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It really wasn’t a big deal. He’d had patients do much worse to him. Hell, even his first day here he’d gotten pissed on, and there was that time with the projectile vomiting, and that time Robby distracted him and—
A bright light shines in his eyes. He blinks and tries to squirm away from it but he can’t, something warm and rough cupping his jaw and keeping him from moving.
He tries to stand up and feels multiple hands pushing him down again. Why were they still doing that? He's fine.
And why weren't they saying anything? There’s normally a lot of beeping and humming from the machines but there’s usually a lot of talking and shouting that covers up most of it, why is the humming so loud?
That part was pretty weird.
He didn’t know why they were making such a fuss out of it. Surely Robby would come by soon and take a look at him and say he’s fine and he could get back to work. There was a lady in South 20 that he should really be getting back to—
Okay wait now someone was saying something. And by saying something he means shouting in his face.
He reaches up, trying to push away whoever was being so loud, and he feels his hand land over someone's mouth and beard.
Well at least the shouting stopped for a second.
He tries to ask “Where’s Dr. Robby? Can you just get him for me please?” but he’s not sure anything more than “where Robby please” came out. Hmm.
Okay, so he might have a mild concussion. Whatever, right? He’s had them before. Everyone’s got knocked around a few times in the ER, and even before that on the farm he had plenty of tumbles and maybe a few kicks in the head. He just needs to get it together and he can keep working.
Whoevers standing next to him finally pulls his hand off their mouth and asks him... something. He’s not quite sure what.
The question comes again, a little louder and slower, and this time he can make it out: “Do you know where you are?”
“Yeah, I’m at work. And I really gotta get back to it y’know,” he mumbles and tries to stand up again, only to be pushed down once more.
“Whitaker, you need to sit down. You have a concussion.” The voice next to him tries to tell him, and it's almost familiar this time.
“Yeah I realized that, I am a fuckin' doctor. Student doctor. Whatever.” he replies, turning to squint at the man sitting next to him. “Look, can you just get Dr. Robby? He’ll tell you I'm fine, I gotta get back to work, I got… patients and shit.”
The man looks at someone behind him, some expression he can’t quite figure out. He starts to say something else, and—oh shit he’s gonna throw up fuck—he tries to lean away and not vomit all over anyone else. He doesn't quite make it.
“Shit,” yeah, he definitely ruined that guy’s shoes. Whoops. “Sorry.”
“It’s… fine, Whitaker.” The man he just threw up on sighs. “Would you just sit still and let me help you already?”
He figures it's the least he could do after throwing up on the guy so he relents and leans back.
“Damn, huckleberry, you’re reaaaal out of it,” comes from somewhere on his left. Well at least he knows who that voice comes from. He should have some snappy comeback to that but he can’t quite think of one quickly enough.
“Enough. Let me handle him, you all stop crowding around and get back to work.” The man says, shooing everyone out with one of his hands, the other still resting on Whitaker's shoulder. He’s not exactly sure when it got there.
His eyes still aren’t quite focusing. That’s probably fine though, it’ll go away pretty soon. Maybe. Trying to remember the symptoms of a concussion when you have a concussion is starting to hurt his head.
“Hey, look at me.” the hand on his face is back, tilting his chin up. “Do you know your name?”
“Dennis Whitaker.” Pretty standard cognition check question, at least this guy knows how to do that. Probably someone who works here. “Not huckleberry,” he adds.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Well yeah, of course he does. He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
What was it again?
Obviously there was head trauma of some kind. His head hurts enough to know that, even without the concussion he’s pretty sure he has. He just can’t quite remember exactly how it happened.
Probably tripped and fell. That sounds like him. Robby's always telling him to slow down before he gets himself or someone else hurt.
“I fell?” He tries to say it confidently but it still comes out a bit like a question.
The man just sighs and shakes his head, the hand resting on his shoulder coming up to rub his thumb over the base of his neck, just above his scrubs. “Not exactly.”
“Oh. Uhm. I think I have a concussion.” He should probably tell someone that right?
“Yeah kid, you definitely do,” the man sighs, shaking his head slightly and rubbing a hand over his mouth.
“Hey where’s Dr. Robby? He should be here,” he asks, looking around.
The man next to him almost flinches at that, pulling his hand away from his shoulder. He kinda misses the warmth and weight of it for a second. Probably shouldn't ask for it back. That'd be weird. Right.
“Look, just relax, alright?” It sounds like he might be just as if not more stressed than Whitaker is right now, which is pretty unfair since he's the one with the concussion. “I’ll keep an eye on you. You just need to rest.”
“I’m still on my shift though,” he insists. “I can't just drop all my cases for a little headache,”
The hand returns to his shoulder, along with the other one grabbing his chin, turning him to look away from the door and into the man's eyes.
“Whitaker.” he says firmly. “You. Have. A. Concussion.”
Oh yeah. Right. That.
Hey, is his memory always this bad? Concussions can cause short memory loss around the time of the incident. Last time he had a concussion— when was that again? Back home, when he fell off the ladder probably. He had a headache for three days but it went away after that. Nothing some Tylenol can't fix. He didn't tell anyone then. Knew it would just cause him more trouble. He can handle it on his own, like he always does.
“Hey man, I'm fine. Okay?” he tries again, sure his voice sounds more confident this time. “I can keep working, I only have a few hours left on my shift anyway.”
“Man?” he questions, almost laughing with disbelief. “No chance. You can't even tell who I am.”
“How am I supposed to know who you are?” he asks, getting annoyed. Like come on, there's a ton of people who work here, he still hasn't memorized everyone's names yet. The name tags usually help but reading is a little fuzzy at the moment.
“Because you keep asking for me.” The hands are still on his shoulders, clamping down tighter.
“Why would I be asking for someone I don't know?” he frowns. Who had he asked for anyway? That doesn't sound like him, he can handle things on his own. “Would you just go find Robby, I'm sure he’ll tell you I'm fine to work.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” The man puts his head in his hands, closing his eyes and shaking his head again before looking back at him. “Whitaker. I am Robby."
…Okay maybe his concussion is pretty bad.
He squints, trying to focus on the face in front of him. It is vaguely familiar, but he’s pretty sure he would know Robby’s face when he sees it. He's spent enough time thinking about it. Sure, this guy has a nice face, warm and smiling even when he's clearly frustrated with him. He's not bad looking either, with those few streaks of grey running through his beard.
He's kinda always had a thing for older guys. Not sure where it came from. Something about someone who has their shit together way more than him, or at least knows how to act like it more than him.
Or just daddy issues. Probably that.
He realizes he's been staring at this guy's face pretty intently for a while now. Should probably look away.
What was he looking for again?
“It's okay,” his voice is more gentle now. “You're gonna be okay. This is just temporary.”
His head really hurts. He says that.
“I know,” comes the response. “We already gave you something for the pain, that should help.”
He looks back over at the man who might be Robby, who’s still looking at him. It’s hard to read his expression, and he can’t tell if that’s from the concussion or not. He doesn’t seem to mind the staring though, since he’s staring right back.
He should probably say something though, right? Instead of just continuing to stare at this hot old man he’s not sure he knows.
He breaks the staring contest and looks around the room, trying to think of something to say.
“It's uh. Dark in here.”
Really. Is that the best he can do?
He must make some face because the man laughs at him. “I turned off the lights so your headache wouldn’t get worse, your eyes are sensitive to light.” he explains patiently.
Did he already say that? Or is this guy just naturally patronizing? Not in a bad way, really, it’s fine, he’s just definitely treating Whitaker like he’s an idiot right now. Which he kind of is. So. Maybe that’s fair.
“Can I have something to eat?” he tries again, more to have something to say than because he’s actually hungry. He is though. But he’s pretty used to that, it's not any more than normal.
“Sure, I can grab you something.” The man stands up, then pauses, looking at him again. “If I leave you alone for a minute are you gonna forget you have a concussion and try to get up and go back to work?”
“...no?” he shakes his head and tries again, with more confidence. “No, I’ll stay here. I got it.”
The man hesitates for just a moment longer, then nods and walks out the door.
It's not that hard to just stay here, right? He can handle this.
Damn. If he’s not sure he can handle staying put in one room he really shouldn’t keep trying to go back to work. He lies back in the bed and tries to relax. That’s what he’s supposed to be doing, right? Resting?
He’s getting better though. Probably. The ringing in his ears is gone, and his visions better. Holding up his own fingers and counting them probably doesn't work the same as someone else doing it. Also probably makes him look like an idiot. He puts his hand down.
Robby will come by eventually if he just waits right? And surely he’ll understand why he had to stop working, he has a concussion after all. He’s supposed to rest. Hang on, is he still gonna be paid for this shift? Or just the first bit he worked? He's probably not getting paid to sit on his ass in a dark room that they might need for actual patients. And how long is he gonna be out for this? Maybe if he just rests now he’ll be better by tomorrow. The day after that at the latest. Oh man he’s totally fucked isn’t he.
He presses his hands to his eyes before realizing that’s only making his head hurt worse. Or maybe it's the overthinking doing that. He settles for just closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands. It’s already dark in here, but it helps.
He’s not sure how long he just lies like that but pretty soon he hears the door open, and when he peeks out from his hands he sees Robby(?) walk back in, sandwich in hand.
He moves his hand back like he’s about to toss it, then changes his mind and hands it to him instead. He could’ve caught it. Probably.
“Well I see you managed to remember to stay put.” he nods, taking a seat next to him. “You doing any better?”
“Yeah,” he stops shoving the sandwich in his mouth for a second to respond. “Yeah I’m good, getting better.”
Maybe-Robby makes a face like he doesn't believe him for a second, so apparently that didn’t come out as convincing as he hoped.
He makes sure to swallow his food first before talking this time. “Okay I know I can’t work, for sure, got that. Maybe I should just go home, right?”
“Nope. You're staying right here at least overnight.”
“Cmon, I'm just in the way here,” he protests. And if this guy is Robby then he’s definitely not supposed to be just sitting back here with him, shouldn’t he have more important stuff to do? That adds a tick to the Not Robby column. Though, so far the only ticks are that and the guy saying he is Robby, so it’s still pretty even. “You need this room for actual patients right?”
“You are an actual patient, Whitaker.” The hand is back, this time resting on his knee instead of his shoulder. Somewhere between a pat and a shake and a squeeze. “You have a pretty serious concussion.”
“I know- I know I have a concussion, but it’s not, like, thaaat serious.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks, somehow amused at this.
“Yeah.” probably. “Totally. It’s fine, I'm fine.”
“Okay. What's your name?”
“Dennis Whitaker,” he responds. “Didn’t we already do all this?”
“Yeah, and you didn’t do too good then.” the man points out. “What year is it? Where are we?”
“2025, we’re in the pi-” he clears his throat. “I mean, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”
He can see the man trying not to laugh at him. “Okay good enough. Last question,” he sits up a little, raising his eyebrows and looking at Whitaker intently. “Do you know who I am?”
Damn. Yeah okay he should’ve seen that coming. He squints at him a little. He probably should just say Robby if he wants to go home, even if he's still not sure he believes it.
“Yeah, you’re a pain in my ass.”
On second thought, on the off chance this is Robby and he just can’t recognize him because of the concussion, he probably shouldn’t say that to his boss. Sometimes his mouth moves faster than his brain. Often, actually. Not because of the concussion.
Lucky for him, Robby(probably) just laughs, his hand coming down on Whitaker's knee again. “Yeah, you’re staying here overnight for observation.”
He groans and flops back onto the bed dramatically.
“Well, at least you’ve stopped trying to go back to work. I should probably get back out there then.” He says it like he regrets it, then pats his knee one more time before standing up. “Just stay in here and rest. Someone will be by to check on you every few hours or so.”
“Can I at least get a blanket? It's kinda cold in here.” He asks, mainly just to have something to complain about. And maybe so he doesn’t leave just quite yet.
“Yeah, I'll have someone bring you some. Here,” the man pulls off his hoodie and hands it to him. “I’ll check on you later, okay? Just get some rest.”
“Okay, okay.” he mumbles, pulling the hoodie on mindlessly. And it is pretty nice, it's soft, smells good. It’s warm from being worn all day. Robby barely ever takes it off so—
Wait.
Oh shit. That was Robby.
Oh shit he’s wearing Robby's hoodie.
He panics, trying to remember what else he did that he needs to be embarrassed about. He definitely called him a pain in the ass. And puked on his shoes, fuck. He didn't say anything about how hot he was, right? Or do anything weird? Weirder than normal? Oh man.
He’s so fucked.
He closes his eyes and decides to sleep it off.