Chapter Text
The past three months of living with Trinity Santos had been amazing; She was a great roommate. She helped him turn his EM rotation into an internship post-grad. She cleaned up after herself, (mostly) respected his privacy, and made sure to be reasonably quiet when bringing home various women from their local gay bar– sock on the door, and everything. The only thing they seemed to bicker about was Dennis’ sex life.. Or lack thereof. She knew he wasn’t a virgin– hadn’t been since his second year of medical school– but he was seriously touch starved, and hadn’t had a relationship in two years. She’d begged him to download Grindr for weeks and weeks, until finally he caved, just to experience disappointment and embarrassment.
Dennis was told that Grindr was, in Santos’ words, ‘like Tinder for gay men’. So imagine his initial surprise when, upon downloading the app, instead of the clean-cut format he was expecting, a dark black-and-yellow screen appeared with hundreds of (mostly) anonymous men ‘looking for a good time’. He was initially appalled, and so fucking flustered he nearly chucked his phone across the room. He’d expected a dating app, not a random ‘hookup with some stranger without a face’ app. He’d felt frustrated beyond belief.
It took him a really, really long time to accept his sexuality during his first, formative college years outside of Broken Bow, Nebraska. While he’d come to terms with his sexuality, he hadn’t exactly become so… blatant about it. He didn’t feel the need to come out to everyone he met, he didn’t like making a big deal about it. He wasn’t ashamed, he was just private in that way.
He slid his phone under his pillow and went back to sleep, and when he woke up the next day, he didn’t give any more thought to the app as he got ready for work. As a matter of fact, he didn’t think about it for the majority of his shift that day either. It wasn’t until he was nearing the end of his shift that the app infiltrated his thoughts. He’d been walking briskly through the ED towards his next patient, eyes skimming their file on one of the hospital’s sleek tablets, when he ran face first into the solid chest of his senior attending. The tablet had taken flight from Dennis’ hands, and landed with a solid ‘crack!’ onto the hard floor. Dr. Robinavitch’s hands quickly stabilized the younger man, and when Dennis found his footing, he looked up at Dr. Robby’s hardened gaze, both of their eyes landing on the shattered piece of equipment.
The surrounding doctors, residents, and nurses had fallen deathly quiet, waiting for an inevitable dispute between the two. Dennis was shaking like a leaf, heartbeat clawing into his throat. He knew he’d fucked up, watching as Dr. Robby took deep breaths in an attempt to assuage his anger. “Whitaker, a moment? Dana, find someone to take that to IT, please.” He mumbled, his hand– the one that had previously held Whitaker upright by the shoulder– moving to scruff the back of Dennis’ scrub top firmly. His forceful grip on Dennis’ scrubs and rough maneuvering of him into the nearest empty patient room were the only sign of his anger, his face schooled into the very picture of professional neutrality. ‘Oh, I am SO fucked.’ Dennis bemoaned internally.
The older man laid into him instantly. “Whitaker, have you lost your mind? Where the fuck is your head at right now, kid? I would expect this kind of stupid, cocky carelessness from Santos or Langdon, but from you? Those tablets are extremely costly, kid. I cannot stress how imperative it is to handle them with care and watch where you’re walking in this Emergency Department!” The older man growled. Whitaker remained quiet, shoulders hunching with humiliation as he stared resolutely at the ground. He was nodding profusely in agreement– he knew better, he knew that most accidents were caused by careless distractions, but he’d been rushing. He was having an awful day, and hadn’t been meeting the usual 2 new patients per hour quota. He just wanted to meet Dr. Robby’s expectations, and instead he’d fumbled them horrifically. His breaths were beginning to come rapidly, hot shame trailing a burning path up his chest, neck, and ears. His eyes watered, and he began to curse internally at his sensitivity.
He never, ever liked disappointing Dr. Robby. Robby who was so patient, understanding, and caring towards him. Robby who, time and time again, reminded Dennis why he was going to make an excellent doctor some day. ‘That’s perfect, Whitaker. Beautiful sutures,’ or, ‘Good job, just like that. See, Whitaker? You’ve got it. You’re capable.’ pouring out of his mouth during every other procedure the younger performed. Now? Now Whitaker was proving him wrong. Making a liar out of his favorite attending, disrespecting him with his carelessness. Shame and something else– something dark, corrupt, and wanting curled in Dennis’ stomach. He’d never seen Robby this mad before, not directed at him, anyway. It was.. Unnervingly attractive. Arousing.
Oh, Fuck.
“...Kid? Are you even listening?!” Dr. Robby roared, and Dennis looked up at him with a small gasp. “Yes! Yes, of course– of course I am, Dr. Robinavitch. You’re right, I was being careless. I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” Dr. Robby sighed heavily, scrubbing one of his (‘large, large and very strong–’) hands down his face, shaking his head lightly in disbelief.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, kid, but you need to pull it together. You’ve been fucking up all day, and it isn’t just your ass on the line, it’s mine. You are my responsibility, Dennis. I need you to be a good representation of me, yourself, and this hospital. Do you understand?” He asked, most of the fire and fight of his anger having burned down. Dennis nodded, before stuttering out a hasty, “Yes Sir, I-I understand.” The attending stared at him for a moment, looking utterly exhausted, but satisfied with Dennis’ immediate acceptance of his reprimand. “Be a good representation. Be good for me, Whitaker.” He sighed once more, smiling weakly and clapping Dennis on the shoulder heavily.
Dennis’ throat constricted with the effort of fighting off a moan, the smaller man blinking rapidly as his mind fires off a thousand different scenarios where Robby would be using that last sentence in an entirely new setting. His brain felt like it was on fire as every last nerve ending was set ablaze, his gaze locking onto the taller man’s lips. “Yeah, I can.. Do that. Good. I can be good.” He said just above a whisper, wetting his own lips instinctually. “I um, we should get back out there. Sorry again, about the tablet..” He mumbled gently. It’s then that Whitaker had the cold realization, as if doused by ice water, that he wanted to fuck his boss. His 54-year-old boss, who is potentially old enough to be his father. He then thought, ‘Holy crap, I need to get laid. Maybe that dating app is worth looking at again.’
Dr. Robby chuckled, sliding back the curtain and holding the door open for Dennis. “I’ll take your word for it, Kid. Go save some people, and stay out of trouble.” He smiled, and Dennis nodded quickly before fleeing like his life depended on it. The rest of his shift goes by surprisingly smooth, despite his internal meltdown over his apparent attraction to Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Trinity tried to interrogate Dennis on the way home, asking him what Robby said to him, how badly he got his ass chewed, etc. Dennis brushed her off, insisting that it was his fault and Robby was rightfully angry, but that overall Whitaker was fine. He didn’t mention, however, the fact that he nearly creamed his jeans over his attending practically screaming at him. That would’ve been weird.
Dennis locked his bedroom door hastily, fishing out his phone and searching rapidly through different profiles on the accursed Grindr app. He wasn’t typically one for hookups, found them to be not only unsafe (you never know a stranger’s full sexual history), but usually unpleasant. It had been too long though, and Dennis was hoping– praying, even– that maybe if he just got laid, he wouldn’t get the sudden urge to smell the sweat clinging to his boss’ skin anymore. He wouldn’t want his boss to crowd him against the nearest surface and rearrange his intestines. He wouldn’t want his boss to–
Well. You get the picture.
He finally found a profile that seemed promising:
A picture of a firm, strong torso, lightly shrouded with a thin layer of soft pudge, and covered in a dusting of salt-and-pepper body hair. The perfect picture of real masculinity, muscles that were used daily for real strength, rather than carefully constructed like a gym rat’s. The man’s username was just ‘M.’, but Dennis didn’t need to know his name, not really. His profile read, “Vers Top, 6’1, 180lb, 54. About Me: Looking for Vers Bottom, chat before meeting, no picture no chat. HIV negative. Recently Tested.” He was exactly what Dennis was looking for. Sending the man a quick ‘tap’ with the small flame emoticon in the bottom right corner, Dennis sat anxiously awaiting a response. To his delight (and mild panic), the man responded instantly, shooting him a simple text.
M.: hey, how are you?
dnny: hi, kinda tired tbh, long shift
M.: Sorry to hear that.
M.: [Picture attachment]
M.: Had a long day as well.
The picture is, inarguably, one of the hottest things anyone has ever sent Dennis. It’s a photo of a man’s reflection in the mirror, taken only from hip to chin. The man’s face is covered by what looks to be a normal blue t-shirt, innocent enough. His right arm is lifted above his head, torso completely bare, exposing the soft, downy hair of the man’s armpit. It’s unexpectedly sensual, and Dennis’ entire face felt flushed with heat as he stared at the image with open-mouthed shock. He felt the unexpected urge to lick, smell, taste. He wonders internally if that’s a thing, being attracted to someone’s armpit. He feels mildly disgusted with himself, but the deep hunger to know exactly what the man’s body hair feels like against his nose as he inhales doesn’t disappear. He feels his pants tighten, and reaches down to squeeze himself gently with a quiet moan.
At that precise moment, Trinity POUNDS at his door, and with a loud yelp, Dennis’ phone met the drywall of his bedroom wall directly opposite his bed. Five minutes later, once Trinity has stopped laughing, the two stare curiously at the large hole in their wall. “So… Why did you chuck your phone, Huckleberry?” Trinity asked slyly, leaning into the man’s personal space teasingly. Whitaker grabbed her face, shoving her bodily away from him, feeling her laughter against his palm briefly. “Shut up, Trin! It’s not funny! You really shouldn’t scare me like that! How are we going to fix this? The-The landlord is going to kill me!”
The two bicker animatedly, do a horrifically shitty job patching the hole, and get wine drunk while they eat takeout, parked in front of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ for the rest of the night. He completely forgets about the grindr conversation, the weird awakening of an (apparent) armpit fetish, and the disaster that is his love life. He doesn’t forget about his attraction to Dr. Robby. He’d always known that there was some odd, unusual magnetism between them– he was sure the older man felt that pull as well. He never would’ve expected that the pull was sexual attraction, but here he was, wanting to fuck his boss.
The next four months pass as uneventfully as possible, considering Dennis was an R1 in an ED. Cases came and went, Dennis saved a lot of people, lost a few on the way. It was business as usual, despite his near-constant ache for Dr. Robby’s attention, approval, and praise. The two men practically moved in sync, conquering trauma cases with fluent ease most days. Even when they lost a patient, they had begun working so well together that they knew it was due to no fault of their own. Langdon had returned from his rehabilitation program, and though he was clearly jealous of the newfound closeness between Dr. Robby and Whitaker, he had yet to give the older man a formal apology.
Instead, Langdon and King had become near inseparable, forming their own duo of sorts. There was a faint air of petulant dislike for Whitaker that practically radiated from Langdon, but the younger chose to ignore it. He didn’t feel bad, not when he had so much attention and adoration from their attending. How could he? The constant contact: a hand on his shoulder, at the base of his neck, on his elbow, the small of his back, touching touching touching. He was starving for it, his body sagging into the pressure of Dr. Robby’s firm grip every time. They’d brushed hands once during an abdominal operation in Trauma 2, and Dennis almost audibly gasped, the feeling of his hands, covered in blue latex and blood slick against Robby’s, almost gave him a fucking coronary.
Things came to a head when the AC unit for the ED went out in the middle of an unusually warm day in April. The high that day was 83 degrees fahrenheit, and the temperature in the ED was a miserable, humid 78 degrees. In theory it doesn’t sound too bad, until you account for the constant movement and body heat of several people throughout the department, and suddenly it makes sense as to why one of the nurses had already been sent home due to heat exhaustion. She’d only made it about three hours into her shift. Whitaker was drenched in sweat, as was every other person on their floor. Every available window was open, fans running on high to push cool air in, but it felt like a fruitless endeavor.
Dr. Robby was equally sweaty, and it was driving Dennis absolutely fucking feral. The older man had long since shed his navy zip jacket, and had already changed his scrub top once from sweating through it completely. Dr. Whitaker had just finished up with an elderly patient who’d gotten dehydrated and been given a bag of fluids, giving her the reassurance of otherwise normal lab work and discharge paperwork. He stepped out of her patient room with a tired smile and froze, small gasp leaving his lips at the sight before him. Someone– some higher power, some sick, sadistic, omnipotent God– had it out for Dennis. They wanted him to die.
Dr. Robby’s head and arms were stuck in his shirt, humidity making the scrub top stick to his forearms as the man had tried to pull it off in frustration in front of the automated scrub deposit machine, likely hoping to exchange his top for a dry one. His undershirt had gotten tangled as well, pulled above his torso in the mix of twisted fabric, and Dennis felt his hands shake at the realization that he recognizes those armpits. That soft, downy hair, damp and darkened slightly with sweat, but nonetheless the very same salt-and-pepper that littered the older doctor’s chest, naval, and arms. “Goddamn AC…” Dr. Robby grunted, muffled in the fabric surrounding him. Dennis is brought back to the moment, snapped out of his reverie. ‘That’s your boss, Dennis. Help him for fucks sake, and be normal about it.’
“Here, let me help you, Dr. Robby.” Dennis called, moving towards the man quickly. Dennis pulled the white undershirt, separating it from the scrub top and holding it down as Dr. Robby firmly yanked the scrubs off. “Ugh, thank fuck. You’re a lifesaver yet again, Dr. Whitaker.” Dr. Robby grins, something flirtatious lurking near undetectably in the undercurrent of his words (as usual). “Y-Yeah, sure. Right. Um, bye.” Dennis stuttered out, nervous giggles trailing after him as he hightailed it away from his attending. He tried. He really did, he wanted to be so normal about the situation. It was impossible. The smell of Dr. Robby’s sweat, heady and mouth-watering, infiltrated his senses immediately. He could practically taste the salt of him on the back of his own tongue. He’s so fucked.
“Whitaker, hold up– How was uh, Mrs. Damphrey?” His boss asked, catching up with the smaller man and matching his pace. “Don’t you need a scrub top, Dr. Robby?” Whitaker asked, throat feeling tight. The older man’s chest hair was visible through the thin white undershirt, turned almost transparent with the amount of sweat drenching it. “We’re out of them. I’ve got a spare undershirt in my locker, I’m changing into it in a moment. Whitaker, stop here for a second–” The man grabbed Whitaker’s arm abruptly, bringing them both to a sudden halt. Dennis forced his eyes to fall anywhere that wasn’t Robby’s chest, cheeks flaming. “Are you okay? Your face is really red. You getting too hot in here? I know we aren’t exactly used to this kind of heat–”
“Believe me,” Dennis scoffed with a small chuckle, “I’m used to this kind of heat.” ‘The kind where I want my boss to fuck me in a supply closet,’ He thinks, with no small amount of self-hatred. “Really? I didn’t think Nebraska got very warm in the spring.” Robby states, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “I wasn’t talking about Nebraska. Anyways, I have work to do, and I am, decidedly, not suffering from heat stroke. Thanks for your uh, concern I guess.” Dr. Whitaker attempted to smile reassuringly, before gently shrugging out of Dr. Robby’s grip. “I’m grabbing South 20.”
Dennis Whitaker was not a coward, but he absolutely was a weak, weak man when it comes to Dr. Michael Robinavitch. He carefully avoided the (hot, sweaty) older man for the rest of his shift. The only time he saw him after that was in a trauma room, hastily saving a woman with a crushed femur from a three-car pile-up before sending her up to Ortho and promptly collapsing, tired and drenched in somehow even more sweat in the breakroom. The two men chugged water, before parting again to continue business as usual. No words spoken between them, but Dr. Robby’s curious, hesitant staredown said enough. He knew something was up.
By the end of Dennis’ shift, he felt completely wrung out. He greeted an equally exhausted Santos by the exit doors of the ED, ready to metaphorically jump ship now that their shift was finally over. Before they got very far, a voice called to them both across the asphalt of the ambulance bay. “Santos, Whitaker!” A cheery Mel called, running up to them both briskly. A weary Langdon trailed after her, affectionate smile on his face at the bright girl ahead of him. “What are you guys up to tonight? Down for a beer with Mateo and the others in the park?” She asked happily, looping her arm together with a smiling Santos’. “Sure, I could go for one, but after that we really need to get home. Sound good, Huckleberry?” Santos grinned, her roommate nodding in response.
There was something about Mel– her cheery disposition, blatant optimism, kind nature– she brightened the day (or in this case, night) of everyone she encountered. Sure, she had her serious moments, especially when dealing with bigoted, ignorant people spreading misinformation, but for the most part she was a bright beacon of hope for many of the doctors and nurses at PTMC. While Langdon still had imaginary beef with Dennis and Santos, they were all relatively civil, bordering on friendly, in the presence of Mel. She brought out the best in everyone who loved her, and they’d all fallen in one way or another. “I assume you’ve had a good day, then?” Whitaker asked, referring to the pep in the young woman’s step. She nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh yeah, totally! It was still hard, I mean, this job never gets easier. But today, Langon let me perform a thoracostomy completely on my own. I’ve done it before, but not without some guidance. It was really exciting!” Santos kicked the gravel under her feet a bit as the four doctors continued down their path to the park, “Damn, I fucking love doing chests. That’s really cool, King.” Melissa nodded with a small giggle, patting her hand affectionately against Trinity’s arm where it was wrapped around her own. “Yeah, you would’ve been really proud. I wanted to come tell you about it, but we ended up dealing with the–” She gestured vaguely, and the others nod in understanding. “Right, the three-car pile-up. That was fun.” Dennis grimaced, a cool shudder going down his spine. He could still hear the screams of the injured being wheeled in on gurneys. “Well,” Santos smiled, a rare genuine smile, “I’m glad you got the opportunity.” She said, eyes darting briefly to Langdon. “Maybe,” Langdon smirked with a hint of playfulness, “If you’re on your very best behavior, I’ll consider grabbing you for the next one. Possibly. Probably not.”
Her subtle look of gratitude might’ve flown under the radar had she been looking at anyone else, but Langdon was almost as good at reading Trinity as Dennis was now, the two oddly similar in some ways. It’s likely how Trinity could see the signs of addiction in him that nobody else noticed, and while Langdon wouldn’t admit it, Dennis knew that he secretly liked feeling seen by someone. He could tell in the way that, despite their bickering, Langdon made sure Santos was awarded every bit of credit she deserved during high-impact cases. He could tell in the way that Langdon asked around about Trinity one day when she’d had to stay home sick, trying and failing to make sure Dennis didn’t hear about his concern. He knew Langdon was grateful to her, even if he saw her as a ‘snitch’. He needed a snitch. Sometimes, everyone does.
They finally reached the park, and the group was greeted enthusiastically by Mateo, Princess, Dr. Robby, Javadi, and McKay. Langdon and Robby gave each other a nod of acknowledgement, but stayed resolutely away from each other. Otherwise, conversation in the group flowed smoothly. Whitaker finally felt somewhat relaxed after about an hour and a half, as he cracked open his third beer (it was never just one, with him and Trinity). He sat down heavily on the bench, tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and listening to the peaceful chatter of his coworkers. ‘This is what home sounds like.’ He startled a bit at the feeling of someone sitting next to him, but quickly relaxed back into his spot without opening his eyes. Whomever it was, he knew he could stay comfortable, stay languid. He was safe with these people, this small found family he’d acquired through PTMC.
“Rough day?” Robby’s gruff voice asked quietly, warm breath ghosting Dennis’ ear. The younger man’s eyes shoot open, a quick intake of breath before answering the older man, “Yeah, you could say that. The heat was.. Brutal. All day. God, I probably smell like onions, maybe don’t lean in too close!” He giggled, lightly nudging the other doctor with his elbow. “You don’t, honest. I’m actually shocked, you must have great deodorant.” The taller man chuckled, taking a long swig of his beer before smiling affectionately at his R1. Dennis blushed, confusion and mild embarrassment painting his features. “Actually, I didn’t have time to uh, apply any this morning. I definitely need a shower. You’re probably just immune after being in The Pitt all day, too many gross body smells.”
Robby shook his head, a smirk forming on his lips. “Nah,” He muttered, leaning in again to talk quietly with the smaller man, “Trust me, I can smell you. You just don’t smell bad.” He practically whispered, and Dennis felt his blood run hot and impossibly cold at the same time, like he’d taken a dive head-first into a vat of icy-hot. “What– uh, what do I smell like?” He asked hesitantly, breath halting at the feeling of Robby’s lips grazing his hairline when he spoke again, “Something sweeter than taffy. I can practically taste you.” Dennis was horrified to realize his pants were getting incrementally tighter, and he subtly shifted his hands to hold his beer over his crotch. “Oh! Uhm, that sounds.. Pleasant.” Dennis nodded, the tips of his ears hot.
“Sorry,” Robby laughed, moving to give Whitaker space to breathe again, “I feel like that might’ve sounded creepy, in hindsight. It’s true, though. What about me, do I smell horrible? I’m sure it can’t be great, I didn’t have time to reapply mid-shift like I usually do.” The older man lifts his arm, and the cool spring breeze brings the scent of him right into Dennis’ lungs. Whitaker gasped, mouth pooling with warm saliva instantaneously. His eyes zero in on his attending’s armpit instantly, eyes dilating at the sight of that hair poking out from the white cotton. “Fuck.” Dennis blurted, covering his eyes with his palm when he realized he’d said it outloud. “Damn, that bad, huh?” Robby asked, lowering his arm and taking another sip of his lukewarm beer. “No, not– you don’t stink. Sorry. You smell fine– great, you smell great!” Whitaker fumbled through his words, eyes looking at everything except his boss.
“What do I smell like?” Robby mimicked, his playful tone making Dennis’ cock twitch in his pants. “You smell like.. Warmth. Some kind of warm spice, like homemade cider. Like a b-bonfire. Like heat.” Dennis trailed, face absolutely scarlet. He looked around quickly, realizing nobody was paying them any mind, preoccupied with McKay and Santos’ current debate over whether all lesbians liked Taco Bell or not. Mel and Langdon are crying with laughter, and Javadi and Princess look bemused, but absolutely floored at the strange topic. Mateo is asking follow up questions, furthering the discourse mischievously. Needless to say, none of the others were paying Robby and Dennis any thought. Robby slid closer, his hand falling to rest lightly on Dennis’ knee.
“I take it that’s a good thing, yeah?” He asked huskily, eyes tracing languidly– sensually– across Whitaker’s lips. The doe-eyed man nodded, tongue wetting his lips as he leaned forward. “Ye-Yes. Definitely.” The taller man chuckled, seeming amused with Dennis’ reaction. “What are you doing tonight, Whit?” He asked quietly, eyes darting across the group around them. “Nothing, Sir.” Dennis was internally screaming, eyes roaming the other man’s face rapidly. Surely there was no possible way he was reading this wrong, right? It almost felt like his boss was coming on to him, but there’s no way Robby would be that unprofessional.. Right? Though, the more he thought about it, nothing Robby had said thus far was strictly sexual or inappropriate. Any sexual undertones were subtext, implied, suggestive phrasing at the very best. The man knew what game he was playing, and he knew it well.
Robby had to briefly remind himself they were in public, leaning slightly away from Dennis before murmuring conspiratorily, too low for prying eyes and ears; “Would your roommate notice if you left early?”