Raven Silversea

“What, is there a fucking bee in your bonnet or something, Huckleberry?” she asks him.

Dennis, rubbing his temples with his eyes closed, squints at her in confusion. “Huh?”

“You’re acting like someone butchered your favorite cow,” Trinity tells him. “Like your little farm girlfriend has put you out to pasture. Like--”

“Enough with the farm jokes, okay?” Dennis snaps, leaving Trinity momentarily stunned.

“Wow, you are in a bitchy mood,” she says.

Dennis lets out a breath, tries to ignore the pounding in his skull that’s only growing worse.

“I’m sorry, Trin,” he says. “I just--have a headache today.”

Trinity doesn’t look like she entirely believes him, but Dennis doesn’t have the energy to argue.

Things only get worse from there.

The headache turns into a full-blown migraine. The ED gets too bright, too loud, too hot. He can feel himself beginning to sweat beneath his scrubs, his undershirt soaking through at the armpits and between his shoulder blades. His heart begins to race, pulse thready. Gums aching, eyes stinging from the fluorescent lights, ears ringing. His stomach feels hollow.

Dana notices, because she notices everything.

"Hey, kid, maybe you should take a break," she suggests, resting her hand on his shoulder. Even that brief touch is too much; too much pressure, too much body heat. Every point of contact feels like tiny needles piercing his skin.

"I'm fine," he says, shrugging out from under Dana's touch.

"Take a break," Dana repeats, no longer just a suggestion. "Don't make me get Robby."

"That's not necessary," Dennis says with a grimace, but he moves towards the break room anyway, because he doesn't need Robby seeing him like this, but he barely gets more than a few steps before there's a familiar chime overhead.

"MVC, multiple traumas incoming."

"Shit," Dennis mutters under his breath, wiping sweaty palms on his scrub bottoms.

He jumps when Robby's voice comes out of nowhere, the man appearing at his shoulder.

"Whitaker, you're with me."

Dennis nods, follows Robby out to the ambulance bay. Immediately, he knows it's bad. Driver of the first vehicle. Not wearing a seatbelt. Went through the windshield. Thready pulse when the EMTs arrived but lost en route. Dennis hears all this, catalogues it, already starts formulating a plan in his mind. It's purely by chance that he ends up downwind of the patient just as a breeze sweeps through the ambulance bay, and Dennis is hit right in the face with a lungful of the rich, metallic scent of blood.

His knees buckle and he almost hits the ground right there in the ambulance bay. Robby shoots him a concerned look.

"Whitaker! You alright?"

"Yeah, I--I'm fine." Dennis nods, and holds his breath as they wheel the patient inside.

He gets through it. Barely. The patient does not. As the rest of the staff shuffles from the room, Dennis lingers, gloved hands shaking as he stares down at them, covered in blood. His stomach cramps, that hollow feeling intensifying, and he has the wild urge to bring one of his hands to his face and lick the nitrile clean.

He doesn't realize Robby has stayed behind too until a warm, heavy hand falls onto his shoulder.

"Come with me," he says, voice pitched low, and Dennis doesn't think he could refuse even if he wanted to. Not in this state, anyway.

They peel off their soiled gloves and gowns--Dennis mourning the waste of blood as he throws his gloves into the bin--and he follows Robby to a smaller, empty exam room. Robby closes both doors and makes sure the curtains are drawn before he turns back to Dennis, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth a thin line as he stares at his intern.

Dennis squirms under the attention. "Dr. Robby..."

"When you disclosed your condition to me," Robby starts, cutting Dennis off, "you promised it wouldn't be a problem."

"It's not," Dennis says immediately, shaking his head. "It's fine, I--I've got it under control..."

Robby raises a brow. "You think I don't know what blood withdrawal looks like?" he questions.

Dennis's mouth snaps shut, and Robby's expression softens, just a bit.

"How long have you been like this?" he asks.

Dennis looks away, hugging himself, his abdomen cramping as a fresh wave of hunger hits him. He fights not to double over, not wanting to prove Robby's point, but it's difficult. His fingers dig into his biceps with the effort, and he lets out a defeated breath.

"It just started today," he admits, his shoulders slumping with defeat. "I missed my last transfusion, and haven't had a chance to reschedule."

The disappointed look Robby gives him twists his stomach far worse than the hunger.

"You ever use live donors?" Robby asks. The question is casual, but there's something in his tone Dennis can't quite decipher.

"No," Dennis says, too quick. "Never."

Unbidden, a memory surfaces: the barn back on his family's farm, bodies hanging upside down from the rafters, blood draining into gallon buckets below. They always bled them slowly, tried to keep them alive, keep the blood fresh, as long as possible. Dennis swore when he left Nebraska he wouldn't be like them, that he would rather go hungry than be a monster.

Robby studies him silently for a moment, the way Dennis has seen him study charts. All he needs is his glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he looks over the frames at Dennis like he's a mystery Robby is trying to unravel, and the picture would be complete.

He doesn't say anything, but suddenly he's moving, Dennis watching in confusion as Robby takes off his jacket, revealing the short sleeves of his scrub top, a simple t-shirt underneath. Dennis feels his mouth water at the sight of Robby's arms, though he blames it on the hunger gnawing at him, and not the fact that Robby's arms are thick and hairy, tattoos standing out on the skin of his biceps. Definitely not because he suddenly wants to feel what it's like to have those arms wrapped around him.

Dennis shakes his head, trying to banish those thoughts. Usually he's good about compartmentalizing his massive crush on his attending during work hours. He blames the hunger again.

"What are you doing?" he asks, watching as Robby digs around on a nearby tray.

"You are going into blood withdrawal," Robby says, grabbing needles and gauze, laying out everything he needs for drawing blood out on the tray. "And we do not have time for a full transfusion protocol."

"Dr. Robby," Dennis protests, as Robby wraps a tourniquet around his bicep and swabs the inside of his elbow with alcohol. "This really isn't--"

Necessary, he wants to say, but the word dies on his lips the moment Robby punctures a vein and blood begins to trickle into the catheter. The flash of red draws his eye, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the hunger flaring.

Robby watches him for a moment, and if Dennis wasn't so focused on the blood filling the catheter he might catch the amused, slightly endeared look on the older man's face.

"Whitaker," he prompts, holding out the catheter.

"Huh?" Dennis drags his eyes away, back up to Robby's face, and then to the tube in his hand. He realizes what Robby means for him to do almost immediately.

It must look absurd, Dennis thinks vaguely, as he leans in and takes the catheter from Robby, wrapping his lips around the end of the thin tube. He glances up at Robby through his lashes, and there's a moment where they just look at each other, Dennis watching Robby watching Dennis.

"Dr. Robby?" he murmurs around the tube, the words slurred slightly.

Robby starts, his eyes flitting between Dennis's eyes and his lips. If Dennis didn't know any better, he would swear there's a blush under that salt-and-pepper beard.

"Sorry," Robby says, shaking his head slightly as though to clear his thoughts. "You ready?"

Dennis nods, and Robby unties the tourniquet. Blood fills the catheter, sliding its way through the tube and into Dennis's mouth. He waits, lets the blood gather on his tongue until his mouth is full, and then he swallows, a moan ripping through him as it cuts through the hunger. His eyes fall shut, savoring the rich, metallic taste of Robby's blood on his tongue as it continues to fill his mouth.

He isn't sure how long they stay like that, Robby bleeding himself while Dennis sucks it up like a soda on a hot day. It could be hours for all he knows, or just a few minutes. Eventually, though, Robby clamps the catheter, and Dennis whines, cheeks heating with embarrassment at the sound as he opens his eyes and practically pouts at Robby.

Robby chuckles warmly. "That's enough, Whitaker," he says, reaching up to pluck the tube from between Dennis's lips.

Dennis watches as Robby deftly removes the needle from his arm, a drop of blood welling up from the puncture site. The hunger still rolls his stomach at the sight, but it doesn't gnaw at him, like it's trying to climb its way out of him to get to the blood. For the first time all day, he actually feels clearheaded.

"Let me," he offers, grabbing the gauze and pressing it to the puncture site before Robby can. There's a slight tremor to his fingers as he wraps medical tape around Robby's arm, securing the gauze in place, and this time he knows he can't blame it on the hunger.

Robby hums gratefully, watching Dennis work, taking stock of his intern now that the blood-withdrawal crisis has been temporarily averted. "Feeling better?" he asks.

"Much better," Dennis nods, risking a glance up at Robby, the blush on his cheeks darkening a bit now that he has more blood in his system. "Thank you, Dr. Robby."

"Don't mention it," Robby mutters, and then, after a moment, "Seriously, don't. Gloria will have an aneurysm."

Dennis huffs a laugh and steps back, finished with Robby's arm. He watches as Robby disposes of everything properly, feeling the awkwardness beginning to creep in now that he is out of immediate danger of collapsing. It's entirely too intimate, being in this closed room with Robby, curtain drawn, the taste of Robby's blood still on his tongue. The crush he usually manages to keep locked in the back of his mind during work hours rears its ugly head, unwilling to be contained after what just happened.

"Take a couple of minutes," Robby says when he's done, peeling off his gloves. "Then back to work, alright?"

"Yes, Dr. Robby," Dennis nods. "And...thank you, again."

Robby gives him a smile, a real smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Of course," he says. "And Whitaker? Next time, come find me. Don't let it get this bad again."

"I won't," Dennis says. Robby winks at him, and is out the door before the rest of what he said can catch up to Dennis.