Work Text:
The ER hums with that steady, low-grade chaos Robby’s come to rely on. Phones ringing, stretchers squeaking, One of their psych borders' voice carrying down the hall. He’s at central when Dana appears at his elbow, tablet in hand, eyes sharp despite the fact that they're eleven hours into a twelve hour shift.
"Hey, can you clear a few for me before the night shift gets in?" she asks. "We’re backed up and I’ve got two admits sitting in hallway beds."
He glances at the board. A handful of easy ones—minor lac, gastritis, a syncopal episode waiting on labs. Nothing that’ll kill anyone in the next twenty minutes. He exhales. "Fine. But scream your head off for me if anything big rolls in."
Dana grins, already half turned. "Scout’s honor."
Robby mutters something about never trusting a scout and grabs the first chart. The patient’s in South 4, an older man with a kind face and a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his forearm. He’s sitting upright, alert, his jacket folded neatly over the chair beside him.
"Mr. Beckett?" Robby steps in, offering the faintest smile. "I hear you’ve had a rough evening."
The man chuckles. "Just clumsy, I guess. I got dizzy, next thing I knew I was on the floor bleeding like a stuck pig."
"That’s one way to mess a good day up," Robby says, unwrapping the towel carefully. The gash is clean, superficial, but wide enough to need a few stitches. "You said you fainted?"
"Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s nothing. Probably dehydration. Been traveling all week, haven’t had a decent meal since Tuesday."
"Still," Robby says, tone easy but firm, "I want to wait for some results before we close you up. Make sure it’s not something else doing the dizzying."
The man starts to protest, but Robby’s already ordering labs, leaning against the counter to fill in the chart. The monitors beep softly, the fluorescent lights hum, and somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loud.
"Anyone we can call for you?" Robby asks, only remembering to sit at the bedside when he sees Gloria strolling around outside.
Mr. Beckett shakes his head, still smiling faintly. "No one in the state," he says. "My son’s twenty-five. Currently somewhere in Europe, living what he calls a 'gap year.' It’s been going on six years now."
Robby chuckles, setting the chart aside. "Guess he's having a good time."
"Too good," Mr. Beckett says. "Last I heard, he was in Portugal. Or maybe Italy. Somewhere with beaches and cheap beer. Kid’s allergic to responsibility."
Robby leans back in the chair. "I know the type. I’ve got a… kind of son myself—Jake. My ex’s kid. He almost skipped college, said he wanted to take a gap year too. His mother scared the pants off of him. He had his applications sent out by the next morning."
Mr. Beckett laughs, a deep, warm sound. "Smart woman."
"Terrifying woman," Robby corrects with a grin. "But yeah, smart. She’s probably the only reason that kid’s not bartending his way across the Caribbean right now."
They fall into an easy rhythm—two men trading small talk between the hum of the ER. Beckett tilts his head, his tone softening. "I wish my son’s mother had been that way. She passed—pancreatic cancer. Seven years ago now."
Robby stills. "I’m so sorry," he says quietly. "That’s a brutal one."
Beckett nods, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. "It was quick. Too quick, maybe. We were married twenty-nine years. She held us together. After she was gone, it was like... we were both afraid to be in the same room. Too much quiet, too many reminders." He exhales through his nose, a half-smile forming. "You can probably tell how well we handled it—boy ran off to another continent, and I buried myself in business trips."
Robby nods, the words settling somewhere behind his ribs. "What do you do, Mr. Beckett?"
The man glances over, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Doctor, technically," he admits. "Ph.D., not M.D., unfortunately, which is why I didn't correct anyone before. Seems a bit silly to insist on being called Doctor at an actual hospital." Robby huffs a laugh. "I'm a theology professor. Creighton University."
Robby raises his eyebrows. "Theology, huh?" He jots something on the chart, though his focus drifts for a beat too long. Theology. It makes him think of Whitaker—of the kid's offhand comments about growing up Catholic, about the farm in Nebraska and guilt and how it lingers like a birthmark. Robby pushes the thought away as soon as it comes. Thinking of Whitaker at work, even in passing, is a bad habit. A slippery slope.
"Don't think I've ever met a theologian in the ER before," Robby says, forcing himself back to the present. "What brings you to Pittsburgh?"
"Conference," Beckett replies easily. "Couple of lectures at Duquesne, then I'm back home until next year. Or I would be, if I hadn't keeled over in my hotel room and scared the poor housekeeper half to death."
Robby laughs again, the man's good mood infectious. "Good thing you did it here. PTMC's great."
Beckett grins. "I did take a quick look at Yelp when the EMTs said we were coming here, but I'll take your word for it."
They talk while the labs process—Beckett describing his students, Robby tossing in the occasional dry comment, the conversation meandering from faith to food to how airport coffee might be a minor sin. The man's got a way of talking that's easy to listen to: thoughtful, wry, never self-important.
When the lab finally uploads the relevant results to the chart, Robby scans them quickly and nods. "Well, looks like you called it. Labs say you're just dehydrated. Sodium's low, a little hemoconcentrated, but nothing dramatic."
Beckett exhales in relief. "So I'm not dying today. That's good news."
"Not on my watch," Robby says, already standing. "I'll have someone come by to start a line, get some fluids in you. Then I'll come back and stitch you up."
"Keep you from losing your record," Beckett says, smiling.
Robby smirks as he draws the curtain and leaves the room. "Exactly. We're having a good streak."
He heads toward central, intent on finding Princess to start the line, but halfway down the hall he nearly collides with Whitaker coming around the corner. The kid's got his badge clipped crooked and a pen tucked behind his ear, hair a little mussed like he's been running laps around the floor.
"Hey," Robby says, catching himself. "Perfect timing."
Whitaker looks up, eyes wide and bright in the too-harsh fluorescents. For a beat too long, Robby forgets what he was going to say—distracted by how blue they are, how soft his skin looks under the light. He clears his throat, forces his brain back into gear. "Got a patient in South 4 who needs an access and some fluids. Couple of stitches, too, once he's rehydrated."
"Got it," Whitaker says, his usual eager efficiency returning as he taps something into the tablet.
"Older guy," Robby adds as they start down the hall together. "Fainted, cut his arm on the way down. Nice guy, though. You'll like him. I do."
Their hands brush once, unintentionally, the kind of incidental contact that shouldn't mean anything. Robby pretends not to notice.
When they reach the room, he opens the door with his shoulder and steps halfway in, tone light. "Mr. Beckett, good news. The wonderful Doctor Whitaker here is going to fix you right up."
"Whitaker?" Beckett echoes, straightening in the bed. "Surely not Dennis Whitaker?"
Robby's halfway to smiling at the coincidence when he feels Whitaker freeze beside him. The kid's gone red—flushed from head to toe, like someone just pulled the floor out from under him.
"Uh," Whitaker says, voice impossibly softer than usual. "Hi, Professor Beckett."
The older man blinks, then lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "Well, I'll be damned. Of all the hospitals in all the cities…" Whitaker moves to the bedside, checking the chart as Beckett beams up at him. "How long's it been, Dennis? Seven years?"
"Something like that," Whitaker says, his voice tight but polite. "Since undergrad."
Beckett laughs softly. "You were what—nineteen?"
Robby hangs back near the counter, pretending to double-check the vitals, but he's watching the exchange carefully. The air's not hostile, but it's charged—something beneath the surface, unsaid.
Whitaker busies himself with the IV kit. "How's Francis?"
Beckett's smile flickers. "Still traveling. He was in Greece last month. Somewhere on the coast now, I think. He sends the occasional postcard—usually when he needs money."
"Sounds about right," Whitaker mutters, a nostalgic sort of smile on his face.
The older man chuckles, but it's quieter now. "You do have his number, don't you?"
"Not many chances for international phone calls as a med student," Whitaker rubs the back of his neck, rueful.
Robby can't make sense of it—there's familiarity there, not just teacher and student. Something more tangled. He clears his throat, breaking the rhythm. "Alright, gentlemen, let's get that line in and close this wound before you catch up."
Whitaker gives a short nod, grateful for the out. He tapes the catheter down with careful precision, voice steady again. "Fluids first, then sutures?"
"Yeah," Robby says. "I think you can handle both with supervision."
"Um," Whitaker finishes attaching the line, then glances toward Robby. There's something in his expression—uneasy but determined. "Actually, Dr. Robby, can I talk to you for a second? Outside?"
Robby frowns but follows him into the hall, the door swaying closed behind them.
Once they're far enough away from South 4, Whitaker exhales like he's been holding his breath the entire time. "There's… a slight conflict of interest," he says, avoiding eye contact. "I can't do the sutures."
Robby blinks. "Why not? You're already on the case."
Whitaker hesitates, jaw flexing. "Because I was… involved with Dr. Beckett."
Robby stares at him, trying to process. "He was your professor. That doesn't create a conflict of interest, Whitaker."
Whitaker finally looks up, eyes wide and mortified. "No," he says quietly. "I mean involved involved."
The words hit harder than Robby expects. For a second, all he can do is stare. "He—he was married."
Whitaker swallows. "It was after she died. A few months after."
Robby tries to find a place to put the information, but it keeps slipping through his fingers. "He's so much older than you."
There's a beat. Then Whitaker says, level but soft, "He's older than you, too."
Robby opens his mouth, closes it again. "That's not—" He stops himself. "That's not really the point."
Whitaker's mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile. "That's never been an issue for me."
Robby pinches the bridge of his nose. "He was your professor."
"Some people," Whitaker says dryly, "consider that a turn-on."
Robby runs out of questions all at once. His brain, unhelpfully, starts filling in blanks he doesn’t want filled—images of Whitaker, younger, bent over a desk or pressed against a door, Beckett’s hands mapping the lines of his body, the same hands that probably grade his papers. The instinctual revulsion doesn’t come from the act itself; it’s in the context. The power dynamic, the mentorship twisted into something secret and consumptive. Beckett, the grieving widower, finding solace in the most vulnerable of his students; Whitaker, with all his sharp edges and defensive wit, disarmed and used by a man who knew exactly how to leverage intellect and emotion. He thinks of the kid coming apart under those practiced, older hands.
His throat goes dry. He can picture Beckett’s mouth on Whitaker’s skin, tasting the salt of his sweat, whispering dirty promises between kisses. And Whitaker—fuck, Whitaker would probably be desperate for it, arching into the touch, his sharp mind reduced to gasps and moans as Beckett fucked him slow and deep, making him beg for it.
His stomach turns. He feels a hot, irrational surge of protectiveness, followed immediately by a wave of something darker, uglier—a jealousy so specific and pointless it shames him.
He forces himself to breathe, to focus on the sterile white of the hallway, the distant beep of monitors, but the damage is done. The images are burned into his brain—Whitaker, spread out on Beckett’s desk, his lips parted, his body flushed with need. Beckett’s hands, rough and possessive, leaving marks that Whitaker hides under his clothes for days.
He doesn't realize how long he's been standing there until his lungs start to ache. The hallway's gone quiet, the hum of the monitors distant, faint. His pulse is still racing, images he can't unsee flickering behind his eyelids.
"Dr. Robby?"
The sound of his name cuts through it. He blinks, the world snapping back into focus—white walls of the pit, Whitaker's face turned toward him in mild confusion.
He squints at him. "Are you… okay?"
Robby clears his throat, looks anywhere but at him. "Fine. Just—fine. I'll, uh, take care of the sutures." He excuses himself before Whitaker can say anything else, needing movement, direction—anything. He crosses back into South 4, tugging the curtain open with a steadier hand than he feels.
"Mr. Beckett," he says, voice even. "Dr. Whitaker had something else to take care of, so I'll finish the sutures myself."
Beckett's expression flickers—surprise, then amusement. "That's alright. I'll have to catch up with him later." He settles back against the pillow, tone turning fond, maybe a little smug. "He was one of my favorite students, you know. Bright, curious. Always asked the right questions."
Something in Robby goes rigid. The easy rapport they'd built cracks clean down the middle. He forces a polite hum, pulling a stool over and snapping on gloves.
"That so," he says flatly, reaching for the lidocaine. "Tiny pinprick and some burning."
Beckett winces, then chuckles. "Oh, yes. Sharp as they come. And stubborn. Used to argue with me like his life depended on it."
"Sounds about right," Robby mutters, lining up the needle driver, eyes on the wound.
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable for Beckett—he seems perfectly at ease—but it hums under Robby's skin. Every word from a few minutes ago rings louder now: involved involved.
Robby ties the first suture a little tighter than necessary. "So you two kept in touch?" he asks, tone light but clipped.
Beckett shakes his head. "No, not really. Dennis was a theology major back then—brilliant, really. I thought for sure he'd go on to grad school, maybe teach. But he decided against it."
Robby glances up briefly. "Oh?"
"Yes," Beckett hums, a faint smile on his face. "Said he wanted something more practical. I tried to talk him out of it. He had such a mind for the abstract, the big questions. Losing him to medicine felt like a small tragedy."
Robby's jaw ticks. "Tragedy's such a strong word," he mutters, tying the last stitch a little too tightly.
Beckett doesn't notice—or pretends not to. "He was one of the best I ever taught. Rare combination of curiosity and conviction. You don't see that often in students his age."
"Yeah," Robby says quietly. "He's… dedicated."
For a moment, the only sound is the soft pull of thread through skin.
Beckett sighs, content. "Still, I'm glad to see he's doing well. Always knew he'd land on his feet. I just didn't expect to run into him here of all places. It'll be interesting catching up with him later."
Robby’s hands still. The needle hovers over Beckett’s skin, his grip so tight his knuckles ache. 'catching up with him later'. The words slither through him, acidic and suffocating. He can feel the jealousy coiling in his gut, hot and ugly, twisting into something that tastes like hatred.
He forces himself to breathe, to focus on the stitch he’s tying, but his vision blurs for a second. Catching up. Like it’s innocent. Like it’s just two old friends reminiscing over coffee. But Robby knows better. He’s seen the way Whitaker’s voice tightens when he’s uncomfortable, the way his fingers twitch when he’s trying not to react. He’s seen the ghost of something raw and exposed flicker across his face when Beckett looked at him.
And now this man—this smug, self-satisfied bastard—is sitting here, talking about Whitaker like he’s some prized possession he’s proud to have shaped. Like he still has a claim on him.
Robby’s throat burns. He wants to grab Beckett by the collar and shake him. He wants to demand to know exactly what happened between them, how far it went, how many times Whitaker let this man touch him, use him, own him. He wants to know if Beckett ever looked at Whitaker the way Robby does—like he’s something precious, something his.
But he can’t. Because he’s a professional. Because Whitaker would never forgive him for making a scene. Because something tells him Beckett would love it. The thought makes his skin crawl.
He swallows the bile that's rising in his throat and forces a smile, cold and sharp. "I’m sure he’d love that," Robby says, his voice dangerously smooth. "But I doubt he has much free time these days. Med school keeps you busy. And Whitaker… well, he’s not one to dwell on the past."
Beckett chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the edge in Robby’s tone. "Oh, I doubt that. Dennis has always been sentimental, deep down. He just hides it well."
Robby’s grip tightens around the suture scissors. Sentimental. The word makes his chest ache. He’s seen Whitaker’s sentimentality—the way he'd pulled him out of a panic attack, hauled him to his feet and reminded him that there were people counting on him, the way he talks about his patients like they’re his to protect. The way he looks at Robby sometimes, like he’s trying to memorize him.
And this man—this fucking man—thinks he still knows him.
Robby finishes the last stitch with a jerk, the snap of the thread too loud in the quiet room. "There," he says, stepping back. "All done. Try not to fall on anything sharp for the next few days."
Beckett laughs, stretching his arm gingerly. "I’ll do my best. And Robby—" He says the name like they’re old friends, like he has any right to it. "—thank you. For the stitches. And for taking care of him as I'm sure you do."
Robby’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "Just doing my job, Professor."
He turns on his heel and strides out of the room before Beckett can say another word, the door swinging shut behind him with a finality that satisfies something dark and ugly in his chest.
He doesn't think he's ever hated anyone more.
Robby stalks down the hallway, still vibrating with the kind of adrenaline that has nowhere to go. Every step feels too loud, too sharp. He spots Whitaker at central, halfway through a verbal handover with Javadi, rattling off labs and vitals with that easy cadence that drives Robby insane for reasons he can't justify.
"—fluids running, Cipro 500 prescribed, just waiting for discharge instructions," Whitaker says, gesturing toward the board. His posture is relaxed, unbothered. Like none of this has touched him at all.
When he catches sight of Robby, his voice falters only for a second. "Uh, that's everything for me," he says quickly, offering Victoria a polite smile before taking a step back. "You good to cover the rest?"
"Yeah, don't worry about it, go," she says, already turning back to the monitor.
Whitaker crosses over, still in that easy, clinical rhythm. "How'd the sutures go?" he asks, tone neutral, maybe even curious.
It's such an innocent question that it grates. Robby feels something mean curl in his chest. He hears it not as curiosity, but possession—as if Whitaker's still thinking about him.
"Fine," Robby says tightly. "Your professor says he'll catch up with you later."
He waits for it—for the flinch, the dread, the same mortified reaction from before. But Whitaker just nods, unfazed. "Oh. That's nice of him."
Nice of him.
The words hit like a slap.
Robby can't breathe for a second. Nice of him. Like it's nothing. Like that man didn't just sit there talking about him like he was something he used to own.
Before he can think better of it, he grips Whitaker's elbow. "Walk with me," he says.
Whitaker blinks. "Uh—"
"Now."
Robby drags him down the hall, through the side corridor, and into the bathroom. The door shuts with a heavy click, and Robby twists the lock before he can stop himself.
"Jesus, Dr. Robby," Whitaker mutters, startled. "What are you—"
Robby spins Whitaker around, pressing him back against the cold tile wall of the bathroom. His grip on Whitaker’s elbow tightens, his voice a low, rough growl. "Did he take advantage of you?"
Whitaker’s eyes widen, his brows knitting together in confusion. "What?"
"Beckett," Robby snaps, his chest heaving. "Did he—fuck, Whitaker, did he use you? Were you even old enough to know what you were getting into?"
Whitaker stares at him for a long moment, his expression shifting from shock to something sharper—annoyance, maybe even offense. "Are you serious right now?" His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it, like Robby just insulted him. "I was nineteen, Dr. Robby. I knew exactly what I was doing."
"Nineteen?" Robby’s voice cracks. He'd thought he's been twenty-one at least, Jesus. "You were a kid."
Whitaker’s jaw clenches. "I was an adult. And I wasn’t some naive freshman, okay? I knew what I wanted. I chose it."
Robby's pulse hammers in his throat. He opens his mouth, but the words that come out aren't the ones he means. "You chose him." It comes out strangled, bitter.
Whitaker blinks, incredulous. "Why are you saying it like that?"
Robby takes a half-step back, then forward again, like he can't decide if he wants to yell or run. "You said you chose it. You mean you wanted him? You wanted—" He cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his face, breathing hard. "Forget it."
Whitaker frowns. "No, say it. Tell me what's going on with you."
Robby looks at him, really looks—at the furrow in his brow, the confusion, the steady pulse in his throat—and every jealous thought he's tried to bury spikes up at once. The memory of Beckett's smug smile, the way he'd said favorite student, the way Whitaker had asked after him. It all burns behind his eyes.
He wants to ask why him. He wants to ask why not me. But his jaw locks. His hands curl at his sides. He can't let it out without something worse following it.
There's a sharp knock on the door. "Hey, why's this door locked?" someone asked confusedly from the other side.
Robby doesn't even hesitate. "It's occupied!" he snaps, voice echoing off the tile.
The silence that follows is immediate—and heavy.
Whitaker's eyes widen a fraction. He exhales slowly, the confusion clearing into something else: realization. "You're mad," he says quietly.
Robby stares at him, chest still heaving. "I'm not—"
"No, you are." Whitaker's tone softens, careful now. "You're pissed. Why?"
Robby’s throat works, but no sound comes out at first. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable, until it feels like the air itself is pressing against his chest. Then, suddenly, it breaks.
"Because he had you," Robby snaps. The words hit the air before he can stop them, jagged and ugly. "He had you, and I can't—" His voice cracks. "I can't stand it."
Whitaker blinks, startled. "What are you talking about?"
"You," Robby spits out. "Him. You were his, weren't you? God, the way he talked about you—like you were some prodigy he molded, some—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, trying to rein it in, but the dam's already broken. "He talked about you like he still owned you. Like you were a fucking souvenir from some brilliant year he couldn't stop jerking off to."
Whitaker just stares, stunned.
Robby laughs once, hollow, bitter. "And you—Jesus, you... he said he'd catch up with you later, and you acted like you were actually looking forward to it."
"I didn't—"
"You did," Robby says, too fast. "You smiled. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter." He steps closer, eyes bright, desperate. "But it does matter. It makes me sick just thinking about it. Thinking about him touching you. Thinking about him calling you Dennis."
Whitaker's jaw goes slack. "Oh." The word is thin, barely audible despite the oppressive silence in the bathroom. "Are you jealous?"
Robby laughs again, this time quieter, more dangerous. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I guess I am. You want me to lie about it?"
Whitaker’s eyes go wide, his lips parting slightly as the realization hits him—Robby’s jealousy, raw and exposed, hanging between them like a living breathing thing. His fingers twitch at his sides, his voice tumbling out before he can stop it, breathless and almost accidental: "Do you… do you actually want to know?"
Robby freezes. His chest heaves, his pulse hammering in his throat. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But the way Whitaker is looking at him—wide-eyed, flushed, his voice trembling with something that sounds almost like hope—it shreds the last of his self-control. "Yes," he admits, voice rough. "God help me, yes."
Whitaker swallows hard, his gaze flickering away for just a second before locking back onto Robby’s. His voice is softer now, hesitant but earnest, like he’s confessing something he never thought he’d say out loud. "He—he used to…" He trails off, his cheeks burning, reaching for Robby's hands and placing them on his hips. Robby squeezes instinctively. "Touch me here. All the time. Even... during class when everyone else was distracted."
Robby’s breath hitches. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the sharp line of Whitaker’s hipbone. "What else?" he asks, his voice rough.
Whitaker’s breath comes faster as Robby’s fingers press into his hips, his own hands sliding up to grip Robby’s wrists, guiding them higher, under his scrub top, under his vest. "He'd… he'd trace my ribs. Right here." He shudders, his eyes fluttering shut as Robby's hands move of their own volition, circling one nipple then the other. Neither of them looks away. "Sometimes when he thought no one was watching he'd squeeze. Just a little bit of pressure, just to remind me he was thinking about it."
Robby’s head is spinning, the air in the bathroom thick and suffocating. He can feel the frantic beat of Whitaker’s pulse under his thumbs, the heat of his skin, the way his body arches into the touch like he’s been starved for it.
Whitaker takes control again, pulling one of his hands down, barely breathing as he slips it into his scrub pants. Robby’s fingers brush against the soft trail of hair below his navel before Whitaker continues down, sliding their intertwined hands through his folds with a soft whimper. "He'd do this," he whispers, his voice raw. "Sometimes. Under the desk, during office hours. When we were supposed to be talking about Augustine, or Kierkegaard…"
Robby can feel Whitaker’s slick heat on his own fingers, the way his hips hitch forward, his breath coming in ragged little gasps. The thought of Beckett doing this—touching him like this, in public, with no one the wiser—makes something hot and violent coil in his gut. He wants to replace it with something better, something real. He dips his fingers deeper, earning a choked-out moan. "He'd… he'd make me come like this," Whitaker chokes out, his head tipping back against the tile. "And he wouldn't even let me make a sound."
Robby can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only feel—the slick heat of Whitaker’s body, the desperate way he’s grinding against his hand, the broken little noises he’s trying so hard to swallow. His free hand slams against the wall beside Whitaker’s head, his body pressing flush against him as he curls his fingers deeper, his thumb finding that swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves. "And this?" he asks, his voice dangerously low. "Did he do this too?"
"Yes," Whitaker gasps, his fingers digging into Robby’s shoulders, his whole body trembling. "God, yes. All the time. He'd… he'd say I was so good for him, so responsive…" He trails off into a choked sob as Robby's thumb circles harder, his fingers thrusting deeper, mimicking the rhythm of his own frantic heartbeat.
"Did he fuck you?" Robby asks, the words tearing out of him, ragged and raw.
Whitaker’s eyes fly open, wide and wet with unshed tears. "No," he whispers, shaking his head. "Never. He said… he said that was crossing a line."
The words hit Robby like a physical blow, the relief so sharp and sudden it almost brings him to his knees. But it’s followed by a wave of something else—something hot and possessive and triumphant. He never had you. Not really.
Robby leans in, his forehead pressed against Whitaker’s, his breath ghosting over his lips. "Good," he growls, his voice a low, predatory rumble. "Because that's mine."
And then Whitaker is coming, his body convulsing, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as he floods Robby’s hand with his release. Robby holds him through it, his body a solid, steady anchor in the storm, his other hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the damp skin there.
When the tremors finally subside, Whitaker slumps against him, boneless and spent, his face buried in the crook of his neck. For a long moment, they just stand there, the only sound in the room their ragged breathing, the frantic beating of their hearts.
Slowly, carefully, Robby pulls his hand away, his fingers sticky with Whitaker’s release. He stares at them for a second, his mind reeling, before he brings them to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the salty, musky proof of Whitaker’s desire.
Whitaker makes a soft, broken sound, his hips hitching forward again. "Don't," he whispers, but it's too late. Robby’s already hooked, his body humming with a desperate, aching need for more.
He wants to lay him out on the cold tile floor and fuck him until he forgets his own name, until the only word he can remember is Robby
Instead, he forces himself to step back, to give him space. He grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them under the faucet before gently cleaning Whitaker up, his touch impossibly tender. Whitaker flinches at the first touch, his eyes fluttering open, but he doesn't pull away. He just watches him, his gaze soft, dazed, his expression unreadable.
"We should go before someone gets Maintenance to break the door down," Robby says, his voice hoarse. He throws the soiled paper towels into the trash can, his hands shaking as he adjusts his scrubs, trying to erase the evidence of what just happened.
Whitaker nods, his movements slow, clumsy. He smooths down his scrub top, his cheeks flushed a deep, painful red.
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't," Robby cuts him off, his voice sharp. "Don't you dare apologize for this." He takes a step closer, his hand coming up to cup Whitaker's cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below his eye. "I'm not sorry. Are you? Honestly?"
Whitaker shakes his head, his gaze dropping to Robby's lips. "No," he whispers. "But… what now?"
Robby’s heart aches. What now? He doesn't have a fucking clue. He just knows he can't go back to the way things were. He can't pretend this didn't happen. He can't pretend he doesn't want to do it again, and again, until the memory of anyone else is erased completely.
Robby swallows hard, forcing himself to take a step back. "We go back to work and handover to the night shift," he says finally, the words rough, almost bitten out. "Before anyone notices we've been gone this long. After that… I'm taking you home, kid."
Whitaker nods, still dazed, his pupils blown wide. He reaches for the door, unlocks it, and they step out into the fluorescent glare of the hallway. The air feels too bright, too loud—machines humming, voices overlapping, the world moving on as if nothing inside that room had just shifted.
They make it maybe ten feet before Beckett rounds the corner, access removed, arm taped up, discharge papers in hand and that same infuriatingly genial smile on his face.
"There you are," Beckett says warmly, directing it at Whitaker. "Thought I might've missed you. I was hoping we could grab a drink before I head back to the hotel—catch up properly. There's a place around the corner one of the other professors took me to last night."
Robby's chest tightens, but he forces his face blank.
Whitaker hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet Robby's for half a second—just long enough to register something unspoken there. Then he turns back to Beckett, polite, composed. "That's kind of you, Professor, but I've got notes to finish and a shift change coming up. Maybe another time."
Beckett's smile falters. "Ah. Of course." He adjusts the strap on his bag, a faint note of disappointment coloring his voice. "Still, it really was good seeing you, Dennis. You've done well for yourself."
"Thank you," Whitaker says evenly. "You too."
Beckett nods once more, then turns and walks down the hall, disappearing around the corner with the slow, self-assured gait of someone used to being the smartest man in the room.
The second he's gone, Robby exhales through his nose, the tension leaving him in a rush. "Nice work," he mutters.
Whitaker raises an eyebrow. "Nice work?"
Robby's mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk playing at the edges. "Turning him down."
Whitaker gives him a look—half suspicion, half amusement. "Didn't you want me to?" Robby opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn't have an answer that doesn't sound insane. "Exactly," Whitaker says, satisfied. "Stop worrying about it."
Robby shrugs, smugness slipping through before he can stop it. I wasn't worried."
Whitaker huffs a laugh, soft and disbelieving. "Liar," he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Robby to maybe hear it.
But Robby doesn’t bite. He’s too busy riding the strange, buoyant relief buzzing under his skin. The hallway’s noise rushes back in—phones ringing, monitors chiming, the ordinary chaos of the pit—and for once, it feels like something he can breathe in instead of drown in.