Chapter Text
Whitaker hadn’t had much of a chance to be grateful for his sticky-shiny, newly-laminated badge that read “Doctor,” throughout the day, but now, in the off-hours, when he was supposed to be home, he was deeply relieved that it was enough to steer the nurses and residents away from him when he was somewhere he wasn’t, technically, supposed to be. He was on the fourth floor, standing in one of the hallways, looking in at one of the postop recovery rooms. Emily Werner. Tib-Fib amputation.
Or, more accurately, he thought, Tib-Fib replantation.
Werner was in a room, heavily sedated, with a cast and a gnarly amount of hardware sticking out of her leg. Whitaker watched the nurse in the room with her check her various drips, vitals, and pressures and tried to feel relief. Werner would recover, hopefully with at least half of her leg function. She’d have a nasty scar and a huge amount of metal in her leg to show for a day at the waterpark, but, if Whitaker were a betting man, she might have a huge amount of money to make up for it if a lawyer convinced her to take the park to court.
Instead of feeling grateful that the patient would survive, or that their meticulous efforts in the ER had would aid in her recovery, all Whitaker could think about was how stupidly impressive it was that Doctor Park had been able to pull it off. (Or, more accurately, he thought, crossing his arms, put it back on.)
“Not the worst replantation I’ve done,” Park said, walking up next to Whitaker and almost causing him to startle. (Maybe last year he would have jumped, but he’s gotten very good at dodging gurneys and falling to the ground when gun protocol was called.)
“Probably for the best,” Whitaker said, glancing over at Park. “I think this is a big enough mess on its own.”
Park was out of his scrubs, the kind of doctor who wore slacks and a sports coat to work. He probably had an office, was able to hang up decent clothes rather than stuffing spare shirts into lockers. He looked like he was going to a country club, if not for the extremely douchey cigarette tucked behind his ear.
“Good thing I got there before you could make a bigger mess of it down in the ER,” Park snapped. “She’s lucky Robinavitch is actually halfway competent considering the shit you cowboys try to get away with.”
Whitaker didn't look at Park, frowning at the glass, annoyed on behalf of the whole Pitt team. It wasn’t like ER was easy. It wasn’t like they could just take a single kind of patient. It wasn’t like they were funded, or had the staff, or had the time to run tests…
He took a deep breath, swallowing his pride. “I’m sure Miss Werner’s grateful.”
“Who?” Park had pulled out his phone, and a quick look showed that he was checking the traffic.
“Miss Werner,” Whitaker repeated. “The patient?”
“Right,” Park said, dismissive. Whitaker tried not to take it personally. Face to face with Park it was easy to see where Garcia got her edge. It seemed like you had to be a certain kind of professional dick to be a surgeon.
Whitaker took another deep (steadying, calming) breath. “Thanks,” he said, gesturing to Werner. “It’s impressive work. That you could get that done.”
When Whitaker looked back at Park, the surgeon was frowning at him, assessing him with the kind of sharpness that his nickname only hinted at. Whitaker held his gaze for a few seconds and then looked back at the patient through the glass, fixated on the beeping of the machines and not the scrutinizing gaze of the man to his left.
“Yeah, it’s pretty incredible what a specialized education, a quiet environment, and a steady hand can do,” Park said, tucking his phone away. “Certainly gets better results than the ER improvising medical procedures on the fly.”
“Yeah, you could be less of an asshole, though,” Whitaker said before he could think twice and stop himself. It had been a long day at work. He was going to move out of Santos’ place. Maybe. His mentor was leaving. And now he was catching strays from an ortho surgeon who acted like he had a dick bigger than god. Maybe his guard was down. Or broken.
He felt the flush creep up the back of his neck, embarrassed. Should he run? Maybe he could make it to the elevator before Park took an actual swing at him. He refused to look at the other doctor, swallowing and ignoring the little hitch in his breath as he did so. “Shit,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Doctor Park, I—”
“Wanna get a drink?”
Whitaker looked up at Park, eyebrows up nearly to his hairline. Park was smirking at him; the height the surgeon had made him seem even more menacing and predatory. Whitaker’s mouth went dry. He should make an excuse. Any excuse. He had a dozen excuses. But the way Park asked made it sound like a challenge.
Whitaker shrugged. “Got a place in mind?”
“Eleven, by Union Station.” Park glanced at his phone again, turning away. “I’ll meet you there.”
The surgeon didn’t even wait for a response before he turned away, walking through the sterile halls towards the exit. Whitaker struggled to figure out what the complicated feeling in his gut was, exactly. Confusion, nerves, a little thrill of pride that Park had deigned to ask him for drinks? He swallowed and looked back at Werner, the machines droning, anticipation coiling in his spine.
Yeah, he thought, turning and heading down to his lockers, praying that his off-hours clothes weren’t too wrinkled or smelled too antiseptic. Maybe a drink was a good idea.