shut.
You let the silence sit for a moment. Then you turn to Whitaker. "Earlier starts," you say.
He shakes his head, that quiet, reluctant smile spreading across his face. "You were right."
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I said you were right. I'm not saying it again."
"That's fine. I heard it the first time." You reach for your wine. "It's okay to admit I'm always right, you know. It gets easier with practice."
"It doesn't. It gets harder." He tips his beer toward you.
By the time Trinity comes back, you're on the couch with Whitaker's blanket over your lap, and he’s scrolling through the movie options with the particular indecision of a man who's been asked to choose something and immediately forgotten every film he's ever seen.
"You can't pick Die Hard," She’s saying, dropping onto the couch beside you. She's changed into pajamas, her hair down now, pulling the other end of the blanket over her legs.
"It's literally December," Whitaker says.
"It's early December. Die Hard is for Christmas."
"That's not a rule."
"It's absolutely a rule. Tell him, Y/N."
You just lean back into the couch and let the warmth and softness of the night settle around you. "I’m not getting in the middle of this." You sigh happily.
"Coward." ㅤ
ㅤ The next time you see Ellis, it’s in Bay One on a morning that carries the specific brutality of a Monday.
She has a man on the table. Intubated, sedated, his left thigh laid open from hip to knee. Motorcycle accident. The wound has been festering since the weekend, and the smell of it is thick enough to taste at the back of your throat, a sweetness that doesn't belong in a living body. Surgery's backed up. Ellis has decided not to wait.
She's debriding the necrotic tissue in sections, her scalpel moving in short, precise strokes. The dead skin comes away in wet, dark strips. You're across from her, gloves on, passing instruments as she needs them. She doesn't have to ask for what she wants. She just holds out her hand, and you put the next tool in it. You've done this together a hundred times on nights.
"Now this may pinch a little," she murmurs, cutting away a strip of blackened skin from the edge of the wound.
The man's face stays slack. The ventilator sighs. He's deep under, his body completely still.
"He can't hear you," you say.
"He might." Ellis doesn't look up from her work. "Some studies suggest patients under anesthesia retain auditory processing. It's controversial." She sets the scalpel down and holds out her hand again. "Saline."
You pass her the bottle. She irrigates the wound, and the fluid runs pink into the basin, carrying the last fragments of dead tissue with it. Underneath, the muscle is red and angry but alive. Bleeding slightly at the edges, a good sign.
"Surgery would have waited another hour," Ellis says, reaching for the dressing. "He would have lost more. You can't wait for someone else to do the thing. Sometimes you just have to do it yourself."
"Mhm, mhm. Santos has a post-op in Bay Four," you supply. "The wound's not closing right. She's been on broad-spectrum antibiotics for a week and the white count is still climbing."
Ellis smooths the dressing down over the clean wound and strips off her gloves. "Sure, I’m happy to take a look." She pulls off her mask and drops it in the bin beside the table. "Doctor,"
You pull off your own gloves. "Doctor."
And then she's already walking toward the door, already thinking about the next thing. You watch her go, and through the glass window of the bay you see her pass Whitaker in the corridor. He's outside Central Six, a chart tucked under his arm, a granola bar in his free hand. His head turns as Ellis passes him. He watches her turn the corner toward Bay Four, and you can see him putting it together in his head: Ellis, Bay Four, Santos's post-op.
Then he glances toward Bay One and catches you watching him through the glass. You don't look away fast enough. He raises the granola bar in a small salute. You give him a thumbs up. ㅤ
ㅤ You're walking toward Radiology to chase down a chest film when you pass Bay Four.
The curtain is only half-drawn. Through the gap, you can see Ellis at the bedside, her back to you. She's got the dressing pulled back from the post-op wound, and she's pointing at something on the patient's chart with her free hand. Santos is beside her. Her arms are crossed, but loosely. Not the tight, defensive fold she's worn for weeks. Just crossed. Just standing.
" -- debrided it pretty aggressively," Ellis is saying. "The tissue underneath looks good. I'd keep the antibiotics going another few days, but I think she's turning the corner."
"You think," Santos says.
"I think. Wound care isn't an exact science."
"Surgery is."
"Surgery is plumbing. This is gardening. Different skill set. Remove the dead stuff, let the healthy stuff grow."
Santos makes a sound, a short exhale through her nose, that's closer to a laugh than anything you've heard from her since before the summer. Ellis glances at her, and something passes between them, quick and unreadable. Then Santos uncrosses her arms and reaches for the chart, and Ellis steps back to give her room. Neither of them notices you at all. ㅤ
ㅤ The first case you take with Whitaker happens to land on a Wednesday. Bay Two.
A young woman, early twenties, abdominal pain that turned out to be a ruptured ovarian cyst. The attending is upstairs with a trauma, the consult is backed up, and for an hour it's just the two of you in the bay.
When her pressure drops and she starts to crash, Whitaker doesn't flinch.
"Fluid bolus," he says. "Wide open."
You're already hanging the bag. "Got it."
"Pressure's coming back up. She's stabilizing."
"I can see the monitor."
"I'm narrating. Sorry, it's a habit."
His hands are steady. That's the thing you keep noticing. Not just steady. Calm. Unhurried. When the monitor starts screaming, he reaches over and silences it with one hand, his eyes still on the ultrasound, and says, "She's fine. She's just dry. Keep the fluids going."
Afterward, when the patient is stable and Al-Hashimi has come and gone and the bay is quiet again, you're both at the sink, washing up. The water runs over your hands. Neither of you speaks for a moment.
"My first suture was on a cow," He says.
You look at him. He's not looking at you. He's drying his hands on a towel, his movements as unhurried as they were during the procedure.
"A cow," you repeat.
"I was fifteen. My parents’ farm. One of the heifers got caught in a barbed-wire fence and tore a gash about this long down her side." He measures the length with his hands, maybe eight inches. "My dad said, 'You want to be a doctor, you're going to learn to sew.' So I learned to sew. On a cow."
"And did this cow live?"
"She lived for another eight years. Had four calves." He pauses. "The sutures were terrible. They were crooked and too far apart and I think I used the wrong kind of thread. But the cow lived."
You're smiling now. You can't help it. "Why are you telling me this?"
He shrugs. "I thought you should know where I started."
"In a barn. With a cow."
He turns off the tap. "Everyone's got to start somewhere."
"Most people start on fruit. Or cadavers."
He considers this for a moment. "The cow was warmer."
You laugh. It comes out before you can stop it. A surprised, genuine sound that fills the quiet bay, and Whitaker looks at you with an expression you can't quite read. Pleased, maybe. It makes you almost want to take off in the other direction.
"We should check on the patient," you say instead.
"We just checked on her."
"Then we should check again."
He doesn't argue. But as you're walking out of the bay, he says, "You know, you're not as hard to read as you think you are."
You don't turn around. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I know," he says. "That's what I mean."
ㅤ The ER is a living, breathing animal, one that gets angry from time to time.
A grinding, full-capacity fury that fills every bed and spills into the waiting room and keeps the ambulance bay doors opening and closing like a set of lungs that can't catch their breath. Someone's pager has been going off for three minutes and no one has answered it. Dana's voice cuts through the noise like a blade: "Figure it out later. I need someone in Bay Six. Now."
Princess is in triage, and she's moving. A kid with a fever of a hundred and four, limp in his mother's arms. She gets the history in thirty seconds and sends them straight back to peds. A man clutching his chest, his wife white-knuckled beside him. She waves over a transporter before he's finished describing the pain. A woman who doesn't speak English, her eyes wide and frantic, pointing to her stomach, her throat, her head in a sequence that seems random until Princess catches the look on her face and switches to Tagalog without missing a beat.
"Saan ang masakit?"
The woman's eyes well up with relief. Filipina, in Pittsburgh three weeks. Her son is in the waiting room. Princess gets the full history in under a minute: gallbladder, probably, the pain radiating to her right shoulder, worse after eating. She marks her chart, and sends her to Bay Two.
In Bay Three, Perlah is with an elderly woman who came in dehydrated and confused. The woman is small under the hospital blanket, her eyes darting around the room. Perlah has a line in, fluids running wide, and she's talking in a low, steady voice while she checks the sats. Her hands move with automatic precision.
"Mrs. Anders, you're at the hospital. You're safe. We're giving you fluids. You're going to feel better soon."
The woman's daughter is in the chair beside the bed. She's asked the same question three times. Is she going to be okay? Perlah answers it three times without her voice changing. "She's going to be fine. She just needs fluids. A few hours on this drip and she'll be much better."
The daughter nods, not convinced. Perlah squeezes her shoulder and slips out of the bay. She's heading toward the nurses' station when McKay emerges from Bay Four with an empty IV bag and a suture kit.
"Santos just paged Ellis for a consult," McKay says, falling into step. "Chest tube in Bay One."
"That's the third time this week. Different patient each time."
McKay hums in response. "The post-op went to surgery on Monday. The lac repair went home Tuesday. Now there's a chest tube." She drops the empty bag in the bin. "So has anyone put Ellis on the line yet?"
"Ahmad added her last week," Perlah says. "Twenty to one."
"Twenty to one." McKay considers this.
They reach the nurses' station. Princess is already there, catching her breath between triage calls, candy-cane earrings glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"Festive," McKay says. "I like them."
Princess touches one earring lightly. "Thanks,”
McKay leans against the counter. "Twenty to one on Ellis. You get in early?"
"Before Ahmad even capped the Sharpie."
"And what's the over-under on the other two?"
"Whitaker and Y/LN?" Princess tilts her head. "No official line yet. Ahmad hasn't opened a grid for them."
"That's an oversight."
"That's what I said."
Mohan rounds the corner from Central Four, a patient file in one hand, her reading glasses on. She's scanning the corridor with the particular focus of someone looking for a specific person in a crowd. "Has anyone seen Whitaker? I need to hand off the labs for his post-op in Six before I go off service. Oh wait. There he is."
The others follow her line of sight. Across the floor, near the central desk, Whitaker is leaning against the counter, his shoulder almost touching yours. He's holding a coffee in one hand, a chart in the other, and he's saying something to you. Low, close, his head tilted toward yours. You're looking up at him, your chart forgotten on the desk.
Mohan is still watching, the file forgotten against her chest. "How long has that been going on?"
"Since the start of the month."
“Ah, young love.” McKay’s fingertips drum against the counter like a little song of goodbye. "Anyways, I need to get to Bay Four. But someone should tell Ahmad to open a second grid. He's leaving money on the table.” Princess's earrings jingle, as if in agreement, as she drifts towards Triage. Mohan and Perlah smirk at each other. They collectively glance toward Bay One, where Ellis and Santos are behind the curtain, and then toward the central desk, where Whitaker is still standing beside you. ㅤ
ㅤ Your next case with Whitaker is a man in his sixties, bowel obstruction, writhing on the gurney. The NG tube won't go down. You've tried three times now, and every time you get close, the patient gags and the tube curls back on itself. Your hands are steady but your jaw is tight, the muscles in your neck starting to ache from the tension.
Whitaker steps in. He doesn't take over. He doesn't push you aside or reach for the tube. He just moves to the head of the bed and puts his hand on the patient's shoulder.
"Mr. Reyes." His voice is low and steady, the same voice he used during the crash. "I know it's uncomfortable. We're almost there. I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That's it."
The patient's eyes are wild, darting between you and Whitaker, but he's listening. His breathing starts to slow. His hands, which have been gripping the rails of the gurney, unclench slightly.
"There you go," Whitaker says. "You're doing great. Now I need you to swallow for me. Just one swallow. Can you do that?"
The patient swallows. The tube slides in. You tape it down, check the placement, step back. Whitaker keeps his hand on the man's shoulder for another moment, murmuring something too low to hear, and then he steps away.
Out in the corridor, you lean against the wall and let your head fall back. "You're good at that," you say.
"NG tubes?"
"At talking to people. Calming them down."
He shrugs and leans against the wall beside you, his shoulder not quite touching yours. "My dad was the same way. With the animals. If you're calm, they're calm. It works on people, too. Most of the time."
You don't answer. You're thinking about his voice. You're thinking about the way his hand looked on the patient's shoulder. You're thinking about a lot of things you're not going to say out loud.
"You were fine in there," he continues. "He was just scared. Sometimes they need someone to talk to them."
"You talked to him. I just shoved a tube down his nose."
"That's a skill too." He's smiling now. "You're good at the tube part. I'm good at the talking part. We make a good team."
You turn your head to respond. With what, you're not sure, and realize he's closer than you thought. His shoulder is almost touching yours. His face is inches away. He's looking at you with an expression you've never seen on him before, or maybe you have, maybe you've been seeing it for weeks and refusing to name it.
Down the hall, the break room door opens. Santos and Ellis walk out together, coffees in hand, their shoulders brushing. They don't see you. They don't see anyone. They're talking, their heads bent close, and Santos is almost smiling.
The corridor is quiet for a moment after they disappear around the corner. The break room door swings shut behind them with a soft pneumatic hiss, and then it's just you and Whitaker.
He follows your gaze. "Ellis has been orbiting Santos every day this week," he notes. "Sometimes twice. It’s like clockwork."
"I noticed."
He shifts beside you. "Did you have something to do with that?"
"I may have gently helped things along, but no, this is all them."
"Wow." He chuckles, and lets the word hang there for a moment. "That's good. It's all coming together."
You're still looking at the spot where they disappeared. You think about the way Ellis had said gardening that day, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You remove the dead stuff. You let the healthy stuff grow.
"Think they'll toast us at their wedding ceremony?" you say, still watching the empty corridor.
Whitaker laughs his quiet laugh at that. When you turn your head, he's already looking at you. "For betting on them? No. I’m thinking something bigger." he says. "They’ll be so grateful, they’ll name their children after us."
"First and middle."
"First and middle. Little Baby Y/N Dennis Santos-Ellis."
"That's a terrible name."
"It's a beautiful name. Rolls right off the tongue."
"It's four names. It doesn't roll. It limps."
He grins, and the grin stays on his face a beat longer than the joke needs, and you realize you're both still leaning against the wall, neither of you moving.
"I should.." you start.
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."
Neither of you moves.
Then a nurse calls his name from Central Six, and he pushes off the wall with a small, reluctant exhale. ㅤ
TO BE CONTINUED!
