Chapter Text
Morning with Santos is never quiet.
Dennis wakes to the sound of drawers being opened and slammed shut, Santos muttering to herself like the apartment has personally wronged her. Pale morning light spills through the blinds, cutting across the room in thin stripes. He stays under his blanket for a few extra seconds, eyes closed, pretending he can steal five more minutes of sleep.
“You’re gonna be late,” Santos says
“I’m literally getting up,” Dennis replies, voice muffled by the pillow.
“You say that every morning.”
By the time he drags himself into the bathroom, Santos is already dressed for their shift, leaning against the counter with a pair of scissors in her hand. Dennis stops dead.
“No.”
She grins. “Yes.”
“I did not agree to this.”
Santos tilts her head, studying him in the mirror. “I’m getting rid of the Amish haircut. You agreed to let it grow out so I could cut it, remember huckleberry?”
Dennis groans. “That was not consent.”
“That was your rent payment,” she says sweetly, already reaching for his hair, tugging on his curls.
“This is extortion.”
She shrugs. “You live here, hey, I promise I can cut hair great, if you haven't forgotten I am gay.”
He sighs and lets her pull him closer. Santos’s fingers comb through the back of his hair, careful, practised. It’s kinda funny how gentle she can be, how easily she slips into this quiet, domestic role with him. Hair falls into the sink as the scissors snip.
She sings, “It’s gonna be a mullet.”
Dennis stares at his reflection. “I hate you.”
“You’ll look hot,” Santos replies. “In a deeply upsetting way, and I know you don’t hate me,” she purposefully twisted at one of his curls
"Oi! That hurt," She rolled her eyes and carried on, “You baby"
He watches her in the mirror as she works, jaw tight. His thoughts drift uninvited, as always, to Robby. To the way his attending stands too close during procedures, hands steadying Dennis by the waist, fingers brushing his wrist when he passes an instrument. The way Robby notices everything Dennis does.
Just never the way Dennis wants him to. He is almost double his age, and quite honestly, doesn’t understand his feelings for Robby. It was a mix of confusing mixed signals from him, but everything DR Robby did just had him melting.
“If this looks bad,” Dennis mutters, “Robby’s going to notice.”
Santos smirks, raising one eyebrow. “He notices everything.”
It had been two months into the job when it hit him, like a stupid, unavoidable truck.
He’d always known Robby was attractive. That part wasn’t new. What was new was the shift where Robby barely touched him at all. No steadying hand at his waist. No fingers brushing his wrist when Dennis passed an instrument. Nothing.
Dennis had gone a little insane.
By the end of the shift, he was wound so tight he could barely think straight. Robby found him near the lockers, stepped in close like he always did, and reached up, fingers curling around the back of Dennis’s neck.
“Didn’t see you all shift, Whittaker,” he’d said, thumb warm against his skin. “Missed you.”
That was it. That was the moment it became impossible to lie to himself.
It took Dennis another two fucking weeks to tell Santos. Two weeks of snapping at nothing, of going quiet in the middle of conversations, of lying awake at night convinced he’d done something wrong just by feeling it.
Where he came from, wanting was a sin before it was anything else. Wanting meant punishment. Hell. Fire. All of it was drilled in so deep it still lived under his skin.
Santos noticed. She always did. One night, after he’d been pacing the apartment like a trapped animal, she finally asked him what was wrong.
He told her. Stumbled through it, embarrassed and tense, half-expecting her to laugh or look at him differently.
She didn’t.
Instead, she told him about Garcia. About the flirting that never really stopped. About how they’d almost kissed more than once. Then she asked him, quietly, do you really think that’s so wrong? That I’m going to hell and will be punished forever for it?
“We’re human, Dennis.”
It was the first time she’d ever called him by his real name. That alone was enough to make his chest ache.
They sat down after that. Really sat down. Dennis talked about growing up on a farm, about parents whose answer to everything had been religion, about how love, fear, punishment, and God had all been tangled together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
It didn’t fix him. But it eased something. Like maybe wanting didn’t automatically mean punishment. Like maybe the fear belonged to the way he was raised, not to who he was now.
deep in his thoughts, he didn’t even realise Santos had brushed his hair, "okay what do u think huckleberry."
He looked in the mirror, oh, it was a mullet, alright. He was speechless, "Santos, I look completely different... this is fucking crazy, LOOK at my curls, I didn’t even know I could even look good as a student doctor."
"You witch", he turned around, facing Santos, thank you, I needed this"
Santos obviously was not up for sentiment: “Were gonna be late, huckleberry. Stop gawking at yourself and let’s go,” but he could see her eyes practically twinkling. She was happy
They left the apartment together a few minutes later, Santos admiring her handiwork as they walked toward the bus stop. The city was still waking up, the air cool and quiet, the sky washed in soft blue.
“So,” Santos says, like she hasn’t been waiting to bring it up. “I might ask Garcia out.”
Dennis raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been obsessed with Garcia for months, what’s different now you're finally becoming domestic trin.”
“I am not obsessed.” Disregarding everything else he had said.
“You literally made a pros-and-cons list about kissing her.” He said, tucking his chin in to neck
“That was hypothetical.”
He laughs, and she bumps her shoulder into his. “It’s just a casual dinner,” she adds quickly. “No big deal
“Right,” Dennis says. “Totally nonchalant.”
“I am being nonchalant,” Santos insists. “Even though I obviously want to make out with her.”
The bus pulls up, and they climb on, taking their usual seats side by side. Dennis watches the city slide past the window, his reflection staring back at him new haircut, tired eyes, at least she and Garcia have some sort of thing with each other; he and Robby could never happen. He probably thinks of him as a kid.
Santos nudges his knee with hers. “You, okay?”
“Yeah,” he lies easily. “Just tired.”
She accepts that, because Santos always knows when to push and when to sit quietly with him. Dennis leans back in his seat as the bus rumbles toward the Pitt, already bracing himself for another shift.
Robby rides in without a helmet, cold air cutting across his face, sharp enough to wake every nerve. The city is quiet at this hour, streets half-asleep, and he lets himself enjoy it, the hum of the bike, the rhythm of breathing, the rare stretch of silence before the ER swallows him whole. No pages. No alarms. Just motion.
He parks, kills the engine, and steps inside. The Pitt is already alive. Phones ringing, monitors beeping, the low hum of controlled chaos. Dana’s at her usual spot, coffee untouched.
“Morning, Robby,” she says without looking up.
“Morning, Dana,” he replies. “Anything on fire yet?”
“Give it five minutes.”
He chuckles, running his hand through his hair. It’s gonna be a long day
Night shift is filtering out, faces drawn and tired. Jack Abbott catches his eye near the board; a tablet tucked under his arm.
“Thank God,” Jack says. “She’s all yours.”
They walk the rounds together, Jack running through handoff like muscle memory.
“Bed three - sixty-eight-year-old male, chest pain. Troponins negative, but he’s got a history, don’t trust him yet.”
“Bed seven - teenager, MVA, concussion protocol. Neuro’s stable but nauseous and pissed.” He whispers, “be weary.”
“Hallway two - unhoused guy, hypothermia, mild frostbite on the toes. Social work looped in early.”
Robby nods, slotting it all into place. Jack leaves, and Robby steps fully into his shift.
Ten minutes later, Dr Whittaker and Dr Santos walk in. Robby doesn’t register them at first, just movement, laughter cutting through the din. Then he sees Dennis mid-laugh with Dr Shen, curls gone, haircut sharp and unfamiliar. Something in Robby’s chest stutters, a brief, stupid flicker of panic. He can think he looks good, right? No harm in that. Right.
The doors slam open.
“Ambulance incoming!” someone calls.
Robby is already moving. “Whittaker. Santos. With me.”
The gurney comes in fast, a man strapped down, skin greyish, chest barely moving. One of the paramedics rides the side, bagging air into his lungs.
“Mid-thirties,” the medic says. “Found unresponsive in a bathroom. Needle nearby. Shallow breathing, pupils tiny. Narcan was given once, he came up for a minute, then went back out.”
Robby’s focus snaps into place. “Airway. Oxygen. Dr Whittaker, mask. Dr Santos monitors and IV.”
Dennis moves instantly, jaw tight with concentration, mask over the man’s face. Santos applies leads, calling out numbers.
“Heart rate low. O2’s crap. BP dropping,” she says.
“Prepare Narcan again,” Robby orders. The man coughs, jerks, eyes flutter. “Stay with us,” Robby murmurs.
Vitals stabilize. The man is breathing easier, skin regaining colour. Robby exhales and steps back.
“Good work, team,” he says. Eyes flickering to Whittaker, who was exchanging a glance with Santos, shoulders relaxing.
Robby moves to the centre of the room where Dr Mohan, Dr Javadi, Dr McKay, and Dr Mel are already assembled, and the other nurses all stand. Handoff begins.
“Bed three - sixty-eight-year-old male with chest pain. Troponins negative, EKG stable. Observation overnight.” “
Dr Mohan nods, flipping through her notes. Her eyes flick toward Whittaker near the counter, she does a double take, “woah nice haircut on Whittaker,” she mutters
Dr Mel glances at Dennis, too and smirks. “Yeah, haircuts do vastly change how a person looks, as it’s one of the most dominating features….” Dr Santos gives her a look and finishes off, “ well it looks good, Dr Whittaker.”
Javadi and Santos chuckle softly, glancing from her tablet to Dennis. “Huh, didn’t recognise him at first. That’s…different.”
Robby notices the small reactions, a weird feeling in his chest, see everyone is noticing, it's not weird, yep... okay, keep attention on the handoff, Robby scolds himself, not understanding this feeling.
“Bed seven - teenager, MVA. CT clean, vitals stable. Watch for post-concussion nausea.”
“Any confusion on arrival?” Javadi asks.
“Brief, resolved,” Robby replies. “Hallway two - hypothermia. Frostbite improving, social work looped in.”
“And the overdose,” he adds. “Narcan worked, vitals stable. ICU consult if deterioration. Repeat only if respiratory depression recurs.”
“Did we get tox screen?” McKay asks.
“Pending. Airway ready,” Robby confirms.
Dr Mel chuckles. “Classic weekend start, overdose, MVA, frostbite. Fun times.”
Robby smirks faintly. “Welcome to the ER. Get a drink of water or coffee, and let’s keep it moving.”
Charts shuffled, monitors checked. The team moves efficiently.
And then Robby’s eyes drift almost unconsciously toward Whittaker, standing near the counter, looking at his iPad with Nurse Jesse. The haircut catches the light, shorter curls, sharper angles, and for a heartbeat, Robby’s words falter. The patients’ charts, monitors, and everything else fades to the background for just a moment
He shakes it off, clears his throat, and turns to Dr Mohan. “Double-check vitals on the hypothermia patient before shift rotation. Morning meds at seven. Labs pending, call me with any changes.”
The ER hums around them.
The shift has started.