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It’s 12 AM on a Friday (Saturday now, he supposes) and all Dennis Whitaker gets to find himself doing is holding a handful of gauze to his painfully bleeding nose in the loud Pittsburgh Emergency Department—not at the various gay bars Trinity loves to bring him to even as they both struggle to blink the pure exhaustion out of their eyes, not sleeping in his bed, a bed, a luxury he hasn’t yet gotten used to. The bright fluorescent lights feel like they pinch at his eyes, and if he turns his gaze too far in any direction he can feel a wave of nausea fill his stomach.
It’s not the first time he’s gotten hit. He’s on the Street Team and sometimes if he’s not careful, someone who has had too rough of a go of it may get skittish, lash out when they don’t mean to. He’s also a product of his family back home, where three older brothers love to roughhouse and a father loves to lash out. It’s not even the first time he’s gotten hit on shift—two months into his rotation an older woman thought his palpating of her chest was something he was getting off on, not something he was doing simply to feel for any unusual masses or swelling.
It is the first time, however, he’s gotten hit without being around someone he knows. McKay or Kiara are almost always with him when he works with the Street Team, and he’s gotten to know them pretty well. Well enough, at least, where they simply patch him up (in McKay’s case) or talk to him gently to make sure he’s okay (in Kiara’s case) before patting him on the shoulder and sending him off early.
Even if he hasn’t spoken to his family for years now, he loved them back in Broken Bow, when their love felt like sharp jabs and pointed words, and he loves them now when their love is never reaching out, never acknowledging.
Right now, though, what he misses most is Trinity. Her mutterings about how he could have prevented this if he “wasn’t such a huckleberry,” her probes around the injury as she tries in vain to act like she doesn’t really care, not at all, even as he can feel her lighten her touches when he winces.
He has nothing against the night shift. They’re all nice enough to him, with Ellis testing his knowledge in a way that feels teasing but not in a bad way, Shen’s gallon of coffee that seems to do nothing but inspire him to get a bigger cup next time, Walsh’s comments with Abbot that are just loud enough to be overheard. He just doesn’t know them as well.
And, in his defense, they don’t know him well either. He can see the way Abbot flounders the tiniest bit after patching him up, debating whether to order him to stay for the night in case of a concussion (which Dennis would not like to do) or if he should call his emergency contact (Trinity, as of six months ago. He mentioned offhandedly that he didn’t have an emergency contact and she dragged him over to the hub where Dana was beginning to pack up her stuff, lecturing him about how stupid that was before telling Dana that she was his new contact, to just write her down.) and have them deal with him for the rest of the night.
He knows he shouldn’t keep this bed all night. Sure, he’s bleeding quite profusely from his nose, if the small pile of dried and almost burgundy gauze building up next to his thigh has anything to say about it, but blood looks worse than it is and he’s a doctor. He can handle a bit of blood or a broken bone or a mild concussion. Abbot’s already poked around the bridge of his nose enough to tell if it's broken bad enough to be a concern, and he didn’t say it was, so really he should just be letting Dennis go home now and save himself the trouble.
Whatever.
Dennis sighs and uses his left hand (crusted with a tiny bit of blood in his nail beds because he was really, really bleeding a lot) to pull out a stubbornly loose string from his scrubs, pulling it until it's almost the length of his forearm before it snaps and disconnects. He’s been waiting here for what feels like 20 minutes, and his head is hurting and he’s lightheaded and nauseous, and he’s starting to feel a whole new level of sympathy for the patients who just sit and wait for hours. Any longer and maybe he’ll just leave, leaving a note with Nurse Handzo that he left since his shift was all but over anyway.
He hears the whirring of gurney wheels somewhere outside, and he decides he really does have to leave, that he’s wasting a bed and Abbot probably forgot he was in here, or figured he left on his own once the bleeding stopped.
As Dennis picks up the crusty gauze, standing up to drop them off in the biohazard bin and ignoring the sway he feels as he does so, he sees the room’s curtain push open and—
“Dr. Robby?”
Maybe he really does have a concussion, he’s hallucinating and that punch was actually a lot harder than it felt. Maybe he’ll go ask Abbot if he can get a CT scan or go lay down in the break room for a couple of hours, because he’s imagining his boss, in an old faded band T-shirt and jeans, glasses sitting on the edge of his nose and hair flying in every direction. His watch isn’t even on his wrist, because apparently he can’t even do himself the service of conjuring a correct image of the man.
Maybe he’s actually thankful that Trinity isn’t here. How do you possibly live down being so out of it, that you’re hallucinating your admittedly handsome superior who’s a bit more than twice your age and whose constant touches you’ve spent far too many drunk nights agonizing over?
He feels himself stumble as he turns around, tripping over his left foot and throwing his hands out in front of him, even as he can feel small drops of blood start dripping over his top lip again, immediately flowing out of his nose. Before he hits the ground, he feels a pair of strong hands grab onto his shoulders, pulling him back up and squarely onto his feet.
“Careful there, Whitaker. Don’t want to hurt yourself again before you’ve even healed from the first one.” Dennis looks up, gaping as he makes eye contact with the real Dr. Robby—and that’s not his imagination, those are real hands, real arms, a real voice filling his ears. “You doing alright?”
At least he can pass off his blank expression, mindlessly blinking up at Robby as if he were some sort of God saving him, on the absolute migraine still plaguing him, the inability of his eyes to fully focus on any one thing without a sharp pang of pain forcing his eyes to squeeze shut and wince. He can feel Robby’s hands tighten slightly where they rest on his biceps, rubbing up and down slightly before going up to rest instead on his shoulders.
“Whitaker. Whitaker.” Robby repeats, voice dropping to be a bit quieter but that much more urgent.
Dennis takes it upon himself to open his eyes, moving them around to look anywhere but Robby’s face before biting the bullet and meeting his eyes, finding himself wanting to shield himself from the worry in them. “Wh—What are you doing here?” He blinks a couple more times, feeling the pain in his head subside slightly from his previous pitch forward and noticing a few more details in Robby’s face. He can see the tightness in his face, his eyebrows pinched together and eye bags hanging underneath.
“Abbot called. Said some patient punched you in the face, and he didn’t want to leave you unsupervised. Why were you up?” Robby pushes against Dennis slightly, moving him backwards until the back of his knees and he sits back on the bed.
A small part of Dennis’ mind betrays him, begins imagining some alternate universe where Robby pushes him back on his bed while they make out, his hands feeling up Dennis’ shirt and their lips intertwined. He forces the thought out of his mind—it was bad enough when he thought he was hallucinating his crush, but to get turned on by a couple of words from him?
“I, uh—I was feeling better and I figured they could use the bed. ‘was gonna head home.” He’s still nasally—too scared to stop pinching at his nose in case Robby takes it upon himself to wipe off the blood, getting his hands all dirty, too. Dennis feels himself get quieter as he explains himself, doubting his choice more and more as he sees some level of anger fill Robby’s eyes. “I would’ve had Trinity pick me up maybe—or I’d text her or something, I don’t know. It’s just a nosebleed.”
As he finishes, he looks down, wiping off some imaginary dust speckle off his thigh and scratching at the side of his head. He’s probably blushing, his face burning.
And because things love to get worse for Dennis, God loves playing this game with him where He throws him into the deep end with no life vest or and no knowledge on how to swim or float, Robby tilts his head up, gripping his chin softly in between one of his hands, and clasping his other hand over Dennis’ right. He gently leads his hand down and away from his nose, watching as blood slowly trickles out. He mumbles under his breath “Would she come pick you up? It’s late.”
Dennis tries to consider it—he wouldn’t have wanted to bother her now, actually. Not when she finally got a night with Garcia without their schedules clashing. But he can’t consider it too much because Robby’s hand is still on his chin and his big, rough and calloused hand is still over his, and he can feel his exhales on his cheek.
“Hm?” Robby sounds when Dennis doesn’t reply. He can feel the bleeding has mostly stopped. He should wipe off the dried blood off his lip so it doesn’t crust grossly. He should take a shower and wash away this day, finally. He should reply.
“Um… Yeah. I think. If not, I guess I could walk home. It’s not too far.” He pauses. This is too much for him right now, not when he has a concussion and he’s so tired and he wants to go home and sleep. He could sleep now, he supposes. His head will stop hurting and maybe the nausea will pass, and if he’s lucky he’ll dream about Robby. About—”Wait. Why are you here? Why did Abbot call you?”
At least here, Robby has the sense to seem bashful. He shifts his eyes away slightly, eventually standing up and heading to the sink to wet a small piece of paper towel, handing it to Dennis. “Can’t let one of my residents get injured.” Their fingers brush slightly as he hands it off, and sure, that makes sense, Dennis supposes. He doesn’t want to have to work a shift without him, if he’s too concussed to work or if he passes out or something. He’d get the same call if Samira or Mel got injured. His head hurts too much for all of this. “Come on. Your nose stopped bleeding. Let’s get you home.”
He steps back half a step, enough where Dennis’ shoes can hit the ground without being right on top of Robby’s, but small enough that their chests briefly graze against each other as he stands. He nods dumbly. Robby smiles a bit at him, telling him to wait there for two seconds and allowing him the time to fully wipe his top lip. He watches him go up to where Abbot is working at a computer, Abbot nodding along and looking behind him to where Dennis stands before smirking and turning back to his station.
Robby heads back over to him, leading him back towards the entrance and into the parking lot where presumably his car sits. He places his arm around Dennis’ back, acting like it was his leg he injured rather than his nose. He’ll take it though—another moment to toss and turn while thinking about, another moment to ramble about to Trinity while too drunk to watch his own mouth.
Finally they reach his car, Robby stepping around first to open the door before helping in. The seats are a worn sort of leather that only comes from years and years of use, the dashboard has small scratches in it, and an air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror, filling the car with the scent of pine. Robby leans over, buckling him in (even though it was his nose he hurt, not his hands. Again, another moment.) and making sure his legs are fully in before closing the door and walking around to the other side.
He sits in, heavy into the seat and instantly comfortable, molding into the seat. Seatbelt on, hands flying out to lower the music on the radio to a quiet hum. He begins to pull out, turning to Dennis as if he needs reassurance he’s still there, but never asking him what direction to go, never asking where he lives. Maybe that’s what he asked Abbot earlier—to find his address in his employee record so he didn’t have to ask. He’d have to know his way around the city pretty well, though, to not need to ask how to get there.
“I thought you had a motorcycle,” Dennis starts. He’s tired, still, and he knows there’s a chance he digs himself deeper into this hole, accidentally asks Robby to take him to his house, to kiss him better and cuddle with him until their shift tomorrow. But he also knows that he can’t let this chance slip away, a chance to just talk with Robby, without the weight of the ED on their shoulders.
Robby glances towards him quickly, his right hand resting on the middle console between them. The steering wheel glides beneath his hand as he makes a slight right. “Yeah, a ‘69 Triumph. Figure you wouldn’t be up to riding a motorcycle. Thought this’d be easier.” He chuckles a bit, straightening the wheel back out and slowing down as they come up to a red light.
Dennis nods along as he talks again. A missed opportunity—holding on tight to Robby’s back, feeling his chest, the pudge of his stomach as he turned, the only thing he could smell being Robby. This late, he probably woke up just to get to the PTMC. He wouldn’t have the smell of any cologne, whatever soap he uses might have faded so that the only smell was pure Robby, nothing else.
God, forgive me. Thinking about sniffing his boss, when he’s doing him a favor, coming in the dead of night on a Friday after what was probably a tough day shift, just to pick up a first-year resident who can’t avoid a punch.
“Sorry for—for making you wake up to come. If I knew he was gonna call you, I would’ve—” He cuts himself off. What would he have done? Not ask him to call Trinity, and certainly not anyone else on the day shift, who he considers himself friends with but would never burden with his shit like this. He’s not worth that.
“Kid, I’m happy he called me. Wasn’t doing anyone any good to have you just sitting there, waiting.” He tries to sound a bit light as he says this, the light turning green and allowing him the mercy of facing forward. His voice is still strained, jaw tight and his right hand joins the wheel. His grip tightens briefly before he forces them to relax. “What exactly happened anyway? I can’t imagine you doing anything to warrant getting punched.”
Dennis looks out the window. He doesn’t recognize this part of town that well. Maybe it’s some weird back roads route to Trinity’s place. He should’ve been paying attention so they could start commuting this way, do what he can to thank her for letting him stay. “He was just angry, I think. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Robby nods, says nothing.
A couple of months ago, Dennis recalls he and Samira working together on the night shift. Some teenager whose mother worked in Orthopedics found himself in the PTMC, wandering around without any real purpose, and one way or another he accidentally caused Samira to get cut by a scalpel. It wasn’t anything serious, Dennis remembers, clean and shallow enough where Abbot took care of it quickly in the staff lounge before letting her finish her shift. Robby didn’t show up.
He feels more than sees the car stop. He must’ve zoned out or something.
“Alright, we’re here.” He watches Robby get out of the car, and focuses all of his energy on unbuckling the seatbelt and opening the door. He hears the backseat open, Robby reaching in quickly to grab something, before he closes it shut and comes around to Dennis’ side.
This isn’t Trinity’s place. They’re parked in front of a townhouse, dark brown bricks standing over him. He hears Robby open his car door, standing up mostly out of instinct, before turning to him confusedly. There’s no way—”Is this your place?”
Robby turns to his place, as if he has to check, before nodding. “Yeah—is that okay? I didn’t want to leave you alone at your place, and I wasn’t sure Santos would want me in her place at midnight with no warning.” Oh. Well that makes sense. He never did tell Robby he and Trinity lived together, and Robby doesn’t seem the type to look at employee records close enough to warrant a repeat address.
“N-no, yeah, that’s fine. Um. Thank you, again.”
Robby nods and begins walking towards the steps of his house, a familiar bag on his shoulder. Dennis’ bag. It never even crossed his mind to grab it from the lounge. He pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, stepping back to allow Dennis in first before following and closing the door.
“Uh, shoes off?” Dennis asks, doing all he can to look around without seeming like he’s snooping. He hears Robby’s yes and he obediently toes off his shoes, pushing them with his feet neatly against the wall. Robby places his bag on the floor next to his shoes, and begins heading into the kitchen, picking up a half empty beer bottle from the table on his way.
“D’you want anything to eat? Or drink? I can throw your clothes in the wash overnight, but you can come in late tomorrow.” Robby rambles, pouring out the beer and grabbing a glass from the cabinet above. Dennis slinks his way over, standing on the other side of the counter and watching the older man fill it with cold water from the tap before placing it in front of him. At Dennis’ lack of response, he raises his eyebrow at him, gesturing his shoulder towards the fridge. “I don’t have a ton, but if you want a sandwich or something I can whip something up.”
Dennis shakes his head slightly, careful of his head. There really was something domestic about this, he realized. Robby’s socks were mismatched, and he leaned against the counter so comfortably, like Dennis being in his house wasn’t an abnormality. Almost like it was something he could get used to.
“If you’re sure. Drink that.” He ordered. “Could I grab your clothes from your bag?” At Dennis’ nod he walked over and picked up the bag, placing it on the counter in between them as Dennis chugged the water, unaware of just how thirsty he was. He opened up the zip, grabbing the clothes that lay folded on the top before walking over to a side room where he imagined the washing machine was. When Robby came back, he filled the glass back up with water before watching Dennis drink, gaze unmoving.
“Abbot checked you for a concussion already, so I’ll let you go to sleep now. I’ll wake you up to check on you in a couple hours.”
Dennis nodded kind of absently. There was something nagging in the back of his mind, something he wasn’t able to avoid even as his head sort of pounded and he still dreamed of finally getting to sleep. “Why didn’t Abbot call you that one time Samira got hurt on shift?” He watched Robby freeze a bit, stopping in his movement of placing the glass in the sink before continuing like nothing had happened. “She’s a more senior resident, so you need her more on shift, anyway.” And maybe he should have shut up. Robby was doing him a favor, giving him water and washing his clothes and letting him spend the night, even if it was just so he didn’t have to deal with Gloria’s monologue about ensuring patient satisfaction scores even when he didn’t have his entire staff present. He shouldn’t be questioning his boss, who was treating him like a friend and helping him, when he doesn’t have to.
“Abbot had that covered. Samira’s worked on the night shift more than you have, so she and Abbot are closer, and he probably figured she’d be fine without needing to call me down.” Robby reasoned, eyes focused on a piece of dried sauce on the counter he was slowly picking at with his nail.
“Still—when Trinity got sick on night shift, they called me, not you. Even though she had to miss work ‘cause of it.” And maybe this was actually okay to do, this was a good line of questioning to hit him with. Maybe it was all clicking together, that there really was something between Robby and him.
Robby looked up at him, eyes wide and shoulders slightly slumped. He sighed and stopped picking at the dried stain, taking a step back. “He called me… cause I have a, uh,” he sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ve a bit of a soft spot for you, I guess. I don’t know. It’s late. Come on, you should be going to bed.”
He pushed off from the counter completely, heading to wherever he was going to have Dennis sleep.
Was it the way Robby looked at him, even when he was covered in his own blood, blinking away the bright lights and wobbling slightly? Was it the way he tensed in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel when he thought about Dennis getting punched? Was it the way he tried to make this all seem like it was nothing, like he would do this for any other resident, even when they both knew he hadn’t in the past? Was it because his head hurt too bad and he was too tired to think properly?
Dennis walked up to where Robby stood, waiting for Dennis to catch up, before reaching up, grabbing his cheeks, and pulling him down for a kiss.
He heard Robby make a noise, something between a gasp and a groan, and he felt his hands reach behind, grabbing at Dennis’ back before going up to tangle themselves in his hair, carefully kissing back. Dry lips and soft beard scratched against his mouth, fingernails softly digging into his scalp. He pulled back a second later, coming to terms with himself. “You’re—We’re—” he cut himself off, stepping back. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. You’re not thinking straight.” He turned around without waiting for a response, leading Dennis down a hallway and into a sparsely decorated bedroom.
The TV played some miscellaneous sitcom on mute, brightening the room and showing off the dusty picture frame on the left bedside table, the watch lying next to it, the dresser on the side of the room with shirts peeking out.
He heads over to the dresser and grabs a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, handing them to Dennis without looking and heading into the bathroom.
He came back out a moment after, hand running over his face and a certain frantic look in his eyes. “Why did you do that?” He looked at Dennis for a moment, making direct eye contact before running his hand over his face once again.
“I…” Dennis paused. Backtrack, and risk losing a chance it seems he’s been absolutely gifted, or push through, and risk losing one of the most treasured relationships in his life right now (even if it’s just boss and employee) and his dream job? “I’ve been wanting to do that.” He settled on. Plain, unemotional to some extent. Makes him seem less pathetic at least.
“Jesus Chris—We can’t do this. We shouldn’t do this.” And wasn’t that a reassuring answer? Nothing about how he didn’t want to do it, about how Dennis was wrong for pushing himself onto him. It didn’t seem like a kind of pity, either. Not that Robby would act like that anyway, not for what was at worst, a mild concussion.
“We can hide it at work.” He took a step forward. Still a bit wobbly, but not as insecure as he might’ve been a minute ago. “This can be just for us.”
He watched Robby’s shoulders tense, eyes coming up to look at him with pure want in his eyes, before his shoulders fell and he sighed. “We can talk about this, figure it out, in the morning. I want you to get some rest. Change into those, I’m going to brush my teeth.”
Dennis watched as he entered the bathroom once more, robotically stripping himself of his shirt and pants before changing into it. He folded them up and held them, unsure of where to place them. A moment or two later, Robby stepped out of the bathroom, beard dripping with water from the sink. Robby pointed behind him, “There should be a toothbrush below the sink. Take your time, then get comfortable and go to sleep.” He walked up and grabbed the clothes from Dennis’ hands, smiling down at him slightly before heading out of the room.
Dennis walked into the bathroom, finding the unopened pack beneath the sink and using it quickly before heading back into the bed. Surely he wasn’t meant to sleep in what was clearly Robby’s bed. And where was Robby going to sleep? He sat on the very edge of the bed, listening closely for footsteps to imply Robby was coming back.
Robby knocked on the open door of the bedroom, walking in a moment later with a cup of water before placing it on the bedside table. “You’ll be sleeping in here. I can sleep outside, if you want. On the couch.” He paused, eyes searching Dennis’ face for some reaction.
“I can’t take your bed,” Dennis tried. “You could…” Here, he hesitated. Presumptuous enough to kiss him, was it too far to ask to sleep in the same bed? “The bed seems pretty big…”
Robby smiled a bit, chuckling before dropping his head. “I think that’ll work.” He turned headed into the bathroom once more, switching his jeans into a pair of sweatpants before going to the right side of bed. Nevermind that it seemed he slept on the left, where his watch and knickknacks were. He raised his side of the blanket, not perfectly made but not messy in a way that implied he had been sleeping before Abbot’s call, getting in and watching Dennis do the same, staying as far on his side as he could without falling off.
Dennis inched his way closer, leaving only a couple of inches in between them. “Good night, Robby.” he whispered, already feeling himself falling asleep. He’d been running on fumes for the last six hours, being in a bedroom must have hit him with a sudden wave of exhaustion he just couldn’t fight back. “Thank you for everything tonight.”
“Good night, Dennis.” Robby whispered back. “It’s no problem.”
And if Dennis felt Robby’s hand reach into his hair, caressing it gently until he was fully asleep, that was just between them.