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He’s done quite a few things he isn’t proud of, but putting on aftershave before going on his first night shift after nearly a decade was pushing it.
Robby knew he’d stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary. Too long. The bottle had hovered in his hand while he argued with himself. New schedule. That’s all. Not butterflies. And we’re definitely not calling that godawful feeling in his stomach anticipation. We’re ignoring that Dennis Whitaker will be there, and Robby just wanted to smell nice.
“You’re basically a senior citizen, Michael,” he’d muttered. “Get a grip.”
And then he’d put the aftershave on anyway.
Robby had been obvious enough already when he’d gotten coffee and those Belgian chocolate chip cookies he heard Dana tell him Whitaker liked just a couple of days ago. He’d never expected karma to rain down on him in the form of Gloria Underwood deciding he’d pushed a little too hard with signing that damn petition as a senior physician. HR had also added that it was bad for morale if even they, Abbot and he, made their opinion irrevocably known, and were setting a bad example. For whom?
Robby didn’t know because nearly everyone’s name had been on there.
But just to make a point. He wasn’t bringing in any treats today like he’s been doing for the past few years.
It started just as a stupid idea, really. Then it grew into the thought that Whitaker needed to take better care of himself after he heard Santos complain to Garcia about the kid always working, always studying, always putting others before himself.
Whitaker did look pale and a bit thin. He could use a decent meal or two, and Robby had never been a good cook, nor could he just come out and ask the kid out for dinner out of the blue. That would be weird. Unprofessional, and not to mention, creepy as hell because of the obvious age gap and unethical decision to try to woo your ex-intern. That would be bad taste. Not that he’s trying to woo Whitaker of all things. Nope.
That’s more than pushing it if Gloria knew.
He’d imagined it once. Just once. A neutral restaurant. Public. Safe. Maybe Barbara’s little Italian place. It would be perfect. “We should celebrate you signing on with the PTMC now that your residency is completed,” he’d say, like that was the only reason. Dennis would smile that soft, surprised smile and agree. They’d talk about fellowship programs and cases, and not the way Robby’s lost sleep because of the memories of Whitaker offering him that damn hand.
He’d shut that fantasy down so fast he’d nearly given himself whiplash.
So, instead, small things. Yes, he could get away with those. A little extra purpose to his otherwise empty and bleak days filled with either adrenaline in the Pitt, or staring at his walls at home.
Jack had finally been able to convince him to go talk to someone after only six months of nudging Robby, trying to make him snap at the innocent veteran—is he innocent, though?—and Robby had finally broken down. Not because of that, but because of both Jack and Dana ganging up on him and pointing out that he needed the mental and emotional work done, or otherwise, he might never be equipped to fix whatever was going on with Jake.
Jake, who rarely responded to his texts. Never picked up the phone when Robby called, and it was only because of Janey’s kind nature that Robby was able to get an update or two every month or so. He was starving to see or hear from the kid, but Jake had been clear, and just like Collins, he wanted space.
Robby could do space. Even if it hurt him like a motherfucker.
Space. He’d thought he was good at that. He’d built his entire career around professional distance, and it had bled over in all the aspects of his life, evolving into emotional distance, and then pushing anyone he might have liked away just… Better safe than sorry, right?
But when Whitaker had stood in the impromptu morgue that night of PittFest, eyes wide and horrified, way out of his depth, watching Robby fall apart, the distance had collapsed. He still remembered Dennis’ hand hovering at his elbow—unsure, wanting to help. Robby had flinched away. Not because he didn’t want it. Because he’d wanted it too much. He needed someone to help him, but he’s too fucking prideful to take it when it’s offered. So it was extremely dangerous of Dana to point out to him how Whitaker saw and just took care of things. Temptation. So close.
Robby needed him to fix him, and he knew how fucked up that was. He should continue going to therapy. Work on himself, and definitely not depend on a thirty-something-year-old kid to take him on as a project and redo all of the rooms when the poured concrete foundations weren’t even dry yet.
He was too old to change. Too old and miserable to let someone in, even if that person had a heart of gold and the patience of a Saint. Robby didn’t deserve something as good as that, and looking at Whitaker, looking at the people around him trying to be happy, and making it in life, Robby knew he didn’t have what it took to make it happen for himself. He was used to fixing everything at work.
Personally?
He’s a mess, and he doesn’t have the energy or the mental and emotional capacity to even start to clean up the despairing, sad sack of shit he was.
It was cruel how fast time went the older you got. Before he knew it, it had been one year of keeping track of Whitaker’s progress thanks to the efforts of his colleagues and his subtle questioning. He may or may not have lurked around the staff room more often, hoping to catch anything, but Whitaker’s private life seemed pretty separated from his professional, and Robby could only take notes of that.
One year turned into two without ceremony. Then three.
There hadn’t been a moment when Robby consciously decided to keep watching. It just… never stopped.
At first, it had been easy to justify. He was still an attending. Whitaker was still a resident. Of course, he’d ask Jack how he was doing. Of course, he’d skim charts a little longer if Dennis’ name was on them. Of course, he’d pause outside a trauma bay, after staying in late, if he heard that familiar cadence giving orders.
Robby called it professional curiosity. Maybe even reaping the rewards from his short mentorship. Prideful fool that he was.
By year two, Whitaker didn’t need pride from him anymore.
The kid—no, the man—had grown into himself. He stopped second-guessing every call. He pushed back on consults with evidence instead of an apology. He started mentoring interns the way Robby used to mentor him: relentless, demanding, quietly protective, and above all, with empathy, kindness, and forgiveness. He would be better in five years than Robby was pushing sixty.
He also couldn’t help but notice the shift in how people spoke about him.
“Whitaker handled it,” Dana would say, tone satisfied.
“Ask Dennis,” Jack would shrug. “He’s got it.”
Dennis. No longer the kiddo, or Huckleberry, like Santos liked to call him. Dennis.
He learned to gather information without asking directly. A raised brow at Santos when she came to steal the good stuff from their fridge.
A casual, “How’s night shift running?” to Shen when he knew he’d been working. Lingering by the board just long enough to clock who was paired with whom. He even drew up the notes Whitaker made on the interns, which were accessible to all attendings, and Whitaker’s remarks were awesome to read. To the point, educational, and then sometimes these smart little tidbits that made Robby nearly die of laughter.
He knew when Dennis switched from coffee to tea during a stretch of night rotations, and back to coffee again after a horrible building collapse. Knew when he finally started bringing his own food instead of grabbing vending machine crap, or just going hungry.
Santos suspiciously had the same kind of snacks in a similar container, and then Perlah enlightened him to the fact that the two were now roommates.
Robby knew when he’d taken a week off—“Family thing,” Dana had said, watching Robby carefully—and how Dennis would come back quieter, looking even more tired, but sharper, and according to Santos’ gossip with King, Whitaker had never gone back to Nebraska. Maybe the kid needed an official enough-sounding excuse to grant himself some well-deserved rest. Robby recognized that, too. He felt guilty if he wasn’t working or making himself useful all the time. Was that a societal thing or just a sign they’re both too damaged?
Three years is long enough for a crush to burn itself out.
Three years is long enough to prove it isn’t just novelty.
Robby had tested himself more than once.
He’d deliberately avoided shift overlaps when he could. Chosen committee meetings over hallway run-ins. Taken a longer route to Radiology if he saw Whitaker’s broad shoulders ahead of him. He’d even tried the nuclear option—volunteering for extra administrative garbage just to cut down on floor time, and get on Underwood’s good side.
It didn’t work because the absence didn’t fucking cool it. At all. It made it worse. Made his heart grew fonder, more desperate, more starved to get a tiny morsel of the guy taking over the scepter in his ED.
Dennis’ presence lingered in the department like a scent Robby could pick up blindfolded. The echo of his laugh from down the corridor when nurses recounted the guy’s jokes. The way interns clustered around the charting table, taking notes on how to do it right from Whitaker’s public notes, which he let them review as a great teaching opportunity.
The subtle confidence that had replaced the eager need for approval in how he was taking his place, not even labeling his food, and knowing people would leave it alone.
All but Santos, maybe.
Whitaker wasn’t afraid any longer to lose his spot and dare to take up all of the space he deserved.
At least, not at work, he wasn’t.
Robby told himself that what he felt was nostalgia. That he missed being needed. That watching a protégé outgrow you always stung. Except that wasn’t it. He’d had about a hundred interns running after him, and not a lot of them stuck around in his head like a bad song he couldn’t get rid of. He rarely found one of them to be intelligent enough for the Pitt; this place was brutal, but then in one year, he’d had so many promising talents.
Maybe that had made him more attentive, more critical of students tagging him and following in his footsteps during that time?
He definitely wasn’t prone to note things like their jokes, their smiles, their fucking curls and freckles.
It wasn’t the loss of authority that twisted in his gut when he saw Whitaker across the ED, sleeves shoved up showing off two surprisingly muscular arms, freckles darker in the fluorescent light.
It wasn’t ego that made his pulse jump when the kid mentioned Robby’s name on a report after asking for a consult via email. Giving thanks and praise where and when it was due.
It was something embarrassingly simple.
Robby liked him. The kid wasn’t a project. He might have never been. And he definitely wasn’t just a symbol of missed, bygone youth or Robby’s chance at redemption.
He liked the way Whitaker’s clean-up from the night before made Jesse tilt his head, smiling softly to himself at having less of a mess to take care of when he started his shift. He liked hearing from Donnie that the kid had learned to say a kind prayer for every religion that passed through these hallways. How he was practicing his Tagalog with Santos, Princess, and Perlah, and even took care to help the Muslim staff when Ramadan started, asking respectful questions about it to Ahmad, and looking into ways to make it easier for their colleagues to combine their religion with their work.
Whitaker had even alerted Underwood to a couple of incompetent consultants, which earned him scorn and more scrutiny from above, but, according to Shamsi’s account, he ultimately won his case for the betterment of the hospital.
It was impressive, and the kid never asked for anything in return.
He still looked exhausted, though, but he wore it like a badge instead of a complaint, and Robby wanted to kiss those bruises under those beautiful, sad-looking eyes.
It gave him three fucking years of evidence.
Over three fucking years of denial.
And still, Whitaker’s private life remained locked down tight.
No office gossip about significant others. No dramatic breakups in the parking lot. No flirtations on shift that lasted longer than a polite smile, and Robby was glad that Tate had moved to Family Med because he couldn’t bear it if the two had started something in his ED, and he’d had to bear the gossip about their happy little life.
If Whitaker dated, he did it quietly. Cleanly. Away from the hospital. Again, professional boundaries respected. More than Robby ever could.
Jack had once told him that he caught sight of Whitaker outside the building, laughing at something on his phone. But it could as well have been a friend or a family member. Or a stupid meme. Still, when he told Robby, for a split second, jealousy had flared so hot it startled him. He’d thought about opening the kid’s locker. Check his phone like a fucking lunatic. He didn’t.
Of course, he fucking didn’t.
Whitaker deserved way fucking better. He deserved to be happy and to find that happiness with someone good and bright. Someone kind and young. Because what right did Robby have?
So instead, he collected fragments. Because that’s all he could do within the pretense of professional curiosity. No following the kid home, or getting personal information from his file. Robby wouldn’t even consider bribing Santos or Whitaker’s other friends on the role.
The kid got a new jacket. A slightly more healthy tan.
A different cologne. The faint shadow of stubble that hadn’t been there before. Confidence settling into his shoulders. A voice that no longer wavered when challenging attendings.
A new, nice haircut that made those curls even more enticing.
He heard that the kid collected used magazines to put in Chairs, stating that a study showed that people would be more patient if they had something to read and talk about.
Fixed the fan for Lupe and the other clerks, and helped digitize old cases with Kiara to assist the social workers department.
Kid wanted to give her peace of mind before she went on her sabbatical with her wife.
But what about my peace of mind? Huh?
Three years of watching someone become extraordinary.
Three years of wanting to step closer.
Three years of choosing not to.
By then, Robby could no longer pretend it was a phase. Not loneliness. Not trauma bonding. Not a sad, middle-aged man clinging to youth. It had endured routine, distance, anger, therapy, other dates, and deliberate self-sabotage.
And the worst part?
Whitaker still looked at him like Robby had any worth whenever their paths did cross. He couldn’t have left such an impression during Whitaker’s rotation that he still acted towards Robby like they’d been on shift together since forever.
The kid would think quite differently, though, if he only knew how much Robby had to keep himself from actively obsessing over him.
“Thanks, Dr. Robby, for that second opinion!” Had him close to hyperventilating in the restroom.
“Great save yesterday morning with the bus accident!”
“Numbers are looking good from this weekend,” thrown his way. Sometimes with an aborted fist-bump or followed by a weak thumbs-up and a forced smile on his way out.
Robby stored those moments away. Tried not to think about them too much when he hit the end of an album, that gray static noise filling his living room and mind.
They crossed more often than Robby liked to admit.
The ED wasn’t large enough for real avoidance, not when you knew someone’s gait by sound alone. Not when you could identify their presence by the shift in energy behind you.
The night shift, now, though. An absolute nightmare, logistically speaking, alone, it was already bad enough, but Robby had to admit to himself that he’s a creature of habit. Strongly so. He’d not really expected how hard it would be to see the shuffling around on his roster. Different nurses, technicians, doctors,… All of them competent as hell, no doubt, but still. There would be no smooth transition, people knowing what he needed or would say before he needed or said it.
Underwood had, metaphorically, swept the ground from underneath his feet and put him back as Whitaker’s attending to make it even worse.
Shit. Shit. Shit. His thoughts kept screaming at him all the way to the PTMC. Not even turning up the volume of his AirPods made him feel any better. The only little bit of light in his future might be Dana, who’d promised to go half-half, and he’s so fucking grateful for that.
She clocked him three months into this entire stupid thing and hadn’t judged him at all. The one face he really knew would still be there. One comfort. One point of steadiness he could focus on when he’s daydreaming about Whitaker again.
It seems quite impossible to be so taken with a kid you’ve only mentored for a little over a month, and his feelings for the boy should have passed, but they’ve only grown worse.
Robby talked about it to his therapist, who told him he was rationalizing things too much, but he had to. He had to find a solution.
“What if it’s not rational?” the therapist had asked gently.
“It’s hormones,” Robby had shot back. “Loneliness. Trauma bonding. He saw me at my worst.”
“And?”
“And that makes people think stupid things.”
“Like?”
“Like confusing gratitude with… something else.”
The therapist had tilted her head. “Are you sure it’s gratitude you’re feeling?”
Robby had stared at the bookshelf instead of answering. He won’t even tell her about his theory that he might just be touch-starved, and the kid had been so easy to grab…
He just… He just hadn’t found a solution yet.
He tried going cold turkey. Not even allowing a glimpse or a whisper from Whitaker to reach his ears. It had taken Robby weeks to notice how he arrived way too early for his shifts and stuck around even longer, unconsciously making it harder for himself to skip a chance at seeing the kid.
Then he told himself he could have little sips. Just to check up on Whitaker. Like a good mentor would do. He was still an attending, and he should be kept apprised of how his staff was doing in Emergency.
A few sips became lungfuls of breath, his blood warming at the thought, and for once, no longer oxygen-deprived, it kept getting worse. He wanted to drown in it the more he learned about the kid. It was horrible. It was pathetic.
He’d memorized the different laughs of Whitaker without meaning to. His favorite, currently, was the one where it started low in his chest before spilling out, unguarded. Robby knew which cases made the kid animated, which ones made him quiet. He knew the crease that formed between his brows when he was thinking, and how he pursed his mouth. Those pretty, soft-looking pink lips.
None of that was appropriate knowledge for a man in his position.
None of it felt optional anymore.
It was the reason why he’d curled up on his shower’s floor until the water turned cold, his extremities blue, before breaking and calling Jack.
It’s the reason why the veteran had almost literally escorted him, dragged by the scruff, into therapy.
So, he’d gone. And it helped.
Somewhat.
Did it make him feel angry? Yes. Confused? Yes.
Was he crying more often than before? Also yes.
Still, he kept it together at work, and that’s all he needed. His world could crash down as soon as he stepped outside, but he couldn’t let his team know what a weak, pathetic man he was. Perving after a kid half his age.
Shit, it was bad enough that he thought Whitaker endearing, growing more capable and confident with each passing day, according to his co-workers, but when he actually started fantasizing about the kid.
There, Robby had to draw the line.
It wasn’t even explicit. That was the humiliating part. It wasn’t just bodies or skin, which he could try to blame on the fact that it’s been years since he shared a bed with someone. Fantasies where Whitaker was looking at him and telling him to just relax. To stop thinking. Taking care of Robby’s needs before Robby even knew he had them.
That fantasy did more damage than any crude re-written memory his mind ever could make him pretend truly happened.
He’d signed up for dating apps. Tried to go out a few times, even dipped his toes back into dating the same gender, something he hadn’t done since his college days, but it had made everything just so much worse.
The first profile he matched with had used the word ‘adventure’ six times in three messages.
“Life’s too short to play small,” she’d said over overpriced cocktails, leaning forward like she was pitching a startup.
Robby had nodded at the appropriate intervals, smiled when she smiled, but all he could think was how Whitaker’s grin had never looked rehearsed. It had always cracked across his face like he couldn’t quite contain it. The kid couldn’t lie for the life of him, and this woman… Her laugh was off simply because she didn’t have that kind of adorable crooked grin Whitaker got.
Some guy started a rant on their first coffee date about how religious people couldn’t mingle, and how glad he was that Robby was Jewish, too.
“It’s important to date within the faith,” the man had insisted, tapping the table for emphasis. “Shared values.”
Shared values.
Robby had almost laughed. Shared what, exactly? Trauma? Night shifts? The ability to intubate under pressure? Trauma bonding was a real thing, so maybe that explained his initial imprinting on the kid.
Whitaker had never once asked him about going to a synagogue. Never asked if Robby was religious. He’d just asked what he’d been saying, and then Robby had talked about his grandmother. The personal anecdote spilling out before he could help it. He never even talked about her to Jack or even to Janey when they had been together.
Another woman chastised him for waiting too long to start a family, since she was a mother and stepmom to three kids in total. That had made him clam up, because at this point, he couldn’t even bring up Jake anymore. Was he still a stepdad?
He couldn’t talk about Collins’ decision that hadn’t included him at all, and for which he knew he never should have been able to weigh in.
Was he allowed to mourn a kid that never was?
“You don’t want kids?” she’d pressed, studying him like he was a chart with missing labs. He hated it when the interns signed off on the file, incomplete and everything.
“I—”
What was he supposed to say? I had one. I lost him. I’m not sure I’m allowed to miss him out loud.
He’d paid the bill early.
He tried dating younger, pushing himself way out of his comfort zone, but maybe that was why Collins and Whitaker had drawn him to them.
A thirty-year-old nurse practitioner had touched his forearm lightly and said, “You seem intense.”
Intense. If they knew. Robby was more than just intense. He was obsessive. A control-freak. A responsibility addict, or maybe it was a neurosis at his point. He felt spread thin. Scattered.
So, it wasn’t the age either. Fuck, nothing worked. It just wasn’t the right… Frequency. The one he’d felt when Whitaker held out his hands for a double fist—bump, or threw him a smirk after one of Robby’s smart-ass remarks during the kid’s rotation.
Every comparison circled back to Dennis.
Too loud. Too polished. Too detached. Not enough fire. Not enough stubbornness. Not enough heart. Not enough freakin’ compassion in eyes that could never be as full with expression as Whitaker’s were.
It wasn’t fair to anyone he met. They were strangers competing with a ghost that was very much alive and working two corridors down on the night shift.
Even if they’d gone on a couple of dates, everything going well, Robby still couldn’t bring himself to invite them home or cross their threshold and go upstairs when he dropped them off. Even just a kiss made his dick all but shrivel up into his body.
One woman had lingered in the doorway, hopeful. “You’re not even going to try?”
“I don’t rush things,” he’d replied, playing the gentleman card for all he’s worth, already stepping back.
He wasn’t really lying. He just wasn’t capable. He deleted her number as soon as he got home after shooting off a friendly message to tell her it wouldn’t work out.
Whitaker’s loyalty on the work floor had rubbed off in entirely the wrong way on Robby. And he tried so fucking hard not to think about Whitaker and rubbing in the same sentence, but when it happened, he felt like such a dirty, disgusting, old lech. Forced himself into cold showers, to work harder, to turn up the volume of his recorder or TV, just to drown out his lustful, unwanted thoughts. It even moved him to start working out again, brushing off the dust on the equipment in his basement because he’s too embarrassed to go outside. Afraid his shame might bleed out into the street just like Leah had done underneath his hands.
The worst part wasn’t the arousal. It was the tenderness tangled up in it. The memory of Whitaker laughing, head tipped back.
The way he’d said, “Good call, Dr. Robby,” soft and sincere.
The way he’d stood between a violent patient and a nurse when things got heated. That story had made almost every nurse under the age of fifty look at the kid with heart-eyes for the next three weeks. Whitaker probably was a patron saint to the nurses on their floor right about now.
It didn’t keep him from humping his mattress in his sleep, memories of freckles, wide blue eyes, a huffed laugh, and then he woke. Sweaty, frustrated, and nearly brought to tears. It was something that should be on the DSM-5, but when he looked, he just ticked off all the boxes for depression, PTSD, anxiety, ADHD, and the list went on and on. He might need to become one of those people who bought all those self-help books.
“It’s displacement,” he’d muttered once during therapy. “I just needed something to focus on until I get my shit together, and apparently, my mind latched onto him.” I’m the parasite. It’s me, he desperately, wordlessly begs her to point the finger at him. But she can’t read his mind, no one can, and he can’t talk. He can’t fucking talk about what truly ails him.
“Is it?” his therapist had asked calmly.
“It’s easier to want someone unavailable.”
“Is he unavailable?”
Robby hadn’t answered. Even if Whitaker wasn’t, there was a long line of suitors more respectable and deserving than Robby.
So, yeah, fuck his libido. He worked out a system. Once a week, he allowed himself a quick jerk-off session. Laptop wide open on some porn, just a mouth and a dick, enough to harden a little, and then his hand did the rest. Thinking of nothing but trying to force his body to release some of the pent-up frustration. Automatic. Robotic. Impersonal. Just enough to take the edge off, and it worked. He kept the volume low. No faces if he could avoid it. No voices. Nothing that could accidentally morph into blue eyes and a stubborn mouth.
He didn’t long for a relationship with anyone. He didn’t want anyone touching him; he had never liked touch, especially not when he didn’t see it coming. When he hadn’t planned for it.
And Robby definitely did not want himself to want Dennis Whitaker.
Because wanting meant risking. Wanting meant admitting that when Whitaker’s coat still hung on Robby’s desk chair when he arrived for his own day shift, every nerve in his body lit up. Wanting meant acknowledging that he leaned—subtly, unconsciously—deeper into that coat when he sat down. Inhaling slowly and then shivering like a junkie who had another rush.
What a fucking creep.
Walking into the ED, the familiar scents and sounds rushing in, Robby immediately zeroed in on Dana, already barking orders to get her first half-shift up and running the way she needed it to. Robby bowed to her knowledge.
“Hi, Dana,” Robby said quietly. She knew how he felt about all of this. And she knew he knew she knew. Jack knew, too. They’ve known him for far too long not to notice how he avoided Whitaker like the plague.
His text messages to Jack were damning evidence if HR ever got hold of them. He remembers a couple of months ago, he might have sent Jack a million messages, asking for an update during the one time Whitaker took some time off because he was ill. That… That was not Robby’s finest moment.
Dana just saw straight through him.
“Hey, Cap,” she smiled slightly. “You ready for…”
For your first shift back with the object of your obsession? Your unrequited crush on a kid half your age? The focus on whatever underlying psychological issues you still haven’t and maybe never can deal with?
“It’s fine,” Robby waved her off, his eyes on the screen, and he held out his hand when she started looking to give him his pad.
“You sure?”
“I’ve got this handled, Dana.” He threw her an apologetic look. He hadn’t meant to snap at her. Dana nodded. She’s gotten all the proof she needed. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready. He needed another decade, perhaps, to give this unethical, wrong, one-sided love story-that-could-never-be a place.
The kid was going places.
He was funny, kind, resourceful, beautiful, smart, and Robby was… Way past his prime. He hurt the people he liked. All the time. The kid should stay as far away from him as possible. Robby was secretly hoping that Whitaker would kinda give him the cold shoulder, just like Robby had done to him.
He probably will because nobody can be so forgiving. You have that one shift from hell, the entire PittFest shooting fiasco, you find your mentor crying like a toddler with a tantrum in the morgue, your mentor who pushes you away, curses you out, and then tries to bury you under empty platitudes, just to then start ignoring you, moving away professionally and physically on purpose. If Dennis knew the real reason, he would be running for the hills. So, yeah, not a lot of room for forgiveness if the kid was anything like the usual prideful intern. Robby knew he was lying to himself again.
Whitaker deserved someone uncomplicated. Someone young and steady and not carrying ghosts from past relationships, patients he couldn’t save, and the fact that he could rarely show any weakness or give up any kind of control.
Someone who didn’t freeze when touched.
Someone who didn’t wake up gasping from another nightmare.
Robby could barely hold himself together—what right did he have to want something kind and perfect?
And don’t even get him started on the fucking subject of idealization. He’d landed on that explanation a year and a half ago, but after talking it through with his therapist, it had been futile. Robby might even be more enamored with all of Whitaker’s flaws than he was with the kid’s blessings.
Like, did he need to sign off on every email with his full name and title? Jesus, kid. Be efficient.
And nobody cared that the supply closet was sorted alphabetically! They just knew what the box looked like and grabbed some. It wasn’t even the kid’s job to sort through it.
And Robby had heard of massive discussions between patients’ family between and Whitaker, where Jack—peaceful, calm Jack—had had to intervene because the kid was on some kind of anti-injustice or power trip.
It was hell to clean up sometimes when Whitaker skirted the law, too. King had learned to do the same, and Robby hated it, because he did it too, but he didn’t want to see the potential on his floor risk their careers. Kid dying in their bay, and just the one parent agreed to medical help, what a weird coincidence that the other parent was just out of the room, huh?
“Good morning!”
Robby would recognize Dr. King’s voice everywhere. She was usually on the day shift with him; he liked her, but tonight she’d asked for an exemption because her sister was going to the observatory and she could use the extra money from her shift.
“Good night, more like,” Dana joked. Robby noted something down on his pad, looking back up at the screen, and grinned to himself when he heard King laugh.
He turned around. “Good—” Fuck. He choked. Whitaker. He could feel his eyes nearly bulge out of his head, and if he wasn’t careful, he would crack the screen of his pad.
“G-Good shift,” he brought out with great effort.
He could feel Dana’s judging stare burn.
“Right, there’s going to be some changes, so I’m addressing those in a couple of minutes in the staff room. Dana’s catching me up on running cases, so give us a few, and we’ll be with you kids shortly.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Try not to fall down and cry, cry a little more, he told himself. Why was he wearing these shoes? Robby frowned down at the floor. He should’ve gone with the black ones.
He hadn’t been prepared to see the scruff up this close. For the way it sharpened Whitaker’s cheekbones and jaw. For the way confidence now sat on him as it belonged there as much as the stethoscope draped around his neck. Robby thinks it might be the first time in years that they’ve stood within touching distance.
This wasn’t the wide-eyed intern anymore. This was a man. A practiced, weathered, competent Doctor, and the thought of Dennis Whitaker being more than his distant, ex-intern was a dangerous line of thought to allow into his mind.
“Dr. Robby,” Whitaker tries to catch his attention, but his shoes, Dennis, Robby thinks. What about my shoes?
“I’m sorry you’re being punished, but I’m glad to have the honor of working with you again.”
“Y—yeah,” Robby breathed, maybe a little relieved. “Thanks, ki—Whitaker. You should join the other attending staff before all the coffee’s gone.”
“I’ll save some for you,” Dennis threw him one of his patent little smiles that had sweat drenching his lower back.
“Tw—“, Dana interjected.
“Two sugars, no milk, got it,” the kid shouted back before taking off towards the break room. Why is he so freakin’ chipper and nice to everyone?
“Oh, Mikey,” Dana muttered, patting his back. Robby bent over, arms on the counter, and forehead pushed against the cool surface. Was he about to hyperventilate? Jesus, this is humiliating and way too visceral for his first night shift.
“Shit, Dana, I don’t have this handled.”
“No,” she said softly. “You don’t.”
He almost laughed at that. At the mercy in her voice. “It’s just a stupid c-crush.”
“Sure,” Dana replied, not even pretending to believe him. She and Jack had seen him unravel for almost four years.
───╲╱───✚───╲╱───
The kid treated him exactly the same as before. He was, apparently, a more forgiving soul than Robby could ever hope to be.
He was competent, too. Even with Jack and Dana’s reports on his progress, it was something different to see it with his own eyes.
But Robby took pride in noticing everything on his floor. He wouldn’t allow another Langdon incident to happen on his time. No fucking way. Not again.
He tried to make the transition to switching with Abbot easier. Tried a slightly more softer approach to his new team. Gave compliments, recognition where it was needed. He would earn this place the right way.
What was also a big fucking change was how Whitaker almost single-handedly took care of the interns. Jack must have been delighted at not having to carry as much responsibility as an attending usually did, and now Robby could feel the exact same relief in his heavily burdened work life.
It did become obvious that the Ackles kid followed Whitaker around like a lost child in a supermarket looking for its mom, but still. Robby appreciated the little bit of extra breathing room Whitaker had created for him. He would keep an eye on the kid, see if it wasn’t too much for him to carry on his own, but he seemed to be doing alright so far.
More than alright, actually.
Whitaker was confident now and didn’t tolerate anyone infringing on his territory without a good reason or at least a list of sound arguments.
Robby discovered that quite early.
“No. He stays. Ackles—listen to me. Higher. Now.”
Fucking stubborn, punk ass kid, Robby snarled inwardly.
“I’m taking over,” he snapped. Before he knew what happened, a guy, high on shit, rushed in and pushed Ackles.
“Hey!” Whitaker shouts.
Then the junkie, eyes crazy, looks at Robby and starts blaming him, and Robby can just stand there. He’d rather be attacked than have anyone on his team hurt.
In the blink of an eye, chaos ensues, and they might lose a patient, Robby might lose the respect of his team, but all he can think of is—
“Dennis,” he whispers. The name leaves him before he can stop it. Too soft. Too desperate. Not ‘Whitaker’ or ‘Doctor’.
Dennis.
Like he owns the name. Like he’d been allowed to whisper it like that when he’s touching himself, hidden, shamefully in the dead of the night, because he woke up aching again. Denying it ever happened afterward. Robby swears he didn’t mean to. He never does.
“I don’t think so, buddy. On the ground,” Dennis says, voice dangerous.
The man laughs, crazily, “There was an alien inside him! It’s eating him!”
And then he blinks just once more, and the guy is on the floor. Taken out by Dennis fucking-farm-boy Whitaker like he’s in a rodeo and just took out a bull without his lasso. Using his bare hands. Well, gloved hands. Close enough. It’ll fuel Robby’s unwanted fantasies for the next decade or something.
“Do. Not. Move,” Whitaker growls. “You’re high. You’re scared. And you’re about to get Alex killed.”
Robby freezes at once. Breath wheezing out of him in stunned admiration.
It takes him a while to unfreeze.
“Get me the suture,” Dennis commands. “No—bigger. He’s young. He’ll tolerate it.”
He shuffles closer. “Whitaker—”
“My patient, Dr. Robinavitch.”
There it is. Not defiance. Not disrespect. Equality. A line drawn clean and sharp. And instead of anger, something molten floods Robby’s veins. Pride. Want. So much want.
Robby is glad for the gown. Because it’s the only thing standing between him and his team seeing his raging hard-on and humiliation. He swallows heavily and nods once. “Your patient, Dr. Whitaker.”
He gets his bearings soon after that. Robby’s trained to push through surprise and chaos and deliver results, but his cock keeps throbbing in his cargo pants, and as soon as they’re done here. He’ll need to cool off.
Not because of sex. He lies to himself even now. Because of adrenaline. Because watching someone you mentored surpass you does things to a man. Because competence is attractive. Because he’s lonely. Because he’s tired.
Not because he’s in love. He refuses to call it that out loud.
He starts doing his weird little hold-it-in routine again. It’s strange, and yes, he should talk to a doctor about it. But the idea that he can make his body obey and not urinate until he allows himself the relief is the only thing standing between him and madness.
It becomes a discipline, almost ritualistic to him—another rule in the ever-growing list of rules that keep him functional, professional, and his disastrous emotions contained.
He charts fluids in his head the way he charts vitals. Coffee at 01:10. Water at 03:30. No bathroom breaks. Not until the shift is over. Not until he has survived the proximity to Dr. Whitaker.
Besides, having a full bladder screaming at you kept him from having super inappropriate erections at the workplace. Spontaneous boners that he shouldn’t even be getting this easily at his age. The discomfort drowns the desire. That’s the logic behind it. Pressure overrides heat. Biology redirected into something manageable. Pain is easier than want. Urgency is easier than longing. If his body is busy holding one thing in, maybe it won’t reach for something it has no right to crave.
He waits until he’s home before he pees, and it’s fucking cathartic.
Robby stands there longer than necessary, forehead against cool tile, breath shaking out of him as if he’s just run a code instead of driven home. The release is physical, yes—but also proof. Proof that he can still command himself. That he decides when something spills. That he is not ruled by impulse.
He probably sheds tears as much as he pisses out his frustration. Sometimes his hands brace against the sink afterward, knuckles white, staring at his own reflection like he’s assessing a patient. He tells himself this is just a non-toxic way to discipline himself. Robby knows he’s a liar—or in serious denial—specifically to himself.
And it’s definitely not the quiet panic of a man trying to dam a river with his bare hands.
We all know Dr. Michael Robinavitch will leave this world drowning after all.
The day Whitaker shuffles into his ED, shoulders hunched, looking broken, sad, defeated, makes something tug on Robby’s heartstrings. Something that’s a little closer to affection than it is to just personal concern.
Dana turns to him after talking to the kid. Whitaker had outright ignored Robby’s greeting.
“Poor kid,” the charge nurse tuts, shaking her head. “Can you believe it?”
“Something happen with his family?” Robby asked, leaning closer to her. She knew. She also knew he needed to know, or his life would feel like it was over.
“Broke up with his partner.”
So he had been dating, Robby realized.
He discovered he hated something more than his alarm going off in the morning. More than he hated himself. And it was the sadness on Dennis Whitaker’s face at the idea that he hurt someone else whilst hurting himself.
───╲╱───✚───╲╱───
The supply closet is too small.
It’s not, objectively. It’s the same size it has always been. Shelves bolted to drywall. Fluorescent light that hums faintly overhead. The faint smell of cardboard and antiseptic. But tonight it feels compressed, oxygen-thin, like the walls are leaning in to ask him uncomfortable questions.
Robby presses his ear to the door like a delinquent teenager hiding from a principal.
This is what his career has come to. Hiding from Gloria like a teenager skipping class because he forgot to do his homework. He can already hear her voice in his head—budget metrics, staffing projections, gentle but relentless disappointment, and he absolutely doesn’t need any more from that right now.
This is his leadership. Fan-fucking-tastic. Stellar example.
He inhales slowly, tries to gentle his sudden panic, and starts to count to ten. If she’s still out there, he’ll—
“Erm. Hello?”
Robby jerks so hard he nearly concusses himself on a shelf.
Whitaker stands there, arms stacked high with gauze and saline, eyebrows lifted just slightly. Kid doesn’t even look like he considers mocking Robby’s less-than-professional reaction to Gloria on the prowl for blood. He looks just surprised, and Robby has to give it to him. He’s not alone. What the fuck was he—Robby becomes acutely aware that he was standing in a supply closet with his ear pressed to the door. Fuck, this is maybe his second most embarrassing moment in life, and of course, Whitaker was there to witness it again.
“I’m hiding,” he says. The words sound absurd the second they leave his mouth. God, please just kill him right now. Anything would do. Embolism preferred, actually. He hopes it’ll be fast.
Whitaker’s mouth twitches. That soft, involuntary laugh—the kid’s amused by Robby’s dramatic antics, and it almost makes him feel better. To receive a smile like that, not cruel at all, almost makes it worth it to actually get concussed.
“I can come back?”
“No!” Shit, did that sound too desperate? The air felt even more fragile now, and Robby wants to smooth it over as soon as possible, so he just rushes out what he’s really thinking.
He clears his throat, tries to sand down the edges. “It’s fine. Stay.” What the hell is wrong with you?
Stay. The word hums under his skin. Stay with me forever, please?
He offers to help. Like a normal person. A decent person. Someone who’s not feeling like the room is about thirty degrees too warm, and someone who has a pulse that does come down within the next fortnight.
They begin restocking in a silence that feels anything but neutral. Robby registers the noises almost methodically. Gauze packets crinkle. Plastic rustles. The fluorescent light flickers once and gives off that annoying buzz that annoys the shit out of his tinnitus.
Whitaker moves easily beside him with a familiarity that belies their actual dynamic. Sure, they’re trained professionals, but the kid seems to move in a way that tells Robby it’s on purpose. He imagines Dennis Whitaker watching chess pieces, before coming to his shift, and practicing how to be two steps ahead of Dr. Robinavitch.
Because that’s how Robby feels. Like Whitaker’s about to take his king.
Fuck, take his bishop, he thinks, glancing in those blue eyes. My queen, my knights, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, because nothing could put him back together again.
Shit, maybe he did crack his head on that shelf.
Four years ago, Robby could clap Whitaker on the shoulder without thinking. Guide his hands during sutures, and not even blink at the proximity. Lean in a little closer to correct his grip. Or tell and show him at the same time, how to slow his reanimating technique. Dennis had been so sad losing his first patient.
Robby never wants to see the kid like that again. He already looked like he carried all the world’s sadness. Shoulders hunched, weighed down by something no one could carry for him.
Robby had a lot of shit going on in his own life, but for Whitaker, he could free up some space on his back because the kid shouldn’t be the only one to carry on like Atlas carrying the celestial sky without any help.
His eyes glance down to Whitaker’s bare hands and wrists while they continue their conversation. And now he’s hyper aware of the exact distance between their forearms. Robby even has goosebumps. Even his hair is straining to get closer, what the actual fuck?
“You haven’t been a kid for a while,” Robby says. It comes out quieter than intended, but he means it. It’s supposed to be an apology. Whitaker doesn’t feel like he’s been allowed to be a kid for very long, so looking back, Robby feels shame for treating him that way.
What he also truly means is the fact that he had started noticing how Whitaker started filling out his scrubs during his residency. How he had scruff now. How he changed into a competent man. Robby noticed too much, perhaps. The main reason for his insomnia. Maybe he should let some crazy patient stab his eyes out. That would solve a lot of things, actually. If he bugs Gloria enough, she might transfer him to Psych. He should increase his chances.
Whitaker smiles up at him. It feels a lot like absolution he doesn’t deserve, and Robby can feel a fist seize around his heart. But you’ll always be a kid to me, he thinks affectionately.
Robby also maybe just forgot how much taller he was than Whitaker to begin with. He looks back down at the disinfectant wipes like they’re riveting literature.
Four years, Robby could have just rolled his eyes theatrically, made a joke about hiding from administration, and left it at that.
“You’ve changed,” Whitaker says.
Have I? He feels older some days. Thinner in places that matter. Worn down. Less sharp. And he doesn’t want to think about his receding hairline, or the pronounced wrinkles on his face that are apparently permanent now.
“Have I?” he asks, aiming for casual and landing somewhere between defensive and tired.
Whitaker studies him. Actually studies him. Robby would rather be ogled in a completely different way, but grabbing the kid’s attention is enough of a rush as is. He almost wishes he were worth cataloging at all. Does he see something I don’t when I look in the mirror?
Whitaker then continues to dissect him with seemingly harmless things. He tries to give back as good as he gets, but inwardly, Robby might be pulling the fire alarm. Have the entire hospital cleared out because the kid noticed he started humming again.
Because I’m actually looking forward to my days again, knowing you’ll be here, he cries inside. You make me move on in my life because forward means back here with you. The only place where I can see and hear you.
“I hum when I’m happy,” he hears himself admit. The honesty startles even him. He never even realized anyone had noticed it. Idiot. Why did he give him that?
Not even Dana or Jack cut to the crux of the matter like that, even if it seemed innocent, but you had to pick that out of a million other things you could’ve mentioned. Robby feels so exposed. So fucking bare to the bone.
His chest feels tight, so he might still be up for that embolic divine intervention.
When they touch. Accidentally, of course. It’s full skin to skin. Warm and soft for the first time in years.
It’s nothing.
Robby thinks it should be nothing because it’s barely contact, but yet… Yet. It feels violent to him, and he jerks back as if burned. Adrenaline floods his entire nervous system, and he can feel the heat bloom under his collar, up his neck, and his fingers—
Robby almost looks at his fingers because he did push them in nettles without looking, or didn’t he? They were stinging.
Whitaker freezes and watches him. The sadness growing in his eyes, and Robby doesn’t know what he did to put it there, but he’ll make a thousand cracks in his old eggshell to make it stop.
“It’s been years,” Whitaker says gently.
Years of what? Robby thinks, feeling unhinged. Years since PittFest? Since my panic attack? Since losing you as my resident? Since we touched?
Maybe years since he stood too close in the dark, and allowed his depression to crystallize in his chest into a shape he couldn’t even ignore anymore?
Or years of therapy? Of carefully constructed distance? Of dating apps and awkward dinners and cold showers and rules to condition himself? Trying to wean off the addiction that stood right in front of him, looking up at him with those sad, blue, big eyes.
And still—
Not enough years, Robby’s mind whispers. Never enough years to be near to you.
Whitaker looks at him like Robby broke his heart, and he’s sat on a wall. Ten stories high, feet dangling above the ambulance bay, and he jumped. Crushed underneath the celestial globe.
He kept falling down the wall. Nobody to carry it with him now.
Michael had a great fall.
And he might still be falling for that kid.
The intercom crackles overhead.
Robby is grateful for the interruption in a way that he can’t call anything else but desperate. He flees without another word.
There is another word for it, though.
Coward.
───╲╱───✚───╲╱───
Working with Whitaker makes him realize there’s a lot he should be proud of when you looking at his own work, Robby’s bedside manner, the way he acts as the attending, and how he makes operations keep running smoothly. How everyone feels at ease, seemingly, to come to him with any issues. How he handles the difficult cases and the even more difficult message deliveries.
Every shift, Robby discovers there’s a lot he should feel ashamed of, too.
The way he felt his entire vision narrow when Ackles touched Whitaker’s arm. How he pulled the kid aside, telling himself it’s what he would’ve done with anyone else, chastise Ackles. Be a fucking hypocrite on proper workplace behavior and telling the kid how he should remain a professional at all times. Robby can feel it drip off his tongue like acid. The lies. The bitterness.
He’s possessive. Territorial, and it’s absolutely a thing to be ashamed of. It’s ugly. He is ugly, and he should not interfere.
Whitaker was an adult. He would have said something before if it bothered him, but he didn’t, and it fucking bothered Robby.
It bothered him the first time he saw it happen. And the second time. He lies awake at night feeling bothered about it. He’s jealous. He knows he is. He’s not that stupid that he can’t recognize the feeling of that green-eyed monster taking over all rational thought.
How Ackles can touch Whitaker, take it for granted, enjoy it, while Robby can’t even allow himself to think about reaching out.
Whitaker had reached out back then to him in Pedes, and Robby had taken his hand, and then he’d—
He turns angrily in his bed. Eyes focused on the screen, on the mess in the world, hoping to ignore the mess in his mind. The storm in his heart.
Robby hears himself accusing Whitaker of giving the kid hope.
Hope of what? Has Whitaker ever felt hopeful back then? Before Robby realized that he’d wanted the crush to last?
The question hung between them like a suture pulled too tight and ready to snap. How Whitaker stretched, leaning back in his chair, in Robby’s office as if he owned it, and that makes him mad and horny, but also so fucking afraid because Whitaker acted like their conversation doesn’t even scare him with the implications, the subtext pointing at their own personal past together.
“I cried my first month,” he said lightly. “You remember?”
Robby’s stomach had dropped. He thinks he left it back in the ED because he hasn’t been able to eat anything since.
He made him cry.
He was supposed to protect him.
I’m sorry, Langdon. I’m sorry, Jake. Heather, please forgive me. Monty…
“We’re good, Whitaker,” he’d muttered when the conversation faltered.
They are not good.
He is not good.
───╲╱───✚───╲╱───
The bar is even worse.
Too loud. Too warm. Whitaker’s thigh pressed against his because Santos refuses to understand personal space.
Robby does not move away. He should.
He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t go out and socialize if it’s not just a drink in the park, or meeting up with Dana and Jack to pretend they’re all fine.
But he recalled Whitaker bringing it up, doing things for fun. Going out for a drink, go to a concert, or something. So Robby had said yes. They had the wager money. It’s good fun. Team building exercise. Hurray. Gloria might even approve if she knew.
But the bar is definitely worse than the ED.
Hospitals are loud in a way that makes sense to Robby—alarms, wheels on tile, controlled urgency. He probably could listen to a YouTube video with white noise slash hospital ASMR just to fall asleep. Bars, on the other hand, are loud without purpose. Noise for the sake of noise. Laughter too sharp, bass too heavy, bodies too close. He smells so many different things, too many, he can’t even discern Whitaker’s scent. His head is aching, and one ear feels like it’s about to throw in the towel and just go fully over into that high-pitched, shrill noise that makes his headache even worse.
Robby prefers chaos with structure. And the bar was just chaos, where he had no say.
They cram into a booth that was clearly designed for four people, not six. When they’re finally all wedged in, Santos the last one, all elbows and enthusiasm, pushing Whitaker uncomfortably further down the sticky-feeling fake leather. By the time Santos settles down, there’s nowhere left for Whitaker to go except—
Against him.
Circumstantial, Robby tells himself. Basic spatial logistics.
This, he repeats in his mind like a mantra, hoping he’ll believe it sooner rather than later, is also nothing.
Robby doesn’t move. He might have stopped breathing, or his throat is suddenly clogged with the scent of the man beside him, close enough now that he can suddenly nearly taste him.
He absolutely should move and shift his leg or something. Create some air between them because it feels like it’s been sucked out of the entire bar.
It’s the supply closet all over again.
And he’s a creature of habit. He likes his comfort. So he wallows gleefully in his cowardice and crosses the line. Robby will beat himself up over it at a later point that day, but for now…
He tells himself it would be more obvious to move now. That’s the excuse.
So he drapes his arm along the back of the seat. Trying too hard to look casual, Dana’s eyes are immediately on him, but Robby tries not to flinch. This might look to anyone like he’s done something like this a million times before with a thousand other colleagues. He hasn’t. Robby doesn’t forget himself when he touches people. He always knows what he does and why he does it.
McKay feeling down? A bump of his fist to her shoulder. Jack ranting about Gloria? A quick, little hip check until the man quirks a grin and grumbles something about Robby trying to make him lose his footing. Intern did something right? High five at the ready.
His fingers graze Whitaker’s shoulder. He doesn’t forget himself when he touches people.
Then why does his mind go blissfully silent when he can finally touch Whitaker after years of starvation?
The kid goes still. At least, he’s not recoiling, but he’s micro-adjusting in some way, which tells Robby he’s aware.
He watches Whitaker swallow. The slow movement of his throat feels too sensual. The way his jaw tightens for half a second before he forces himself to relax makes heat coil low in Robby’s abdomen, sharp and humiliating.
He can feel Whitaker’s body heat through denim and cotton. Can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. Can feel the way he’s not leaning away, or creating more space between them.
Robby barely remembers what they talked about. He was staring too hard at Whitaker’s mouth, but he knew how good he felt while they spoke. Safe and warm, his headache lessening and the music drowned out by those smiles and soft laughs, and he’s besotted. So achingly drawn to the endearing kid next to him. He keeps having to remind himself to anchor this somewhere professional before his body betrays him further. Before he takes more than he deserves. He already feels like a thief. Stealing inch by inch closer.
Whitaker turns his head slightly. Their faces are too close. Close enough that Robby can see the faint freckles across his nose.
Constellations. He wants to map them. Follow its light home. He’s fucking lost in the freakin’ stardust sprinkled in those mirthful blue eyes.
“You taught me that,” Dennis grinned.
It’s like a bucket of ice water slides down his back. What the fuck was he doing? Dreaming up poetic shit while staring in Whitaker’s eyes. His resident. Once upon a time, his med student. He’s his fucking superior for Christ’s sake. Holy shit, he was fucked.
He needed his cowardice back and pull away again while dressing it up as ethics only. Not shame at fondly recalling Whitaker’s eagerness when he’d been his mentor.
The way Whitaker used to look at him as if Robby held the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything. Forty-two, Robby thinks. Forty-two times, we worked together on a case this week.
The kid remembers so much. Too much. Robby remembers, too. The sense that they were tuned to the same invisible channel. The right frequency.
He thought, he’d hoped, distance would scramble the signal.
It didn’t. It hasn’t. Whitaker was a beacon, and Robby was almost ready to ignore the storm, the cliffs, and crash and burn instead.
But he couldn’t.
Just tonight, he bargains with his soul. Just tonight, I’m allowed to feel his warmth. To enjoy the closeness without shame. Tomorrow we’ll return to how it was.
Whitaker shifts slightly, and their thighs press closer for a second before settling. Robby’s hand tightens imperceptibly against the back of the booth.
Just tonight. Please.
He leaves it there.
───╲╱───✚───╲╱───
The page comes through clipped and direct.
Trauma Bay Two. Attending requested.
Requested.
Robby doesn’t get requested. At least, not often. He gets looped in, updated, cc’d, informed, and any other time he just shows up, it’s because the situation is too dire not to have an attending present. Welcome or unwelcome, he doesn’t care. It’s his ED. His responsibility. He’ll butt in whenever and wherever. But getting requested?
Whitaker runs his own traumas cleanly. Efficiently. Pride of the department. He does not call for backup unless protocol demands it, and this doesn’t feel like it’s just protocol. No matter how hard Gloria tried to hammer it into their heads that accountability is what makes this department run better.
Robby stands from the desk slower than he feels, straightens his coat, and adjusts his cuffs. It didn’t sound that urgent, but even if it was, he needed five extra seconds to catch his breath at the idea that Whitaker needed him. He couldn’t fail the kid.
By the time he pushes through the bay doors, he has already decided this is gonna be educational. It has to be.
He steps in freshly gloved, expression alert, and ready to do whatever was necessary. He takes in the deformity of the patient’s hip first—shortened, internally rotated. Posterior dislocation. Classic. The setup is textbook. The team seems to be in place, and orders are halfway through getting executed. His presence here feels redundant. Pelvic involvement. Maybe vascular concern?
But there’s something else going on, because everyone’s darting, secretive looks at Whitaker, and the kid looks like he is ready to jump out of his skin at any moment. There’s a lot of unbearable tension going on, just radiating off of Whitaker, and Robby does not know what happened or how to diffuse this bomb. Just tell me for God’s sake, he wants to scream.
His eyes land on Whitaker. Dennis.
What do you want me to do? What do you need? Robby wants to ask when he takes in the kid’s different posture. He feels coiled, ready to snap, and a whole lot of uncertainty just like his first day on rotation. There’s not even a chance of unsuspecting fluids to enter orbit, so why’s the kid so nervous?
“What’ve we got?” Robby asks, voice level. He thinks he can still play it cool.
“Posterior hip dislocation,” Whitaker says immediately. No tremor. “But I need you to take over.”
It’s not his imagination when he sees Perlah move a fraction of a second slower. How Mateo’s eyes flick from Whitaker to the patient and back. Robby hopes the patient hasn’t made any inappropriate comments towards his staff. Hippocratic Oath be damned, the safety of his staff came first. He blinks once.
The question forms even before he speaks it. Whitaker doesn’t relinquish control easily. He has fought for every inch of autonomy.
“Why?”
Whitaker meets his gaze. The kid looks pained, but his eyes are steady and wide open. Innocent. Pleading. Tell me, Robby’s mind screeches. Let me help you.
“The patient is my ex-partner,” he says. “And we might have been into kinky stuff, but this is pushing it.”
Seems like someone brought C4 into work, and it wasn’t Robby.
That confession, that piece of news to all, figuratively detonates all rational thought in Robby’s mind.
Ex-partner.
Robby feels the word like a shift in atmospheric pressure. He does not look at the team. He can’t even begin to try to interpret Dana’s expression. Instead, he looks at the man on the gurney.
Older. Much older. Silver threaded through dark hair, a beard, leather outfit betraying how and why he landed here at the ER. Dana has called Robby enough times an involuntary donor every time he stepped on his bike for him to put one and one together. There are deep lines at the corners of the patient’s eyes. Pain-slicked but alert enough to track the exchange.
Robby can’t stop his mind supplying himself unwanted details with surgical precision.
His eyebrows lift before he can arrest the movement, and he must look like an absolute idiot, but fucking hell—pardon his French—this changes so much in just the blink of an eye. His mouth forms a brief, surprised o—unguarded, human. He’s just a silly egg after all.
He needs to rein it in. But then he looks at the patient on their table some more.
“I see,” he exhales. He does not see. He might need to stab out his own eyes with a scalpel and call himself blind, and would Dennis then try to comfort him with the story of Jesus leading the blind? Because he’s measuring himself up to the guy literally bleeding on his floor, and he can’t get himself to unfreeze.
He’s failing. Again. He’s not looking at the man to check his injury, but he’s trying to read the history between the patient and Dennis Whitaker, and Robby wants to know everything. Everything.
What did you do to land Whitaker? He wants to ask. How old are you? Is he gay? Bisexual? Pan? Robby wants to demand answers, but he doesn’t get to.
“Hi,” the man grimaces up at him. “I’m David. I’m old enough to be his dad. Yes, we dated. No, he wasn’t the problem.”
Fuck no, Robby snarls in his mind. Whitaker couldn’t be the problem, could he? Maybe? Probably? Was age a factor?
Not the problem. Robby feels something tighten in his abdomen—low, sharp, humiliating, and he thinks it might have killed a cat once upon a time. He needs to know. He hates that he wants to know.
“I actually was,” Dennis says lightly.
And then—
He brushes the man’s hair out of his face. Robby’s pulse stutters once at witnessing the familiar tenderness, and he aches for something similar.
He has trained himself for years not to lean into Dennis’ personal space. Moved away when the kid almost accidentally brushed his wrist passing a clipboard. Stepping aside when he wants to put his hand on Whitaker’s elbow. Wants to steer the kid around and has to clasp his hands under his armpits to keep himself actively from not touching him. And this guy, their patient, could just… Get that gentle, soft brush on his face without suffering years in return? Life feels distinctly unfair in that moment.
He clears his throat. “Alright,” he says evenly. At least, he hopes it sounds enough. “I’m taking over. Thank you for disclosing.” He turns to Dennis deliberately when he steps closer. Keeps his voice low and hopes it lands on professional. “You okay to assist?” Robby thinks he won’t kill the guy. Not on purpose at least. Killing the patient would probably hurt Whitaker. And, oh yeah, before he forgot, make him lose his fucking job and get him a single ticket straight into the nearest penitentiary.
The relief that flickers across Dennis’s face is almost invisible, but Robby sees it anyway.
“Absolutely.”
He does not allow himself to examine why the relief matters.
“You did the right thing,” he adds quietly.
And he means it. Not just procedurally. Dennis needed him, and this is the least he could do. His fucking job for starters. No killing anyone.
Hah-ha, he’s so funny sometimes.
“Reduction successful,” Dennis says, already assessing stability.
Robby does not watch the hip. He watches Dennis. The way he compartmentalizes. The way history is folded and shelved without theatrics. No denial. No indulgence. Just competence. Pride flares so sharply it borders on ache.
“X-ray to confirm,” Robby says. “Then CT pelvis.”
“Dr. Whitaker already ordered it,” Perlah chirps.
Of course he did. Stupid smart kid.
The bed rolls out, and the team disperses into whispers while getting the room cleaned up a little before the cleaning crew swoops in.
“So… Dr. Whitaker has taste,” Princess murmurs.
Dana smacks her arm. “He always did.”
Robby pretends he does not hear it. Pretends a little harder not to see Dana’s worried glance at him.
Dennis peels off his gloves at the sink. His hands are trembling now that the adrenaline is bleeding off. Robby always noticed how they did after Whitaker’s finished, and he can’t stop himself from getting a little closer. It feels like he should say something, and not let this moment pass without making a note of it or something.
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly. It sounds insufficient the moment it leaves his mouth.
Whitaker exhales. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Yes. Robby built that distance. Engineered it. He does not get to resent the blind spots.
“Apparently, I…” He stops himself.
Apparently, I assumed.
Apparently, I protected myself at the expense of knowing you.
He swallows the rest.
“Good call, handing it over. And good work.”
Whitaker nods.
Behind them, Princess whispers about the entire night shift knowing in less than ten minutes. Dennis bristles—not ashamed, just vulnerable, and Robby hates that someone put it here for some reason.
“It’s not like I’m ashamed,” he says. “It’s just… this is work.”
Robby understands that instinct intimately.
“Anything you’d like to add or ask?” Dennis says suddenly, ripping off his gloves with more force than necessary.
There it is. The real question underneath.
Are you looking at me differently now?
Robby falters. He has navigated mass casualty incidents with steadier footing.
“I, er…” He feels absurdly out of his depth. “I wondered. I mean, I kinda suspected. Didn’t want to presume.”
He had suspected, and not at all because of some imagined stereotype, but how Whitaker once looked at him like gravity bent in his direction before Robby pushed him away.
Whitaker freezes. “Oh my God,” he mutters, hands covering his face. “That explains so much. Shit.” His breathing changes. Stampedes into something too fast, and recognition hits Robby in a cold wave.
“Oh my God,” the kid wheezes. Understanding blooms across his face like a bruise. He looks stricken. Robby wants to know what was happening inside that boy’s mind, but he can’t just ask. He lost that privilege when he started pushing the kid away to nip that ill-conceived crush in the bud.
He thinks Whitaker might have a panic attack, and he’s not sure what he should do; Robby’s been a doctor for more than half his life.
He’s failing again. Failing. And flailing after Dennis when the boy suddenly bolts.
“Dennis.”
Dana appears. “Roof,” she says quietly. “You should go after him. You have to.”
Does he? Does he even have the right? Robby inhales slowly. He should let him go. He should give Whitaker space. Robby has learned he can do space. He can do it for Collins and Jake, and he can definitely do it for Whitaker if the kid doesn’t want to see him.
He should—
But his feet are already moving. How many times has he made this trek with even less daunting things waiting for him on the other side than the one purpose, person, that would definitely not be happy to see him right now?
The stairwell is empty, echoing. He climbs slower than Dennis must have, each step deliberate, postponing the inevitable collision waiting for him at the end of it.
When he pushes through the roof door, cold air hits him hard, and he exhales slowly.
Dennis stands near the edge, shoulders tight, coat forgotten, and isn’t he cold? His hands braced against the low wall. He looks so small up here. He’s just human like the rest of them, isn’t he? Prone to bouts of sadness, depression, hopelessness, just like the other mere mortals.
It’s not something special, it’s just more of the same. Pain and endurance wrapped together in their fucking Huckleberry.
Robby stops a few feet away. Far enough to give him the illusion of space, and not show his hand completely at the fact of how worried he is. Yet.
Yet, not close enough to reach. Never close enough for that.
He hates how he’s unable to say what he’s really feeling. How he stammers and can’t make sense out of his words, and Robby believes there might be a whole lot of miscommunication going on. And even more shame gets added with a cherry on top, but Whitaker seems to feel a little better, so he must have done something right. Right?
Must have comforted the kid in some way. Just tell me, Robby wants to beg, just tell me what to do or say to make that look on your face disappear entirely. Make you forget I ever made you feel this way. This unbalanced. This sad. This morose. He couldn’t bear it, and wasn’t that egocentric of him again? Wanting to fix someone else because Robby couldn’t shoulder seeing them hurt?
He might have even offered something that could be construed as an apology, didn’t he? Did Dennis hear the regret in his voice?
It seems to work because the kid takes a deep breath before saying, “Okay. Let’s go save some lives.”
Robby can only open the door and watch him go. When Whitaker uses his own words against him…
“A wise man once told me that you learn to live with it, learn to accept it, and to find balance if you can.”
Robby was not a wise man. He wasn’t wise when he signed Whitaker on for their team. It wasn’t smart to push Whitaker away, thinking it was what he should do and what was best for the kid. It certainly wasn’t wise to fall for the guy and then obsess over him for the next four consecutive years.
It didn’t feel like it would lessen any day now. It just kept growing and growing, and it was getting so hungry. Robby was trying, and did Whitaker see him? Does Whitaker want to see him?
Robby thinks he might when their shoulders brush.
He thinks he might when the kid starts touching him more, and Robby starts dropping things whenever he does or says something that destroys that balance he pledged to try to find.
Everything was off. Nothing made any sense, but the more Whitaker drew closer, grew comfortable around him after that rooftop conversation, the more Robby started making peace that balance might not be everything if this was what the opposite brought him.
He waits for Whitaker to cross a line. To make Robby’s love for him so obvious that it can’t be missed. Or to give him the push needed to retreat behind policy and protocol and wounded dignity.
Whitaker doesn’t.
He just stands even closer. Keeps holding eye contact half a second too long that even Dana remarks on it.
The kid keeps choosing proximity without ever demanding it.
And Robby—
Robby doesn’t pull away. His soul be damned. He doesn’t. Even when every rational, disciplined, self-protective instinct he’s built over decades tells him he should, but he’s head over heels now, and he’s not a wise man.
So it might be too late for him anyway.
He was right, though. It has been educational, just not for the one he’d intended it for. Lesson learned, Robby? Lesson finally learned?
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