#erus

"It’s just a scalp wound, Robby. Scalps are bleeders. You know the biology."

Jack’s voice was too calm—that terrifying, detached Apollo-child calm that usually meant he was seconds away from a Nosokinetic collapse. He sat on the edge of the gurney in Room 402, soot-stained and shirtless, the Notos band shirt Dennis had bought him crumpled on the floor next to a discarded SWAT tactical vest.

Robby didn’t argue. He just snapped on a pair of latex gloves, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the analog silence of the cyberattacked ER. "The biology says you should be in a trauma bay, not hiding in a dark corner while Samira cleans a bullet graze off your ribs." Jack had been there been some idiots decided to try to rob a goods Warehouse.

"Also it's not on my ribs it's more on my shoulder near of my ribs," jack got a glare from samira and robby

"He didn't have any bullets left," Jack muttered, his busted nose whistling as he leaned his head forward to let Robby see the jagged split in his hair. "He just had the gun. Turns out, a Smith & Wesson makes a hell of a club." Before Robby could respond, the curtain shrieked back.

Dennis Whitaker stood there, his long mullet disheveled, his eyes wide with a Dionysian fury that could have curdled the hospital’s entire supply of saline. He wasn't the sweet kid from Nebraska anymore; he was the Son of the Vine who had survived the Battle of Manhattan, and he looked ready to scream blunt force trauma at the first thing that moved.

"Abbot."

Jack froze. He didn't need his Vital Sensors to know his heart rate had just spiked to dangerous levels. "Dennis. You’re supposed to be in Peds." Jack was trying to remain calm, but oh Lord did his questionable actions bring him to this exact moment in time. Jack Abbot felt the impending doom that he had been ignoring for the past 6 hours actually hit him like a freight train.

"And you," Dennis hissed, stepping into the room like he was stepping onto a battlefield, "are supposed to be an Attending Physician, not a goddamn target." Dennis stomps over to confront his boyfriend "jack you are 48, you are 20 years older than I and yet look at yourself!" Dennis then exhaled sharply as robby spoke "give a bit of space."

Samira then speaks up also be careful the bag on the floor that's for a patient." Dennis looks down. His shoulders drop. Dennis then said "Let me guess Jack's paying for this of course he is," Dennis answered his own question "that ain't going to get him killed." Dennis then picks up the bag and moves it to a slightly safeer spot where it wasn't going to get damaged.