Chapter Text
Dennis thinks it might be for the best that he just die already. In fact, staying this long has just been pushing his luck. What is there to lose? His spot by the overpass? The sandwiches he steals from work because he can't afford dinner? His job?
He can't afford his pills anymore and didn't have the foresight to wean himself off them. Quitting cold-turkey makes him feel like an addict, shaky and nervous. People are starting to notice; he can tell by the hushed voices and glances his way. He knows he looks like shit—he can't sleep for the life of him, and he vomits practically every time he eats. Moving is difficult because he's so fucking lightheaded all the time. So, it's only a matter of time before he loses his internship.
An ache rooted deep in his chest makes its presence known, thinking about all this having been for nothing—worse than nothing, even. It's been two weeks since his first shift. Two weeks since Pittfest; two weeks since Santos found him on the eighth floor, and he declined her offer to stay in her spare room; two weeks of sleeping outside and in shelters again.
Something like pity had played on her face at the sight of him, dancing shirtless. He rarely sees that look now, even when she's with patients, and wonders if there's something uniquely pathetic about him. They haven't talked about it, and she still calls him Huckleberry, despite his protests, but he can tell she's thinking about something every time they talk. Sometimes, he catches her watching him, only to quickly avert her gaze when she realizes that he's caught her.
Everything comes crashing down when he fucks up a simple intubation, causing the patient to code. His head won't stop pounding, and he can barely make out the yelling all around him. He hears the monitors beep, BP tanking and heart stopping. She makes it, no thanks to Dennis, but Dr. Robby pulls him aside afterward with a rough hand on his shoulder.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" He's angry, there's no mistaking his tone. Dennis shrinks in on himself, fighting to stay present in what feels like a scene taken from his memories.
"I'm sorry, I don't…" He trails off. His hands won't stop shaking, and he feels like throwing up.
Robby backs him up against a wall. "Are you on something?" When Dennis doesn't answer, Robby grabs his wrist hard enough for it to ache. "Are you fucking taking something?!"
"No!" Dennis rushes out. "I'm not on drugs, Dr. Robby, I swear! You can test me and everything."
Robby sighs, letting go of Dennis's wrist and stepping back. "You show up like this one more time, and you're out. Understood?" Dennis nods so hard he thinks his neck might snap, even though he knows it's an impossible promise to keep. "Go home."
He doesn't go home. There is no home, and he doesn't feel like going back to the overpass. Everything is fucked, and he thinks it must be punishment for all the bad things he's done in his life. For thinking he could be something bigger than his lot in life; for liking men; for not helping out enough at home; for not being like his brothers. All that bad has just been piling up his entire life, now ready to topple him once and for all.
If he would've just toughed it out and never gotten on those pills, he wouldn't be in this position in the first place. His father would say it's what he deserves for taking the easy way out—for being weak.
Dennis ends up on the rooftop. It's a bit chilly in just his scrubs, late September wind cutting through the fabric. Going down to the lockers isn't an option, so he'll just have to freeze. He does that a lot these days, which he attributes to the weight loss. Occasionally, he catches a glimpse of himself and is taken aback by how terrible he looks, sharp and bony.
He climbs over the safety railing to sit on the edge of the building, feet dangling in the open air. This time he really messed everything up. If he weren't here, that patient wouldn't have nearly died. The thought stings him over and over, like the nettles his brothers used to shove inside his clothes when they were younger.
Nebraska feels impossibly far away, like a different life. It was, in a sense. Closeted theology student farm boy Dennis is far from the student doctor mentally preparing to jump off a building in Pittsburgh. First in his family to go to college, twice for that matter, and for what? To be homeless—unhoused—on the brink of losing his internship because he can't afford his antidepressants anymore.
It's all a sick fucking joke that no one is laughing at. Maybe his parents are, and maybe his brothers and nieces and nephews, because he thought he could break free from them. It's becoming abundantly clear that isn't possible. He feels it in his body, past the nausea and pounding of his head, the burning of old scars all over his skin.
Dennis clasps his hands together, bowing his head. He asks God for forgiveness for what he's about to do, and for not praying as often as he should—for not going to church and for sleeping with men to not freeze to death in the winter.
"Whitaker?" He startles so hard he nearly falls off the edge. It's Robby. "What are you doing here?"
"Just sitting."
"How about you scoot back a little? Sit behind the railing instead. It's there for a reason, you know." There's something careful in his voice. Dennis hates that. Robby should still be angry with him; he should be screaming and cursing.
"No, I'll—I'll be done soon. You can go back down, and I'll be out of your way when you come back." Dennis's voice shakes a little. He doesn't look back at Robby because he doesn't want to see the expression on his face. Disappointment, anger, frustration. They'll all be etched into his handsome face, and he doesn't want that to be the last thing he sees, even if he deserves it.
"I'm not leaving you here," Robby says, firm.
"It's fine, Dr. Robby. I promise it's fine. This is for the best."
"Because you fucked up an intubation? You deserve to die for that?" Robby scoffs. "Get back here."
He feels like a kid being told off. When he was nine, he ran away to the woods and stayed there almost an entire night. His father had said those exact words—Get back here—upon finding him. Dennis clenches his eyes shut at the memory, back tingling.
"It's not just that," he says. Everything on the street looks so small from here.
"Because I yelled at you, then? I've reprimanded you before. It's part of being a student." He hears Robby step up to the railing and lean against it.
"It's not about today! It's not about anything you did or something someone else did. It just… is." Frustrated tears burn in his eyes, and he makes the mistake of looking back at Robby. He's frowning, brows knit, and there's a look in his eyes that Dennis can't decipher. "It's everything; it's nothing. It doesn't matter. Please, just leave."
"I'm not leaving, kid." Being called that always makes Dennis feel a bit embarrassed, mostly because he likes it so much. "Tell me about everything and nothing. Shift's over. I have nowhere to be."
Oh. He hadn't realized it had been that long since he came up here.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Robby sighs. "We either talk or I call someone."
It's an empty threat. "They won't make it in time," Dennis mumbles.
"Jack's working. He likes you—you don't want to do this to him, right?" He takes a deep breath, like he's hesitating. "That's what he and I always tell each other. Can't die during each other's shifts. How about you join in on that?"
"You…?"
"You think you're the only one who's been on that side of the railing?" Robby lets out an empty laugh. "This job eats at you, and it's not as easy to live with as I make it sound during those speeches. If you've got other shit going on too, then yeah, it fucks you up." He jumps over the railing and sits down with his back to it.
"I'm having withdrawals," Dennis says quietly, staring at the darkening sky. "That's why I've been fucking up."
The air goes tense. "From what?" There's an edge to his tone.
"Effexor. I'm not an addict, I just… can't afford the pills."
"There are programs—"
"Fuck the programs! I don't—I don't need help. I'm not weak."
"And killing yourself because the weight's too heavy to carry makes you fucking strong?" Robby snaps. "Stop thinking like yourself and think like a doctor. You'd tell a patient to use the programs, so use them yourself."
"Yeah? Like you're getting help?" Dennis knows it's cruel, but he's just fucking done with everything.
"I'm not the one about to jump off a building."
Dennis sighs. He shuffles back until he hits the railing, closing his eyes. He's so tired, and it's getting late; the shelters probably don't have any spots left. There's that feeling in the air like it's going to rain, and it makes him feel lost. Maybe he can find someone to hook up with. He doesn't think he has it in him to spend another night outside in the rain.
Thinking about it, it shouldn't come as a surprise to him that Robby has issues of his own. Perhaps he's been too busy feeling bad for himself, deciding to believe the facade that Robby tries so hard to maintain, despite seeing the cracks in it on his very first day. It's all a bit blurry, that day, but he remembers the moment in pedes with startling clarity.
He felt small and helpless then, covered in blood with sweat clinging to his skin, and there was Robby, this seemingly unbreakable man he'd known for less than a day, shattering right in front of him. For a moment it felt like seeing into the future, like this is all there will ever be for him. The slow unspooling of a thread. There's only so much you can give before it becomes too much. Dennis wonders how much of Robby there is left.
"You can go," Dennis says. "I'm not gonna jump."
Robby chuckles, tired. He tilts his head back, closing his eyes for a moment before glancing over at Dennis. "How about I drive you home?"
"I'm fine taking the bus. You don't need to drive me." Dennis's heart rate picks up. What the fuck is he supposed to say? He doesn't have anywhere Robby can drive him.
"I know I don't need to. I figured you'd know that I don't do shit I don't want to by now." He sighs. "Just let me do this for my own peace of mind."
"I live far away," Dennis tries, but Robby looks unimpressed. It makes him flush a little, the small raise of Robby's brows.
"I don't care. Come on now, before you get hypothermic."
His mind races, because if he keeps insisting, Robby will suspect something. He combs through different addresses before he lands on Trinity's. He's been over once and knows the door to her building doesn't lock, so he could walk in and wait for Robby to drive away.
"Fine," he says. Standing up sends pain down his cold legs, but he bites down the curse that wants to slip out.
The drive is awkward, and Dennis can't stop bouncing his leg. He's scared of being caught in the lie, and of Trinity being there when he walks inside the building to hide. He's not sure what he would do if that happened.
God fucking damn it, he can't even kill himself properly.
"You okay?" Robby's voice is quieter in private than at work. He keeps his eyes on the road, which Dennis likes. Once, when he was a kid, one of his friends got into a car accident and died because his family refused to let doctors hook him up to machines. It's one of those moments that made him want to be a doctor, because maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to convince his friend's parents.
The attitude toward doctors ranged in Broken Bow, with some seeing them as servants carrying out God's will, and others calling it a sin to interfere with God's plans. Dennis's family was somewhere in the middle. They saw the good in casts for broken bones or stitches for cuts, but long-term medicine use or vaccines or pacemakers were a step too far.
They took his getting into med-school almost as bad as him being gay, spitting verses at him until they were red in the face. His father beat him with his belt, mostly because of the gay thing, but also for wanting to leave. It's been years since they last spoke.
"Whitaker?"
"Huh? Yeah, yeah, I'm good."
When the car comes to a stop, Robby says, "I better see you at work tomorrow. I know where you live now."
Part of Dennis glows inside at the implication of care, even if he knows deep down that it's professional concern. Robby doesn't actually give a shit about him, but he has to say that because he found Dennis on the roof.
"I'll be there. Thanks for the ride."
He walks inside the apartment building, praying that he won't run into Trinity, and then he waits. Counting the seconds in the resonance chamber that is his head (1, 2, 3, 4) the way he did when his father yelled or his brothers hit him, time passes as if suspended in the air (10, 11, 12, 13). He got good at counting, if one can call that a skill; counting to sixty over and over again and keeping track of all those sixties. Sometimes those sixties became their own sixty, and then he could count the hours, too.
Dennis waits for ten sixties just to be sure that Robby's long gone before heading out. Rain hangs in the air now, thick and heavy to breathe. That unbearable pounding returns to his head, accompanied by nausea. It's hard to tell whether it's from hunger or withdrawals these days, and catching a ride with Robby ensured that he couldn't grab another sandwich on his way out.
He feels like he should know how long the withdrawals are going to last for, being almost done with med-school and all, but it feels like they're never ending. It's been about a week since he took his last pill, so he most likely has another week of hell until his body adjusts. Maybe he'll drop dead before then. It'd save him the effort of going back up on the roof.
When the rain finally falls, Dennis fishes his phone out of his pocket with a sigh, opening Grindr and resigning himself to the fact that he'll have to sleep with a stranger to stay out of the rain. It's a strange feeling, because he doesn't really want to have sex, and hasn't in quite a while, but he has no better option. In a sense he's a bit like a prostitute, except that he makes no money.
He checks his messages, finding a couple from guys he hasn't hooked up with before—he doesn't see the same person twice, ever.
Can you host, he types to the one that seems most appealing. A man in his mid-forties, whose pictures show off a set of broad shoulders and a chest smattered with salt-and-pepper hair. Dennis tries his best to ignore the obvious, why he's so drawn to this man in particular.
Sure, the man types.
I'll be there in 30