Chapter Text
It takes all of Dennis's strength not to smash the pan into the wall - all his strength and the urgent reminder that, if Trinity kicks him out, he's got nowhere to go but a temporarily abandoned hospital room.
"Eggs are too expensive right now for you to be wasting them like that," Trinity's voice comes from behind him, "That's three counting the one you smashed on the floor a second ago."
Forget the wall, he thinks as he grips the pan's handle, he's going to take the metal right into her head. He half throws, half sets the pan down in the sink, burnt eggs and all - he's the one that will do the dishes later anyways, so it doesn't matter. He's barefoot, so he can feel the still sticky part of the floor where an egg fell after slipping from his hands a few minutes ago, and he didn't have the patience to do much more than take a wet cloth to the spot - wich took long enough for the rest of the eggs he had sucessfully cracked in the pan to burn in the insanely high heat he had set the stove at for some fucking reason.
He sighs, runs his hands through his hair in hopes it will rearrange his brain cells and make this brain fog go away.
"You okay, Huckleberry?" Trinity says, more mockery than concern but he doesn't answer, too busy checking the counter and then the cupboards.
"You've gotta be kidding me," He mutters, louder than he means to, "We're out of eggs."
"Damm, I wonder how that happened."
He finally turns around, facing Trinity sitting at the kitcken table. She's already in her scrubs, hair tied and face glowing and he feels dirty just from looking at her. He's usually showered and dressed before starting breakfast and then, by the time he has everything ready and plated, Trinity will join him in the kitchen so they can eat and leave for the Pitt together. But whatever has got him dropping eggs on the floor and burning simple breakfast foods also got him wanting to switch up his morning routine, so he's wearing pajamas in a empty stomach and with his face still stiff from sleep.
"I'm sorry," He says, because he really is, "I can still make you some toast if you want it"
She opens her mouth and he can tell she wants to say something funny, slightly cruel and painfully honest but maybe he looks even worse than he feels because it doesn't come out.
"Why don't you shower and change," She geabs her phone from her pocket and checks the screen, "and we can pick up something on the way and not be late, okay?"
It's been three weeks since he's moved in - or since "she took him in as a rescue", as Trinity likes to put it - and he's familiar enough with her to know this is the closest he'll get to a caring gesture. He nods, muttering a mixture of "thanks" and "sorry" and making his way to his bedroom. Something in him wants to curl up in the bed and not go to work never again, but he drags himself up the stairs with the dettached resolution of a dammed man and tells himself that, no matter how bad the day gets, surely it can't be worse than his first day at the Pitt.
It doesn't do much but it gets him into the shower, at least.
...
It's going to be a terrible day, Whitaker is sure of it. Even if somehow the ER is fully empty and they bring in a box full of puppies for him to play with, he just knows the day will suck. There's something wrong with his head, the annoying kind of something that isn't dignified enough to be a proper headache - it's just this fog wrapped around his thoughts. He feels tired and there's this subtle pain in his stomach that was definitely not there when he went to sleep last night, and everything is so loud and it's so hot and he feels so itchy. His scrubs feel like sandpaper glued to his arms and when they pass through this big fountain in a park, Whitaker wants to tell Trinity to just drop him off there so he can lay in the hopefully cool water and desintegrate. But he doesn't, and suddenly he's bursting through the ER doors and the people are louder than they've ever been and Whitaker wants to die.
"You sure you're okay?" Trinity asks as they enter, "You're acting weird - well, weirder than usual."
"Well, you're as lovely as you've ever been, Trinity." He answers, "I'm fine, just having a bad day, I guess."
"Well, try not to kill anyone," She smiles, "Again."
"Try not to stab anyone in the foot. Again."
He's glad he got to deliver a good line, because their conversation is then cut short by the sound of a gurney being rolled in through the entrance, paramedics on both sides. Behind, he can see more following and all he picks up is "car crash" and "family" before the familiar movement starts and takes him to one of the trauma rooms, following Dr. Robby's call. He glances at the clock, even though he's fuly aware he has just arrived, and he can see all the hours left on this shift extended before him like a road of hot coal he has to walk barefoot.
He's not worried about being able to do his job: if you can't handle doing hard things while feeling like absolute shit, you don't make through a single semester of med school. He knows how to ignore the sweat, the tiredness, the ache, all the uncomfortable feelings of having a body and just do what he's supposed to do. He's slower than usual, yeah, and helping transfer the patient (female, middle aged, head trauma, face versus airbag) is more taxing than usual on his arms and back but he does it.
At some point, Dr. Robby asks him something and he anwers something back and it's all so quick and it's like a different part of him is doing the job, thinking of possible explanations and solutions and putting his hands where they're supposed to go.
It's a simple case: bloody, messy but simple and the woman is stable after a bit less than a hour and he feels a hand on his shoulder, a small pressure and Dr. Robby's voice saying "Good job, Whitaker" and he's not even sure what it is that he did, but apparently he did it right. His body is so stiff today, so clammy, and it feels like the hand leaves a indent on his shoulder, like he can still feel it's weight there and for a small second he's worried that he's sweaty and dirty and that Dr. Robby can feel it in his hand from that simple touch. In a good day, the compliment would keep him warm for a while, would make him feel lighter and more confident and pleased. But today is just not a good day, and the thrill of it washes away too quickly.
The good feeling goes away, but the touch sticks to him in such a way that he's almost surprised to see that Dr. Robby is no longer behind him when he turns around a few seconds later.
...
It takes him a embarrassingly long amount of time to understand what's going on. In his defense, it doesn't happen regularly, even though he tries to keep himself prepared as if it does. The signs were there, of course: the tiredness, the pain, the way he had been bickering more with Santos for the past day or two, the way the sandwich he got on the way here settled heavy on his stomach - but it has been about two months since the last time and he got too comfortable. So comfortable in fact that he doesn't understand until he's standing over an elderly woman with a huge gash in her leg that needs sutures, trying to concentrate on what he's doing while listening to her go on and on about her late husband and - God, have the lights on the ER always been this bright? You have to be able to see, yes, but his eyes are so dry and his head is pounding and-
"Hey, Whitaker?"
Dr. McKay is standing next to him, awfully close and speaking in a really quiet voice, and he's embarrassed he didn't see her coming. He acknowledges her, throws a smile at Mrs. Lee so she's not offended from having her monologue interrupted and tries to finish his sutures quickly.
"I'm just finishing this up and I will move to another patient." He explains, "Sorry if it's taking too long"
"No, no, that's okay - listen, I think the back of your pants got dirty with something? Maybe from the car crash woman earlier, I don't know, but you sat on this chair right here and it left a stain"
Maybe she's just so sure of her explanation that it sounds convincing or maybe this life in the big city where nobody knew him before transitioning has left him too delusional, because for a second he, like McKay, can think of no explanation for his pants being stained like that other than a patient's blood having somehow made it's way to the back of his pants. How that would work he's not sure, but for a second it feels logical until, of course, it doesn't - until the pain in his stomach is suddenly not in his stomach at all, but lower and sharper and way more familiar and there's a clip playing in his head of all the times he's complained about the heat and the lights and the noise and literally everything because not only has this been a really bad day, but the last two or three days were also not great. And he looks at the chair behind him as if he needs any confirmation that, yeah, it's stained with blood and thanks Dr. McKay and finishes his stitches and talks to Mrs. Lee a bit more and finally, finally leaves. He goes to his locker - he knows he won't find any tampons in there, but he looks anyway, checks the pockets of his backpack twice and nothing.
He runs trough his options. There's no tampon machine outside of the women's bathrooms. He could check the supply room but he's almost sure they don't carry tampons and pads in the ER, maybe he could get a incontinence pad but how uncomfortable would that be and he would have to ask someone for it and that's not going to happen - but he couldn't go through an entire shift free bleeding or using toilet paper and-
Trinity.
Her name feels like an anchor, like a hail Mary, he doesn't think anyone has ever felt such peace associated with that woman ever. He needs to find Trinity - if she doesn't have tampons in her locker, she can get him some from the women's bathroom or from someone else in the ER. Simple, quick, doesn't involve him outing himself to anyone.
He thanks God or whoever is responsible for doctors' scrubs being so dark as he cruises around the ER trying to find her. He checks a few trauma rooms, asks a few nurses, stops and looks around as if he could've missed her. He tries to keep calm but he needs to be fast, can't be seen waltzing around while patients wait to be seen (it's a busy day, because it's always a busy day here) and he's now so conscious of the wetness in his pants and are the scrubs even that dark? Maybe everyone can see already and he thinks that may be the reason he quits, even after surviving a mass casualty event in his first shift.
It's Matteo that finally has an answer for him: last he saw Trinity, she was following Garcia to help with a procedure. Is it going to take long? He doesn't know. Did she look excited? "Yes," He says, "really excited.'
That means it's a nasty procedure, wich means time.
He's not even sure he thanks him before walking away, too busy working through his options. He knows, realistically, that most people here - if not all - wouldn't have a problem with him being trans. He could ask Dana or Javari or McKay or anyone else and it would be fine because he works with these people every day and they're amazing.
But, a voice in his head says, you lived with your family for years before telling them and how did they react?
And that's how he finds himself walking to the supply room. He won't ask anyone, he can't. He can't risk one of these nice, great, brave people he sees every day turn into something dangerous right before his eyes, he can't risk losing them as he lost his family.
The room is empty. He's not sure how to navigate it, actually, but there's clear enough labeling. There's no actual tampons or menstrual pads and he's considering his options when he hears the door open.
"Whitaker?"
The voice sends a small chill through his spine that, he convinces himself, comes from being caught.
"Dr. Robby, hi! Nice to see you here."
He wants to hit his head against the wall.
Repeatedly.
Dr. Robby smiles, because he's nice like that, trying to make Whitaker feel less stupid. A silence settles on the room, the kind of silence that makes it clear he's supposed to be the one to speak again, but he has nothing to say.
It's an easy situation to navigate, really: grab literally anything, say he needs it for a patient and didn't want to bother anyone and hey, he should get to know the supply room, right? And if it was anyone but Dr. Robby the words would come out easily but the man makes him so nervous and he needs to set time aside to figure out why.
"You looking for something?"
"Um, yeah- I," Why can't he name a single medical supply? , "I need... pads. Cotton pads."
"For what?"
Whitaker lets out a noise, a mixture between a sigh and a whine and he knows he's done for. He didn't even do anything wrong but it feels like he did, because Dr. Robby is wasting time in here, looking at Whitaker being dumb instead of working. And the worst part is that he doesnt say anything, doesn't lift an eyebrow or clears his throat to say "hurry up and stop wasting my time". He just waits for Whitaker to opens his mouth and say something stupid again.
So he gives up.
"I need a tampon," Whitaker says, "A pad will do it but a tampon would be much better and it's 2025 and this is an ER so they really should be available outside of the women's bathroom."
"Is this for a patient?", Dr. Robby's voice has a tinge of confusion under it, but it's calm. Too calm, like he's trying to calm Whitaker down, "You can just ask a female doctor or nurse and they will take care of it."
He thinks his left eye is twitching a bit now. Dr. Robby's voice has the soothing tone of someone with both their hands up in a "settle down" motion, even though his are in his pockets.
The man looks calm and put together and handsome and Whitaker wants to bang both their heads into a wall. And he knows he has an out here, he could just agree and go away and ask Dana for a tampon for a patient and run to the bathroom and face the fucking scrub machine again but why is everything so fucking hard?
He rubs his face in his hands, takes a deep breath and God, his skin feels so gross - is this how it always feels like? Is he just walking around like this all he time? He's disgusting.
"Whitaker?" Robby's voice sounds closer now, "Talk to me."
"I just need a tampon," He closes, no, squeezes his eyes closed trying to hide from the light, "Just one."
"Okay, tell me the patient's room and I'll get a nurse to-"
"Oh my God, there's no fucking patient!"
Silence again, heavier this time. Dr. Robby has his eyebrows up in that questioning look that just makes you wanna tell him whatever it is he wants to know and Whitaker doesn't even consider fighting it.
"It's for me. The tampon is for me," He sighs, "And, yeah, i could've asked a nurse or a doctor but I shouldn't have to stop someone from their job just to ask for that and, yeah, I could've told them it was for a patient but what happens if they ask what patient it is so they can take it themselves? And then i have to, what, come out to that person so i can get a single tampon?"
His voice is getting rushed, louder. He's miles away from screaming but Dr. Robby is closer now and his voice is too loud.
He doesn't stop.
"I mean, this is a hospital! How hard is it to have a tampon dispenser on the wall anywhere outside of the women's bathroom? I feel like it was easier for Dr. Langdon to steal meds than it is for me to get a basic hygiene item! It was easier to get them at the homeless shelter, for God's sake, and they barely have any to give!"
The final words come out with a deep intake of air. He looks at the wall then the floor and his eyes stay there because he doesn't want to look at Dr. Robby's face. The pain in his head was expelled along with the frustration and and he's calmer now but also extremely embarrassed.
"I shouldn't have mentioned Langdon." He almost whispers and his head doesn't move, "And I mean, uh, unhoused. Not homeless. Sorry."
Whitaker is good at owning up to his mistakes. He whishes he didn't have to do it this often but he's good at it, at least.
Dr. Robby leaves. He thinks maybe he hears some sound coming from him, some attempt at saying something, but it doesn't actually happen - he watches as his feet go through the door and then the door closes and he's alone.
...
It's Nurse Kim that finds him, a few minutes later, when he's already made do with some wound pads from the supply room, changed his scrubs and is back to the main desk, trying to choose a patient. She spots him across the floor, smiles and walks over to him, hand going to her pocket.
"Dr. Robby said one of your patients needed one. You want me to give it to her?"
The wrapper in her hand is light pink and has a star pattern on it, like the kind you would give to tween girls so it's less threatening.
"No, I have to go check up on her anyways." He smiles, "Thanks."
He's not even surprised at how easily Trinity sneaks up on him, her voice registering behind him as soon as Kim leaves his sight.
"You trying a new method to stop bleedings, Huckleberry?" She points to the tampon, "If we have another shooting and we run out of bandages, it'll come in handy."
"Can we stop by the drug store on the way home?" He puts it in his pocket, "I need to pick up a box. Do you have one of those heated pads? My cramps usually get worse at the end of the first day."
When he turns around, Trinity is looking at him with that contained faced expression she has that means you surprised her a little. She tilts her head, opens her mouth, closes it up again.
And that's when the realization sets in and surely it can't be because he's absolutely sure he - and no, no, he didn't, because they went from co-workers to frenemies to roommates to best friends (?) so easily that he just assumed he told her or she realized it, but-
Trinity.
Doesn't.
Know.
He actually laughs at that, a short, strangled thing that pulls the corners of Trinity's mouth just a tiny bit up like she doesn't know enough to feel comfortable laughing yet.
"Can we," He sighs "can we just talk when we get home?"
She nods, after a second. A movement starts on one of the trauma rooms and they both know they need to move on, that this moment can't stretch itself any longer.
"You don't need to tell me anything, but, yeah, we can talk. Later. If you want."
"Okay. Thanks."
And, because Trinity is Trinity, she doesn't stop there.
"Is that why you're being bitchy all day?" She grins, already stepping away, "Because that's such a tired stereotype."
"Go away, I'm begging you."
She goes. And Whitaker is just starting to freak out about the fact that the first person he came out to in Pittsburgh was Dr. Robby out of all people when another gurney rolls trough and he realizes he needs to get this thing in quickly and get back to work.
He glances at the clock on his way in and it's no less frustrating than the last time he did it.
He really should've stayed in bed.