Slip Up [NSFW]

Slip Up

The ER was loud in the particular way it always was at the end of a bad shift—phones ringing, stretchers rattling over tile, voices overlapping just enough to make everyone sharper, shorter, one wrong word away from snapping. The fluorescent lights made everything look flatter than it was. Colder.

Michael had been on his feet for almost eleven hours. He came too fast around the corner by the nurses' station, one hand wrapped around a chart. Someone had left a wet streak across the floor—melted ice, spilled water, something clear and impossible to see until it was already under him.

His show slid. It was fast, humiliatingly fast—that sudden drop in his stomach, the instinctive jerk of his shoulders, the split-second certainty that he was about to go down hard in front of half the department.

"Whoa!"

A hand caught his elbow, and the other hit the middle of his back, steadying him from falling on his ass. Michael's heel skidded once more before he found his balance, breath punching out of him in a startled huff. For one stupid second, his whole body went hot with embarrassment.

Dennis stood close enough for Michael to feel the heat of him even after he let go.

"You good?" Dennis asked. His voice was even, casual. Exactly the tone it should've been.

Michael swallowed, not looking at him right away. "Yeah, fine."

"Christ," Dana muttered from behind the desk, glancing over, "Can we maybe not eat shit in the middle of triage? Paperwork's bad enough without a concussion."

A couple of people laughed. Not cruelly, but just enough to make Michael's ears burn harder.

"Very supportive," Michael shot back, straightening fully.

Dennis was still there, just to his side, one hand hovering half a second too long near Michael's arm before dropping away. It was a tiny movement. Invisible, probably, to anyone not looking for it. Michael noticed anyway. He always did.

Someone wheeled a patient past them, forcing Dennis to step back. The space opened up again like nothing had happened, like Dennis hadn't just touched him in the middle of the ER with that immediate, instinctive panic that he usually buried so well. Michael exhaled through his nose and started toward the desk.

"You don't have to—" Dennis stopped. It was abrupt enough for Michael to turn. Dennis had only gotten out the first half of it, the words cutting off strange and unfinished, like he'd grabbed them back at the last second. His jaw tightened. Around them, the station kept moving—clipboard passed from one nurse to another, monitors beeping, someone calling for labs—but for Michael, the whole thing narrowed to Dennis's face. To that look. Not blank and not casual enough.

Dennis cleared his throat. "You don't have to, uh, rush," he gestured vaguely at the chart in Michael's hand, "floor's still slick."

Michael stared at him blankly. That wasn't what he'd almost said. He knew Dennis too well now—knew the tiny shifts in him, the almost-imperceptible changes in tone, the tells Dennis thought he hid better than he did. That first part hadn't sounded annoyed or clinical. It sounded warm and personal. You don't have to push yourself, maybe. You don't have to pretend with me, possibly. Maybe something worse than those. Something softer. Something that had no business existing out here beneath the white lights and the eyes of everyone they worked with.

Michael's pulse kicked once, hard. Dennis didn't look at him again after that. He turned, instead, toward the charge nurse, already asking a question about bed assignments like nothing had happened, like he hadn't nearly let something private crack open in front of everyone. Michael stood there a beat too long.