Pitt Whump Week 2026

May 9: "Open your eyes" - In his intern year, Frank is attacked in the hospital and it's made worse because of his hemophilia.

#PITTWHUMPWEEK2026 @pittwhumpweek Day 7 prompt - All Alone - 2,271 words

FIC COLLECTION TITLE: Suicide Machines Written by @akathecentimetre, art by @agarthanlaboratory Pairings: Rabbot, explicit / developing / implied

Excerpt, Day 7: "I can't watch this," someone else says, sounding sick.  "Ahmad?" Robby forces out. "No can do," comes the response, choked up. "I'm sorry, Dr. Robby, you know I can't - " "Where are the goddamn cops?" Dana yells, to anyone. Robby thinks the shot has hit Jack in the shoulder, perhaps from the back; he is holding his left arm awkwardly, fist folded up into his sternum. To his other side, suddenly, he slams his hand flat onto the glass, his thumb tucked in, four fingers extended.  Four. Robby's mind races, because Jack Abbot doesn't move a muscle without intent. Four? Four bullets left, a nasty whisper says in the back of his head.

@pittwhumpweek

"My trauma counselor told me to come here."

God this was all so stupid. Trinity couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, I know. Fuck."

She was waiting. She was waiting like someone was going to talk back to her.

"It's stupid. All of it is stupid," Trinity sneered. She couldn't fucking take it. Being here. Now. She'd never actually visited the grave before. She'd been offered to a million fucking times but what was the point?

It's a patch of dirt.

It's not even somber, respectful. The sun is fucking hot today and late spring is bursting with the sound of birds and gentle breeze. Light glints off the bouquet in her hands. It's practically picnic weather.

"I'm supposed to get closure, so I can start moving on.

Ya know, for the longest time, I didn't give a shit about moving on. There was nothing to move to. I didn't want a new best friend. I didn't want to stop thinking about you." Trinity feels the all familiar panic rising up in her blood, then she breathes though it. They've been having her practice that a lot.

"I've met. Uh. Some people. They're... They're nice actually. They make me want to be nice. Turns out I'm really fucking bad at that. Who would've figured?"

The silence carries the answer. You. You knew me.

"I'm a doctor now. You never even knew I wanted to be one. It's cooler than being an Olympian, I think. Like, every day matters, not just one week or one competition. It's hard but I really fucking like it..." her voice stalls.

"I don't really know where I'm going with this. Maybe you would've cared... maybe not. Who knows? You're fucking dirt now," she scoffs. She scoffs at herself, her ridiculous therapy assignment. Her vision focuses in on the gaudy granite headstone. It's red, shiny, and topped with a tacky cross at the top. The inscription on it is the kind of thing you write about a 16 year-old girl you don't actually know a fucking thing about.

It's obscene and it reminds Trinity of something: it reminds her that she's really fucking angry.

"You know why it was so fucking hard to move on? No one fucking got it. Everyone thought you were sad and heartbroken. That you just had some-- some deep sadness in you that made you cry all day.

No one wanted to know the fucking truth! Even when we were burying you, we didn't get the fucking truth!" The paper around the bouquet rattled in her hands as she shook. "Everyone just had this incomplete picture of you! Like you were weak or-- or crazy!

Your mom gave this horrible fucking eulogy. 'My happy girl, my little ray of fucking sunshine!' Some 'flower snipped at the stem' and no one knows why! No one can talk about it! No one fucking gets in trouble over it!" Trinity screams. Her throat hurts. It locks up when she's like this; every sound has to be forced out. It makes her think of Langdon. It makes her think of a dingy office in the back of a gym.

"You died and everything suddenly became fake. Nothing was real anymore and everyone was just playing pretend."

Trinity remembers going back to school afterwards. Everyone suddenly cared but only when there was nothing left to do. People only wanted to help when helping didn't mean anything.

"When someone dies, everyone assumes that they were some angel. That they would've lived this beautiful, perfect life if they'd only gotten the fucking chance. I hated when people acted that way about you.

You were messy and angry and beautiful." Trinity's voice cracked but she grit her teeth and forced though it.

"You... You would've achieved whatever you wanted to. Ha! You probably would've fucked up... You would've gone to college. You would've hurt people. You would've travelled! Fuck! You would've fallen in love." She can't help but sob now. A decade of grief spews out of every breath and Trinity doesn't know if there will be anything left when it's gone.

A moment passes. A lifetime.

"We would've gotten to be in love." It's been impossible to say for the last 10 years and now... now Trinity doesn't even know how she carried it around so long. "We would've been in love and been so, so fucking happy. You'd probably have broken my heart too!" It's true, but somehow it makes her happy. "You would've driven me crazy. Hell, you probably would've cheated on me!" No need to be shy, she's speaking to a grave.

"You would've fucking wrecked me. You were so hurt and desperate. I was too. We would've made so many awful mistakes together... I wish you got the chance to."

The wind moved through her, it lifted Trinity off the ground.

"My uh. Boss-- uh. Mentor? Told me to do this so..." Trinity's nail creased lines into the paper wrapping the bouquet. She tried to find courage. Not the courage to steel herself and be impenetrable. She tried to be find the courage to feel something: to let it run its course. The courage Dennis had when he knocked on her door, making amends after a fight. The courage Mel had when she cried during movies, snot running down her face unabashedly.

Deep breath.

"I love you." The sound of bodies tumbling on mats. The giggles of girls having fun after practice. Matching sparkly hair ties worn around their wrists.

"I'm sorry." Missed calls. Ignored texts. The way She would bite her lips bloody when she cried and the way Trinity would cross her arms when she was scared. Words, tumbling out of Trinity's mouth faster than she could catch them; every single one of them instantly regretted.

"I forgive you." A funeral that gave her nightmares. A summer spent in bed. A stack of pictures that became her only lifeline. Instant heartbreak whenever the wrong song came on the radio. The sudden drop in her stomach whenever Trinity smelled mangos. A lifetime spent moving on when all she wanted to do was stay together.

She set the flowers next to the headstone. Petals already wilting in the sun.

Summary: After a night of drunken karaoke, Mel drags Trinity back to her empty apartment. Trinity tries to thank her with a kiss. The Pitt Whump Week Day 7: All Alone

Shorter one today but I put a lot of colorful wordage in here so enjoy.

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Shhhk. Smack. Shhhk. Smack.

Frank could feel the scrape of the sidewalk under the toe of his shoe every time he stepped, but the effort required to lift it up all the way had been left behind in that goddamn alley.

Spilled right there between brick buildings that didn't hear a scream, back on the floor with his pride and far too much blood.

To anyone looking on, if there even was anyone out at this hour, he must look like a creature from a horror flick. Pale, dark footsteps outlining his path, scraped cheekbones catching the moonlight on rough edges. He would smile if he could, see if it bounced off his teeth, too.

See if the light could reach him beyond surface level. Penetrate all the way down to his hand pressed into his own abdomen, the only thing keeping him from spilling out and becoming an impromptu art piece for the morning.

#PITTWHUMPWEEK2026 @pittwhumpweek Day 6 prompt - Oxygen - 1,279 words

FIC COLLECTION TITLE: Suicide Machines Written by @akathecentimetre, art by @agarthanlaboratory Pairings: Rabbot, explicit / developing / implied

Excerpt, Day 6:  A bang on the door. Mateo is there, now with Lena and Ahmad, all of them looking far too concerned for Robby's liking. "Hey!" Mateo yells, his voice muffled. "Five more minutes for the decontamination protocol!" "Uh-huh," Robby sings, giving them two clumsy-feeling thumbs up. He decides to sit down, because there's not much else he feels capable of, and fetches up with his back against the wall, kicking a foot idly at Jack's titanium ankle. "Stop that." "Make me." Jack's returning glare is ever so slightly saner than he looked a few moments previously, which Robby thinks must be a good thing. "You always like this when you're high, Robinavitch?" "Like what?" "A fucking brat," Jack grouses. "You always a fuckin' grumpy old man?" "You know me, forever a sloppy drunk." "I will report this to HR," Lena calls warningly from outside. 

Summary: Despite no one knowing the truth of the matter, rumors and theories still fly at PTMC about the cocky new intern's involvement in the loss of a beloved coworker. Trinity is used to social isolation… but her tendency to deal with it in unhealthy ways can only be made easier by such effortless access to medical grade scalpels. The Pitt Whump Week Day 6: Scalpel

A frustrated patient. People just trying to help. Healthcare worker violence.

What starts as a patient yelling ends with a bruise, an icepack, and a CT scan.

Or

A patient is shouting at Emma. Trinity Santos will not stand for that.

Part 6 of You’re in my Spot

May 7: Sirens - Cassie is in the back of an ambulance with her dad when it crashes

#PITTWHUMPWEEK2026 @pittwhumpweek Day 5 prompt - Unhappy Customer - 1,302 words

FIC COLLECTION TITLE: Suicide Machines Written by @akathecentimetre, art by @agarthanlaboratory Pairings: Rabbot, explicit / developing / implied

Excerpt, Day 5:  Robby dares to twitch one eye open slightly, looking sullenly upwards. "You're no fun." "Right now I'm not, no," Jack says, still in that light, too-polite voice. He turns slightly to the side to pick up a handful of steri-strips. "I wonder why?" Robby squints with his one eye. Over Jack's shoulder, he just about makes out the shoulders of Perlah and Princess turning away in a hurry. Beyond them, Whitaker and Santos are openly watching, hands still on their charting keyboards. Kwon is tapping a pen against her teeth, eyes narrowed like she's committing something very deliberately, rather than passively, to memory. "People're staring," Robby mumbles. "Let 'em." And oh, okay. That's what this is about. Robby would blush, if he wasn't sure it would make his cheeks redder and more blood-filled than they need to be right now - so instead he closes his eye again, takes a deep breath, and lets Jack continue, every brief brush of scrubs or skin against him confidently whispering Mine, mine, mine - 

McRaider Summary: Dennis is sick as hell, and it all comes to a head, and they realize Dennis doubts he’s lovable. A/N: Pitt Whump Week Prompts Day 5, Alt prompts used for this day: Collapsed | “Stop Lying”

              It’s just a headache, Dennis assures himself as another wave of dizziness crashes over him. The floor tilts violently as he shrugs out of his jacket and shoves it into his locker. His hands fumble, uncoordinated, like they belong to someone else entirely. He’s had a headache all morning—and a lingering chill, even now, after being inside for several minutes. Exhaustion tugs at him as he grabs his badge and clips it onto his shirt.

He’s been covering doubles off and on all week. Too many people out sick with the flu or a nasty cold. Winter has taken full control of Pittsburgh, and it feels like everyone is suffering from something—patients and staff alike.

Jack is just starting to recover from a brutal bout of the flu he fought for nearly a week and a half. He’s barely on the mend; his color is still off, his voice rough, and he’s been sleeping whenever he gets the chance. Robby only clocked back in yesterday after a week spent nearly unconscious with fever. At one point, Dennis and Jack were so worried about him that they brought home banana bags and saline, doing everything they could to keep Robby out of the hospital.

“Whitaker, everything alright?” Dana calls as Dennis makes his way toward Central.

Dennis glances up and forces a tired smile. She’d been in early too, helping everyone else juggle the constant call‑offs. “Yeah, just busy,” he says.

It’s true. He’s busy enough to ignore the sweat trickling down his spine, busy enough to ignore the ache in every joint—like he’s been taken apart and put back together wrong.

Busy enough that he doesn’t notice Robby watching him from his desk, eyes tracking his movements with growing unease.

By midday, the headache has morphed into a roaring pressure behind Dennis’s eyes. Every sound grates. Every trauma takes a beat too long to register, like his brain is lagging a step behind his body.

When he stands up from charting, the world lurches. The room sways violently, dimming at the edges as darkness creeps inward. His hand shoots out on instinct, gripping the counter to keep himself upright.

“Dennis?” Robby’s voice sounds distant, distorted. A hand lands on his shoulder, another sliding under his arm.

“I’m fine,” Dennis insists, even as the words come out slurred and hazy.

He takes one more step—and the fever finally takes him.

The world pitches hard. His knees buckled without warning, strength draining out of him like a phone left uncharged for too long. He never even feels himself falling.

Hands catch him before he can hit the floor.

“Dana! Call Jack—shit, he’s burning up!” Robby shouts, panic cutting through his voice as coworkers rush in. Perlah and Donnie sprint over with a gurney. Robby hooks one arm under Dennis’s legs and another behind his back, lifting him carefully before laying the younger man onto the bed.

They push him into trauma two, Robby is tracking his heart, “He’s tachy.” He did a sternum rub as they brought him to a stop, his team began looking Dennis over. “Temp?”

McKay called, “103.5, how is he even up and moving?”

“I mean, he kind of isn’t anymore,” Donnie pointed out, bringing in the ice packs.

Robby ran his knuckles over Dennis’s sternum, “Dennis, I need you to open your eyes,” he called loudly. “Show me those baby blues.”

Blue eyes fluttered open and Robby felt a wash of relief as the feverish, hazy eyes slowly tracked to him. “R’by.”

“Yeah, you collapsed, baby. How long have you been feeling sick?”

Dennis cracks his eyes open. The room swims. “Didn’t… mean to—” His tongue feels thick; words slow to form. “Just tired.”

Robby snorts, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. No shit.” Shaking his head. “Dennis, you have to take care of yourself.”

They get the IV inserted—Dennis hisses weakly as the needle goes in, then barely reacts as cool saline starts flowing. Fluids first. Treat dehydration. Then fever.

“Blood glucose?” McKay called out

“Normal,” Perlah replied.

Good. That at least rules out one thing. Someone swabs his nose, quick and practiced, for a rapid flu test. Another voice calls out orders—acetaminophen, antiemetics on standby. Oxygen cannula under his nose when his sats dip, just briefly, before stabilizing again.

“Flu test is positive,” someone reports several minutes later.

Robby exhales slowly, he’d expected as muc, “Of course it is.”

Dennis hears that, even through the fog. “Told you,” he murmurs faintly. “Everyone’s sick.”

Robby glares at his partner, shaking his head, his hand tightens briefly around Dennis’s wrist, right over the pulse that’s finally starting to slow. “Yeah. Including you,” he says. “And you’re done pretending otherwise. Let’s get him settled into Central Six, ice packs on and off every twenty minutes. If his fever doesn’t start to drop in the next hour, we’ll consider an ice bath.

He steps back, letting Donnie, McKay and Perlah take the gurney away. He strips off his gloves, rubbing the back of his hair in his usual self-soothing fashion. “Fucking idiot kid,” he grumbled, before he strode out into the hub.

“Jack’s on his way, should be here in about ten minutes. How’s the kid?” Dana asked.

“Has the flu, confirmed. He’s running a fever of 103, we’re going to try ice packs for now, if it hasn’t started dropping in thirty minutes, can you get the ice bath started for me?”

She nodded, “Sure thing, Cap. You eaten today?”

He glanced at her, and chuckled, “Yeah, had a hearty chicken soup about thirty minutes before this all started. You mind if I sit with him for a bit, at least until Jack gets here?”

“No problem, we’ve got this covered.”

He moved over to central six, pushing inside, McKay and Donnie had left. Perlah was finalizing everything, making sure Dennis was comfortable and taken care of. “He’s being busting his ass for everyone else, don’t be too angry at him,” Perlah whispered.

“I know, I’m not, not really anyway.” He sighed and took a seat on the stool by Dennis’ beside.

“I’ll come change the ice packs in a bit.”

“Thanks, Perlah.” He watched her step out.

o0o0o

The room won’t stay still. The ceiling swims above Dennis, blurring at the edges like it’s being dragged under water. His skin burns and chills at the same time, heat pooling heavily in his chest while his hands shake against the thin hospital blanket. Somewhere close by, a monitor beeps in a steady rhythm, too loud, too sharp.

Someone is talking. Robby.

Dennis knows that voice even through the fog. He feels it more than he hears it—a presence close to his side, warm fingers wrapped around his wrist like an anchor.

“Hey,” Robby says softly. Too soft. Like Dennis might shatter if he’s not careful. “Stay with me, okay?”

Dennis squints, trying to focus. Robby’s face is wrong—too close, features melting and reforming as the fever messes with his depth perception. He tries to pull his hand away, but his arm feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

Robby tightens his grip just slightly. Not restraining. Just… there.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Robby murmurs. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Dennis breathes out a weak, shaky laugh. Or tries to. It came out wrong. “Didn’t mean to,” he slurs. “Wasn’t—wasn’t worth—”

“Hey,” Robby says, sharper now. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

Dennis turns his head, eyes unfocused but intent. “Why?” he asks quietly. “It’s true.”

Robby swallows. He leans closer, free hand brushing sweaty curls back from Dennis’s forehead. “You’re not expendable, Dennis. You matter. You—” His voice breaks, just a little. “I love you. We love you.”

The words hit wrong. Dennis’s brow furrows, confusion twisting into something sharp and defensive. His heart rate spikes, the monitor reacting before anyone else can. “…stop lying,” Dennis whispers.

Robby freezes. “What?”

Dennis stares at him, glassy‑eyed but suddenly intense. The fever has stripped away whatever filters he usually keeps in place. Whatever soft excuses he tells himself on better days. “You don’t,” Dennis says. His voice wobbles, then steadies with bitter certainty. “You can’t.”

Robby shakes his head, alarmed. “Dennis, you’re not thinking clearly—”

“I am,” Dennis insists, trying to sit up, failing immediately. He grimaces, breath hitching. “I know what I am.”

Robby presses him gently back down. “No. No, you don’t.”

Dennis lets out a thin, humorless laugh. “I’m a toy,” he says, slurred but precise. “I’m fun. I help. I’m filling in. And when you and Jack get bored—” He swallows hard, eyes shining. “—you’ll put me back.”

Robby’s face goes pale. “Jesus. Dennis—”

“You love him,” Dennis presses on, words tumbling faster now, fever‑fueled and unguarded. “You have him. And I’m just—extra. I don’t get to be loved like that.”

“That’s not true,” Robby says hoarsely. “That’s not what’s happening here.”

Dennis turns his head away, tears slipping unchecked into his hairline. His voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Robby looks helplessly toward the doorway—toward Jack, toward anyone—but there’s no one else who can fix this. This isn’t medical. This is old damage surfacing at the worst possible time. He squeezes Dennis’s hand, grounding, steady. “I mean it,” he says, low and firm. “Even if you can’t understand it right now.”

Dennis doesn’t respond. His eyes slip closed again, body sagging back into the mattress as the fever pulls him under. The monitor slowly settles, beeping back into a calmer rhythm.

The door opened a moment later and Jack stepped inside, “Hey, how’s our Mouse doing?” Jack asked, he looked tired, but better than he had this morning.

“He thinks we don’t love him, that we can’t.” Robby whispers, his voice rough.

Jack’s brows furrow as he moved closer to the bed, “I’m sorry, what?”

Robby scoffed, “You heard me. He’s delirious with fever, but I think he believes it. He just told me to stop lying because he can’t be loved like that. Jack—”

“Hey,” Jack starts, gently gripping Robby’s shoulder, “Take a breath. Like you said, he’s delirious. We can address it when he’s coherent again.”

Robby nodded, “I need to get back on the floor—”

“I’ll take care of him, go on.” Jack takes Robby’s spot, leaning heavily on the bed, keeping the railing down, he reached out and gently ran his fingers through the sweat-damp curls. He hears Robby close the door as he leaves, quieting the room to just the two of them. Jack glances over the monitors, his fever is still high, but it’s at 102, which, based on what Robby had texted him fifteen minutes ago, was down.

Blue eyes fluttered open and met Jack’s hazel eyes. “Jack, I don’t feel good,” Dennis whined, shifting on the bed.

“I know, baby. We’ll get you home when Robby’s shift ends, settled in bed and comfortable.” He promised, keeping his steady movement through Dennis’s curls. “Get some sleep.”

“Feels nice,” he mumbled before drifting off to sleep again.

o0o0o

It was another two days before Dennis started to return to a semblance of coherency. They returned to Jack and Robby’s condo that first evening after Robby’s shift ended. His temperature had settled around 101, so the two men took home a couple bags of saline and took their boy home.

Dennis managed to shuffle out to the kitchen late the second night, still shaky, a blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders. “Heeey, there he is,” Jack chuckled softly looking up from where he was making more chicken soup.

Robby was sitting at the kitchen table, reading quietly, he glanced up and smiled as Dennis managed to get to one of the chairs and slump down in one. “Okay, that was my exercise for the next week,” he grumbled, his voice rough from coughing and not speaking much.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s fair,” Robby smirked as Jack dished out a bowl of soup and brought it over to the kid. “Do you remember anything you said when your fever was high?” Robby asked after a few minutes.

“Not…not really,” Dennis whispered quietly. “Why, did I say something embarrassing?”

“You said you didn’t believe Jack and I loved you…that we couldn’t,” Robby offered in reply as Jack sat down between the two men. Dennis went quiet, poking at his soup, unable to look up. Because he didn’t look up, he didn’t notice the two men sharing a look of concern.

“Den, baby, please tell us that was the fever talking, kid?” Jack pled.

Dennis shrugged, “I mean, come on. You guys are twice my age, you can’t possibly love someone with my…limited experience. I’m just a stupid kid in your eyes, maybe a bit of fun—”

“Hey,” Robby snapped quickly. Then he paused, realizing he’d shouted a bit. He took a deep breath, “Dennis, look at me, at us.” He waited until the blue eyes finally met his face. “Do you know how many people Jack and I have invited into our house, our marriage and our bed?”

Dennis shook his head slowly.

“None. Literally, none.” Jack replied simply.

“Then why me?”

“Because you’re different,” Jack answered. “Kid, from the minute both Robby and I met and saw you, we knew you were different. We both felt this innate pull towards you. We wanted to get to know you. Look, neither of us can explain it, but we realized you added something to our relationship and love. You were sweet, and funny, and made us feel alive again.”

“Really?” Dennis asked quietly.

“Really, kid. We know you’re half our age, and at any point you could get out of this relationship too, you don’t have to pick two men half your age, who are constantly tired and a little sore. But we want you, and that’s worth whatever hurt it may lead to.”

Dennis shook his head, “I don’t want anyone else, I want you guys, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Jack gently grips the boy’s wrist and pulls Dennis towards him, pulling him into his lap, “Baby, we’ll take you forever, we love you so much,” he murmured, cuddling the boy close. Robby took a moment to scoot closer and wrap his own arms around the two men.

Summary: Trinity makes a mistake and is threatened with legal repercussions. Robby gives her some tough love. The Pitt Whump Week Day 5: Unhappy Customer