Fics like hand covers bruise

Whitaker has never called out sick for any job he’s had. Not even at six years old with chicken pox, crying as he fed the chickens and Noah folded himself over the fence to tell him that he might as well try the feed too while he was at it since he was turning into a chicken himself. Not even his newspaper route at thirteen when the only things that held the jagged flesh of his thigh together were paper towels and an ace bandage. And none of the days leading into a full moon night where he feels like his skin is stretched too tight over his bones and any wrong move could split him apart at his seams and birth a monster onto the scuffed white floor of the ED. Sometimes hearing everything means you hear nothing at all. Between the beeping and whirring and murmuring and shouting and rolling and squeaking and slamming, Whitaker could have thought once an emergency department might be hell on earth. But all that noise around him means he can’t hear any of the noise within him, and that is in itself a blessing. [Or Whitaker's first full moon at the Pitt.]

Fics like hand covers bruise

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