Chapter Text
Whitaker is familiar with the taste of copper on his tongue.
When he was five, chasing after his older brothers, he tripped on a gnarly tree root and bit his tongue, hard. They came back for him with John carrying him over his shoulder like a potato sack back home, where his mom whistled through her teeth and reprimanded him.
When he was thirteen, he stubbed his toe in the dark at a sleepaway camp that the youth group at church was holding, and since the pastor told them that ‘any unnecessary noise would wake the Devil’, Dennis bit his lip hard enough to break the thin skin rather than yelling out.
By year two of medical school, Whitaker was used to chewing on his lips enough to chap them. He camped out in front of the shitty heater in his cramped studio apartment in the winter, lips red and bleeding.
Since the beginning of his fourth year, sleeping had been a liability. Falling asleep meant risking someone going through your bag, stealing your only possessions, assaulting you, whatever it took to survive. He had gotten socked in the nose enough times to learn his lesson about openly defending himself, so when he felt someone get close, Whitaker just shuffled and muttered until they spooked.
If he really was about to fall asleep, Dennis would bite and scrape at his tongue until a wound opened. He knew it was nasty and that he was risking infection. But he could press the open flesh up to his canines, press, and it would sting just on the right side of too much to keep him awake.
Now, he tastes it again. The ER shifts have forced him to leave Trinity’s apartment before sunrise to reach the hospital in time; he refuses to let Santos come with him, no matter how much she insists that it isn’t a problem.
The bus stop is a threat. He knows this. Whitaker has used many as a safe haven, before he knew better as a rookie homeless man, and got poked many a time with a police baton or slapped by a little old lady wanting to sit down. The other local unhoused would also mark their territory well, and if a newbie infiltrated, they would be dumped under the bench instead.
But he’s on the other side of it now. He can sit on the bench, not worry about a cop asking whether he’s got a place to stay tonight, and board the bus without a second glance.
Unfortunately, one of his previous neighbors has other plans.
This fateful Tuesday, Whitaker hears the blow connect to his jaw before he feels it. He hears his teeth clack painfully, tongue bleeding, and the familiar copper pang returns. As does the fight-or-die instinct that kicks his body into overdrive.
The man is clearly not here for a fight; his goal was to take Whitaker down and grab what he could. But, in his full-body swing, his swaying body fell with the med student and now lay draped over him, scrabbling for his backpack.
Dennis can’t imagine this ends well. The man is able to pin Whitaker’s hand to the sidewalk at an awkward angle and he yelps, but the man is just low enough that he can’t quite get leverage on the backpack, so Whitaker drives his heel down, hoping to connect to something.
He does. Not the junk, but even better. The man’s lungs are emptied of all of their air as he curls in on himself, rolling off of Dennis. His Walmart sneakers had successfully landed a blow to the diaphragm of his mugger.
Whitaker sighs. He’s going to be late for his shift.
-
The man won’t talk to him, merely grunting as he’s dragged through the hospital waiting room and into the pitt. From what Whitaker can ascertain, he’s sober– but in desperate need of a bath.
“Whitaker, what the hell? Just bringing in your own patients now?” Samira descends on him from the centre desk, taking the mugger by the shoulders and lowering him into a chair. Then, as her head turns to glance at Dennis, her eyes catch on the developing bruise on his jaw. “Oh, God. What did you do?”
“What did I– I didn’t do anything! He’s– he might have a few fractured ribs, a sore diaphragm for sure…” Whitaker retorts. The mugger groans, his head rolling back. Samira’s hands hover, unsure of where to start.
Pearl materializes behind him with a wheelchair, and he transfers the man into it. Whitaker doesn’t recognize him at all; not a personal attack, he supposes. “Can you order him a chest x-ray? Thanks.”
Samira strides away to a computer, and Whitaker is left facing the man again.
Suddenly, though not enough to shock him, a hand slides up to the place where his scrubs meet his skin. He winces slightly, knowing that bruises from the man’s rough hands are probably forming, but Robby doesn’t have to know that.
Of course he knows it’s Robby. Nobody else touches him like that.
He obediently sits in one of the family chairs outside of Trauma 1 where Robby’s scrutinizing eyes can scan him over. Whitaker can’t make eye contact– it might kill him. But he can feel Dr Robby’s eyes trace over his skin, and he catches the bruise on his face–
Robby’s hand shoots out to grab his chin, and he gently turns Whitaker’s head to the side to get a better view of the bruise. Dennis nearly moans. God, he’s pathetic.
A gentle thumb glides over the tender area, assessing. Whitaker feels like a rabbit pinned down by a predator– awaiting the certain death ahead of him, but unable to move, to think.
“Get to work. Find me when our shift is done.” Dr Robby mutters. And then he’s gone, weaving in between nurses to reach South 20 and assist Mel on a stitch up.
Whitaker wants his shift to be over already. He wants this rotation to be over. He wants to leave Pittsburgh and never come back, go as far as tangentially possible from both Nebraska and Pennsylvania and never have to see Robby or Santos or anyone he knows ever again.
It’s not like this stupid crush on Robby is anything new. It’s not even a crush– just a longing for approval from an authoritative figure, Dennis believes, and if he can’t get off without thinking of the hands that drag him back to Robby, somehow always landing on his skin, that’s for him to know.
Dennis takes a deep breath and gets up.
-
The next twelve hours are rough. Langdon tried to give him an easy A with a diagnosis that he still fumbled over. Mohan raises an eyebrow at him when a patient yelps at the incoming IV. He can’t explain that Robby’s words have been lingering in the front of his mind, and that he’s anxious about getting fired and being back out on the streets again, or back home in Nebraska, doomed to be a priest.
He would make a fine priest. Sure, he’s done some hand stuff, but he’s never forgotten a verse of Matthew or Luke– he’s been abstinent for God knows how long– and his patient reports come back with the common notion of ‘soothing’ shining through. He resists temptations when they are presented. He thinks not of thick bodies, or rough skin, or beards scratching his thighs, but of stained glass, and gardens, and tall spires with dusty books.
Whitaker knows this. But he also knows that being a priest would stop him from healing people, actually healing people. He knows, deep down, that a priest is nothing but a spokesperson; he can crack life into someone’s ribcage, or feed healing through a needle here. Whatever Dr Robby has to say to him, Whitaker will find a way to be a doctor again.
-
The shift wraps up as it always does– Dennis barely realizes how long he’s been on his feet when Dr Abbot and Dr Shen stride up to the Hub, Dr Walsh tailing behind. He can suddenly feel the soles of his feet ache deeply, and wants to collapse. But he knows they get here early, and he’s not close to done yet.
He wraps up his current workload, discharges a sprained ankle and two arm fractures as fast as possible, and hands off his last patient to the new resident who nods and sends him off.
Whitaker is changing in the staff locker room when Robby enters.
He must admit, the man is terrifying. If Dr Robby was any less of a kind soul, Whitaker would be peeing his pants on the daily. The one time Robby growled an order at him, his knees shook.
“Sit.” Robby commands. Dennis’ legs seem to follow instructions pretty well, because his ass hits the metal bench without thought.
The attending approaches him, eyes scanning, knowing too much and not enough, and Dennis can’t stand it. He wishes the man would just talk, narrate his moves and feelings like he does with patients– but Whitaker is a doctor. He doesn’t need to know the treatment he is receiving.
He turns his head, breaking eye contact. “I… I promise, it’s fine. I was only late be–”
“How did this happen?” Robby’s mouth barely moves with the words, but the sharp tone forces Whitaker’s head back to look up at him.
He finds the strain in his neck that is needed to look up at Robby quite appealing. “That guy that I brought in with me, he jumped me at the bus stop and hit me, tried to grab my stuff. I, uh, I kicked him in the diaphragm.”
Robby’s eyebrows flicker upwards. “Oh. Are you okay? Kiara’s schedule has widened up–”
“No, no, I’m fine. Nothing new, anyways.” Whitaker mutters. The last part feels like a joke; like his mouth spewed it out before he could clamp it shut.
The doctor’s eyes are suddenly glowing. With what, Whitaker could only guess. “What does that mean? Has this happened before?”
“Uh… yeah. A few times. Just where I live, y’know.” Dennis shrugs, desperate to switch topics. He absentmindedly grazes the bruise on his jaw.
Robby shuffles away to his own locker, finally, and Whitaker can get back to changing. “Let me drive you home. It’s not safe for you to be out there late at night, and I can’t imagine the bus will be a pleasant experience so soon afterwards.”
“I– no, Dr Robby, I couldn’t possibly– Santos will come with me, she’s just–”
“I insist. Santos can come, too, if Garcia isn’t already driving her.”
Ah, right. Dennis considers if their little arrangement is public information yet, but surely Dr Robby’s scrutinizing stare can find that out on his own. “Are… are you sure? Is it out of your way?”
“Eh, a little. You can owe me.” Robby shrugs.
Oh, God.
-
Sitting in Dr Robby’s car has to be torture. It’s warm, and the seats are worn and comfortable, and he has fucking Bob Dylan playing at a quiet volume as he taps along on the steering wheel. Absolute buffoonery.
As if Whitaker needed any other reason to feel drawn to the man, he’s actually nice and genuine outside of work. He drives an old truck, but he doesn’t drive like an asshole and quietly asks for directions since he has no way of finding Santos’ apartment himself. It’s kind of adorable.
He feels too safe. Too comfortable for his own good– like he’s being lulled into a false sense of security, and the trap is about to snap down on his neck. But Robby doesn’t seem to notice.
Robby pulls over in front of the apartment building, throws the car in park, and turns on the overhead lights. Dennis doesn’t move. He can’t, no way.
“May I?” Dr Robby asks. He’s gesturing to Dennis’ scrubs, and for half a second, Whitaker can picture this as a nightcap; the attending asking to touch him, undress him, kiss him, whatever he wants.
He nods, hoping that he looks at least somewhat sane. Dr Robby reaches over and pulls the collar of the med student’s scrubs to his shoulder, exposing the lighter bruises from the harsh lock that the mugger had him in. “I saw these earlier, when you were changing. Anything else you’d like to tell me about?”
Whitaker takes a shaky breath. Dear God, this can’t be happening. The patronizing, soft tone is somehow turning him on. He can’t bring himself to look over to that side of the car, simply staring up at the windshield and nodding.
“My hip. He knocked me down, and I couldn’t catch myself in time, so– I think it bruised.”
Robby hums. His hands gently track down from Dennis’ shirt to the waistband of his scrubs, tied tight to fit his waist, and he hooks a large finger underneath the bunched material and drags them down.
Whitaker has to resist swearing outwardly. He can feel his crotch filling out as his attending’s knuckle grazes the skin of his hip, the ugly bruise that had blossomed there earlier, and exposes his pale flesh to the rest of his old truck’s cabin.
“Shit, that’s bad. You could’ve said something.” Robby whispers. The air feels thick with Whitaker’s breath, Robby’s words, Robby’s smell, everything. He coasts the pad of his thumb over the bruise and Whitaker melts. He bites the inside of his lip to stop a sound from escaping.
“Y-yeah, I didn’t even realize until my break. Adrenaline, I guess.” Whitaker stutters out. He prays that this will end soon, that Robby will bring his pants back up and he can stumble into Santos’ apartment and fuck his hand thinking about a stronger set of hands gripping his waist, digging into the bruise.
“Are you okay, Whitaker? Does it hurt?” Dr Robby asks. He’s always so caring, too caring– Whitaker can’t fucking stand it. He needs the man to be mean, cold, unknowing, anything to get him away. He doubts lashing out will even affect the older man.
He nods, shifting his hips. Fuck, that doesn’t help. “Mhm. Doesn’t hurt that bad, m’just tired, feeling gross from our shift.”
“Right. Well, get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Before Dennis can open the door, or respond, Robby’s hand seems to spasm as he lets go of the scrubs, and he fucking squeezes Whitaker’s hip–
Whitaker outright groans.
They both freeze, and the warm truck suddenly feels like a fucking sauna. Robby’s hand withdraws at lightning speed. Whitaker finally, finally looks over to him, opens the truck door, and dashes to the apartment building.
Shit.