Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker is going to hell. He’s always known this about himself.
It’s not because he’s gay, or because he’s trans — though he’d be lying if he said there wasn't some lingering self-loathing that comes from being the only openly queer kid in a place like Broken Bow. It was hard enough coming out as generally-not-straight at the ripe age of thirteen —limbs shaking, lips trembling, heart a hundred-pound weight in his throat— but coming out as trans three years later? Starting his transition while he was still in high school? Suffice it to say, Dennis survived trial by fire.
Still. That’s not what’ll do him in when his time comes.
If God is always listening (and Dennis has been told repeatedly that he is) then God already knows what goes on inside of his head. God knows that Dennis has been harboring strange, perverted desires for as long as he’s known how to want. God knows that Dennis’s peers never could capture his attention the way their fathers did. God, more than anyone else, knows the sheer depths of the youngest Whitaker child’s depravity. All-seeing being, right? That’s the way the story goes.
So fire and brimstone it is.
Dennis never planned on telling a single soul about his… proclivities. The only people who need to know the finer details, he’s always thought, are himself and the men he takes to bed (and even then, Dennis divulges as little as he can feasibly get away with). Because what should it matter to anyone else what gets Dennis going?
Then came Trinity Santos — an enigma of a woman prone to bristling like a porcupine one moment, then opening her literal home to someone she just met that morning the very next. She’s fascinating and irritating and hilarious all at once. It’s clear from her tone when she asks, “What’s your type, Huckleberry?,” that she won’t be taking ‘no’ for an answer. That, and the sly smirk on her face.
“My type?” Dennis repeats, mostly just to buy himself some time. Santos nods and looks at him like she knows exactly what he’s up to. “It’s… hard to describe, I guess?”
The smirk on Trinity’s face doesn’t falter. If anything, it becomes more conniving. “Try me, Huckleberry.”
Whitaker cringes – both at the nickname, and at his maybe-friend’s uncanny meddling skills. He wonders if it’s even possible to keep a secret from someone like Trinity Santos. “My type is— it’s complicated, okay? I’m not sure I have the words.”
“Pull up Grindr, then. Let me see for myself.”
“What? I—” Dennis sputters, feeling like a mouse caught in a glue trap. Does everybody know? Is it written all across his face?
“Stop spiraling, oh my god. You’re not, like, obvious. I just so happen to have impeccable gaydar.” Dennis feels the tension melt from his shoulders within seconds. Santos lets out a quiet sound that may or may not be a snort, then gently adds, “I also heard the notification on your phone the other night.”
Goddamn it. “That’s– I—” Dennis starts, but he can’t think of what’s meant to come next.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Huckleberry. I mean that… though I hope you know we’re not in Kansas anymore. It’s okay to be gay around here. By my calculations, at least half of the Pitt is some type of queer. I’m pretty sure Robby and Abbot were a thing in, like, the nineties.”
That last part is a bombshell of a revelation – one Dennis will surely ruminate upon later – but for now, the only thing he can manage to get out is, “I’m from Nebraska…?”
They don’t revisit the topic that night. Santos gets way too distracted by the revelation that Dennis has never seen the Wizard of Oz. In an attempt to remedy that fact, they stay up way too late — mostly because Trinity keeps on pausing to make sure Dennis understands the importance of every scene and detail.
“There’s no cut there, see? They had to hire a body double for Judy Garland…”
Trinity’s radiating excitement to a degree that Dennis previously assumed she couldn’t reach outside of the ER. She’s got that wide, almost manic look in her eye —the one he’s only ever seen her wear when another human’s life is in her hands— and she’s talking so fast Dennis can just barely understand her. It’s strangely humanizing to witness.
Dennis ends the night feeling like he’s peeled back enough of Santos’s armor to see a sliver of the real Trinity in-between metal plating. He falls asleep with a smile on his lips.
(In his dreams, Dennis is the Cowardly Lion. He spends the whole night running from his problems on clumsy, pawed feet. It’s sort of funny, he thinks upon waking up — though he can’t tell Trinity about it. Not without admitting that his subconscious cast her as the Tin Man.)
That’s not the last Dennis hears of the whole ‘type’ conversation. Not by a long shot. In fact, in the days that follow their initial conversation, Trinity becomes downright insufferable. She seems determined to set him up with just about every man she’s ever met. No matter how many times Dennis shuts her suggestions down, she keeps on trying. Trinity Santos is no quitter.
“What about Tim from IT?” she calls out, eyes glued to the appliance in front of her. The thing about Trinity’s microwave is that 1) it’s disturbingly old, and 2) there’s about a five-second window of time that decides whether a bag of popcorn is going to be cooked to perfection or burnt beyond belief. It’s all dependent on when she hits ‘STOP’. Dennis is told it’s a delicate science. One he hasn’t yet earned the opportunity to participate in. “He’s cute, right?”
Whitaker shrugs from his place on the couch. It takes a few seconds for him to remember Santos doesn’t have eyes on him at the moment. “He’s not bad looking,” he admits aloud, because it’s true. Tim’s got a broad build and a handsome face. In about fifteen years, he’ll be just Dennis’s type. “Someone mentioned he has a girlfriend, though. You sure he isn’t straight…?”
That makes Santos scoff. “He’s at the very least bisexual.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I have my sources, Huckleberry. Now stop dodging the question. Do you think he’s cute or no?”
Dennis adjusts his sitting position. Their movie has been paused for long enough that the TV screen is back on the main menu. He gets the feeling Trin won’t be hitting ‘play’ again until they work through this, so he begrudgingly admits, “Tim’s fine. He’s just…”
“...not your type?” Santos finishes for him. She returns to the couch, sliding into the seat beside Dennis with far too much confidence for someone who just burned the shit out of their last bag of popcorn.
“Yeah. Basically.”
“Is that all I’m gonna get out of you?” Trinity prods. When Dennis shrugs in response, she claps her hands on her thighs and announces, “All right, that’s enough. Pull up Grindr. We’re mirroring your screen.”
Which is how Dennis’s grid ends up plastered across the television to be pointed at and commented upon. It's like his worst teenage nightmare come to life — only instead of his parents being the ones to bear witness to his depravity, it’s his roommate whose concept of boundaries is skewed beyond belief. Hooray.
“Damn, Huckleberry! I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Dennis isn’t looking at the screen anymore. He buried his head in his hands sometime after the third or fourth scroll past nothing but salt-and-pepper men in their forties and above. He knows what he likes, okay? That’s not a crime.
“This guy is fifty seven, dude. He’s, like, a day away from collecting social security.”
(Five years, actually. Thirteen if he decides to wait until he’s seventy for the extra benefits. Dennis knows better than to say any of this aloud, but he sure does think it.)
“Look, Trin. I know it’s a little weird—”
“Hey, hey,” she interrupts, holding both hands up in surrender. “No judgment here. I once hooked up with a woman whose daughter was only three years younger than me. Very Stacy’s Mom, I know.”
Dennis forces a smile. He doesn’t recognize that reference —not fully— but he thinks he can fill in the blanks. “You’re not kicking me out, then?”
“No, Huckleberry. I’m not kicking you out. You’ve gotta promise me you won’t bring any old dudes here, though. If I find gray pubes in the shower, I swear—”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re a real person.”
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Every Friday night, a group from the Pitt grabs drinks together after work. Robby knows this because, despite declining each and every invitation for years upon years, he still gets the ask every week. It’s sweet, he supposes. Occasionally grating.
Saying ‘no’ to this particular invitation has never been difficult for Robby. He knows what happens when a bunch of young people get together — especially when drinks are involved. It’s not the sort of thing you want your boss around to witness. Then there’s the fact that Robby is swiftly transforming into a crotchety old man with every passing day. If it’s between going to the bar and reading in bed, he knows which one he’s choosing. Not a doubt in his mind.
So why, when it’s Whitaker doing the asking, does he actually consider the offer for once?
“I’ll think about it, kid,” he says, pointedly ignoring the way Dana’s jaw drops in his periphery.
“Oh, um. Okay, Dr. Robby. That’s really great. I’ll tell the others it’s a ‘maybe’ from you.”
Then he’s gone. Robby finally spares at glance at Dana, finding an expression on her face that he hasn’t been on the receiving end of for a long, long time. Before the charge nurse can go on to say something that will undoubtedly turn the attending’s cheeks red as a tomato, Robby sharply orders, “Not a word.”
Dana, to her credit, doesn’t push. Robby gets the sense they’ll be talking about this in detail the next time he comes over for dinner with her and Warren. Oh well.
Robby doesn’t go to the bar (because he still has some self-control left, okay?). He instead heads towards home, hands in his pockets and head hung low, wishing he remembered to charge his earbuds after they died mid-song this morning. Now all he’s got to keep him company are the night sounds.
Oh, and his own torturous thoughts. Can’t forget about those.
Robby’s not sure what it is about the kid, exactly, that does him in. Maybe it’s the damn doe eyes. Maybe it’s the way the back of his neck flushes scarlet whenever the older man touches him. Whitaker’s hardly the first med student (or resident, for that matter) to develop a crush on Robby specifically, but it’s the first time since Heather that he’s felt anything other than pure mortification at the prospect. If Robby’s honest with himself —which he so rarely is— it’s becoming a problem.
“Doctor Robby?” a voice says behind him, and he stops dead in his tracks. No g-ddamn way.
Robby tries to keep his tone and expression as unbothered as he can manage when he turns to face the younger man. “Hey, Whitaker. You lost? Pretty sure the bar’s that way.”
Whitaker shrugs, face flushing in that infuriatingly adorable way of his. “Oh, I- I know it is, Dr. Robby. It’s just—” he pauses, procuring a familiar clump of fabric from behind his back. “You forgot this on the back of your chair.”
Robby stares at his hoodie in Whitaker’s hands, trying and failing to avoid imagining what the younger man might look like wearing it. He keeps his hands as steady as he can manage when he reaches out, pointedly avoiding Whitaker’s skin whilst he retrieves the garment. “Thanks, kid. I would’ve been missing this in the morning.”
“Yeah, I thought you might.” There’s a beat of silence, neither man sure of what to say next, and then the younger of the two —the one who’s still a damn med student, Robby’s conscience reminds him— clears his throat. “You sure you don’t want to join us, Dr. Robby? Dana said she’d pay for the first round.”
Of course she did.
The thing is, Robby’s not a saint. He’s never claimed to be one. Sure, he tries to be kind — mostly because that’s what his Bubbe taught him to do. He gives to charity. He smiles at babies. He heals others because it’s the one damn thing he’s good at in this world. Maybe someone could add up all those factors and come to the conclusion that Michael Robinavitch is a good person. They’d be wrong, though. So very, very wrong.
Because, in reality, none of those are selfless traits. Each and every one traces back to Robby’s desire to feel good about himself. To feel useful. Wanted. Which is why he’s toast before Whitaker even says the next part out loud: “I heard you were good with sports trivia…?”
“I’m not horrible,” Robby admits with a shrug. In truth, he’s pretty damn great. No one likes a brag, though, and for some reason it’s very important to Robby that this particular med student has a high opinion of him. His mouth seems to move on its own volition when he decidedly says, “Tell you what, Whitaker. Since Dana’s buying, I’ll come for one drink. Just one though. Don’t wanna cramp your kids’ style for too long.”
Whitaker’s smile turns to pure sunlight.
Robby is so, so screwed.
It becomes apparent within seconds of them entering the bar that Robby is by far the oldest person in attendance. He’s got half a mind to turn on his heel and bolt right then and there, but then Whitaker wraps a hand around his wrist and gently tugs him further inside. “C’mon. Table’s this way.”
So, naturally, Robby follows. His skin feels hot even before those seated at the table take note of his presence. There’s a bit of teasing —including a bemused “Am I dreaming right now?” from McKay, who is finally free of that damned ankle monitor— that he can only imagine turns his cheeks bright scarlet.
“I’m committing to exactly one drink,” Robby tells the table, eyes searching for his one potential ally among these young faces. Turns out she’s nowhere to be found. “Where’s Dana?”
“At home, I’d assume,” is Santos’s easy reply.
“But I thought you said–” Robby starts, only to cut himself off mid-sentence when he sees McKay waving a small wad of cash in the air. What…?
Cassie smiles big and wide. “Dana’s buying the first round, yeah,” she confirms, gently fanning herself with the bills. “Handed this to me on her way out. Said I better treat everybody to a good time on her dime.”
“Speaking of which,” Santos interjects, capturing the table’s attention with practiced ease, “What’s everybody’s drink order?”
Forty minutes later, Robby’s still nursing the beer Dana paid for. He’s squished in-between Whitaker and Diaz, the latter of whom is far too busy hanging on McKay’s every word to pay him much mind. Whitaker, on the other hand, keeps on sneaking glances at Robby when he thinks the attending isn’t looking. He’s on his third or fourth drink —something pink and fruity with a ridiculous name— and Robby doesn’t know how to handle the thigh pressed up against his own any more than he knows how to handle that flush. That giggle. Those delicate lashes fluttering as Whitaker takes another sip of sugary poison.
So, in an attempt to save himself from falling further into the pit of self-hatred where he lives, Robby downs the rest of his beer. “I really should get going,” he says, pointedly avoiding the kid’s sparkly eyes.
“But you’re our sports trivia guy!” Santos exclaims, rallying the rest of the table to groan at their attending for doing exactly what he said he would. Robby committed to a single drink. That drink is finished. Thus, he’s free to go.
Theoretically, anyway.
Somehow one drink turns into one round of trivia. Robby caves and orders another beer to tide himself over. Only one of the questions in the round ends up being about sports, but it’s a topic he knows by heart. He doesn’t miss a beat before murmuring, “World series, eighty six. Sox versus Mets,” to Santos, who is in charge of writing down the answers.
They win the round by three points. Robby receives far too much fanfare for recalling basic details from a game he watched live, but the unwanted attention is worth it for the way Whitaker looks at him when he says, “I knew going after you was a good idea.”
A familiar stirring in Robby’s groin has him sobering up within seconds. “I really do have to go now,” he says, taking the kid by the shoulders to guide him up and out of the booth. He squeezes the kid’s neck, earning a surprised squeak that he refuses to acknowledge for the sake of his own sanity. “Get home safe, everybody.”
Try as he might to ignore those puppy-dog eyes, Robby still feels Whitaker’s gaze hot on his back. He feels it follow him all the way through the sea of drunken people. It burns his skin like a brand, lingering long after the older man has left the bar behind him.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
“You, my friend, need to get laid. That display last night was embarrassing.”
Trinity Santos may very well be the least tactful person Dennis has ever met (which isn’t to say she’s wrong, mind you; it’s just that her delivery leaves a little something to be desired). He supposes it’s his fault for being so obviously infatuated with their attending. She was bound to smell blood in the water sooner or later.
Frankly, Dennis should consider himself lucky that Trinity waited until morning to begin teasing him about this. He wasn’t particularly subtle from what he can remember. Just the thought is enough to turn his cheeks bright red.
“You forget I’ve seen your Grindr, Huckleberry. You might as well drop the bashful act. And like I said before, there’s no shame in the ‘nailing grandpas’ game.”
“They’re not—”
A single raised hand is enough to silence Dennis mid-sentence. “We’ve been over this, country mouse. They don’t have to be literal grandpas for me to categorize them as such. Keep up.”
Dennis rolls his eyes. He’s long since given up on trying to understand the way this particular woman’s brain works. “I feel like I should tell you. I’ve never actually, like, met up with one of them.”
“You— what? Are you being serious?”
A shrug. “Not since moving here, I mean. There was this one guy back home…” he trails off, realizing it’s not the best idea to get into the Joseph thing with Trinity. She probably (definitely) wouldn’t approve.
“So you’re not a virgin, then,” Santos tries, sounding more confident. She waits for Dennis’s affirmative nod before adding, “Thank god. That’d be beyond my skillset. A drought, though? I can handle that shit with my eyes closed. C’mon, pull up your profile. I wanna see what we’re working with.”
Dennis wonders if it’s too late for him to go back to living on the eighth floor.
“You should put this picture first. Oh, and delete the one with the goat.”
“But—”
Trinity silences Dennis with one singular, stern look. “Don’t question the master, Huckleberry. Horses are good, cows are okay, but goats are a no-go. Pigs are fine, but only if they’re babies.”
“Piglets,” Dennis supplies, because apparently he has a death wish. “And what makes you a master anyway? How ‘bout we pull up one of your dating profiles?”
“Oh, I don’t use that shit. Do I look like the sort of person who needs help getting laid?”
Once Trinity’s critique is finished, they retire to the couch to scroll on their phones. It takes a good ten minutes for Dennis to work up the courage to ask, “Was it that obvious?”
“I already told you, man. I have really good gaydar. The fruity drinks probably didn’t help, but ultimately—”
“No, not- I meant about Dr. Robby.”
“Oh, that?” Trinity muses, and her eyes take on a glint that Dennis finds mildly terrifying. “Yeah. Everybody noticed that.”
Which, given the whole gaydar conversation, makes absolutely no sense. Dennis tries to say as much, though he only gets as far as “But you said—” before he’s cut off.
“At least half of the straight guys in the Pitt have a crush on Dr. Robby, Huckleberry. That whole paternal, hero worship thing — it’s basically a prerequisite. I sort of get it, ‘cause if he was a woman… well. Anyway. My point is, it’d be gayer if you weren’t obsessed with him. Trust me.”
Dennis isn’t sure the logic checks out on that last part, but he’ll take her word for it.
The first thing you need to know about Trinity Santos is that she’s never wrong.
The second —and arguably more important— thing you need to know about Trinity Santos is that she’s never fully right, either. Not when it comes to other peoples’ problems.
Trin’s advice always comes from the perspective of ‘what if I were in this situation?’, rather than ‘what if I were you in this situation?’. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s there. Dennis has come to realize that her advice isn’t bad — not at all. It’s actually pretty great. It simply requires a bit of tweaking before being put into effect.
In other words? Dennis puts the goat picture back on his profile. He delivered Elma with his own two hands, and he’s damn proud of her state fair medal — so there. Also, the pose makes his arms look good.
The photo is one of a few ‘outtakes’ where Dennis’s head is tilted down so that his hat covers his face. It’s not good enough for Ma’s Facebook page, but it’s perfect for maintaining anonymity whilst digitally cruising. Dennis can’t blame Trinity for not understanding the nuance in that when she’s apparently so appealing to other women that she doesn’t need to use dating apps at all. Like he said: she’s never wrong, but she’s never fully right either.
It’s all about finding the middle ground.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
“Heard you had fun the other night,” Dana says, not bothering to look up from the paperwork she’s reading over.
“Good to see you too, my dear friend. Warren holding up okay?”
“Mhm. Basically healed at this point. He’s just counting down the days ‘til he can drink again.”
Robby snorts, because that sure sounds like the man he knows. Dana’s husband is an even bigger fan of beer than he is. Unlike Robby, however, Warren’s a true casual drinker. He’s not aiming to drown out his sorrows, or to quiet that nasty voice in his head. He genuinely likes the taste of the stuff. “Yeah? How soon?”
“Might as well be ten years with how he’s acting,” Dana replies. She pauses for the briefest of moments before adding, “Is it true you stayed for a second drink?”
Robby rubs at his temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the oncoming migraine. “Are you planning to let me do my job sometime in the next century, or…?”
“Oh, like you-” Dana starts. The news of a ten-car pileup cuts their conversation short.
It’s an unintended act of mercy, if you ask Robby — though he schools his expression, knowing relief is the last emotion he needs to be exhibiting when the first of six critical cases is less than five minutes out. Still, though. He’s glad to be free of Dana’s questioning. For now, anyway.
“I’ll find you later,” the charge nurse murmurs. It feels like both a threat and a promise.
They lose two patients but manage to stabilize the other three. Two of those three have a great chance at recovery. The other —a twenty-one-year-old named Reese— is a bit of a long-shot. They’ve done all they can on their end. Robby keeps reminding himself of that fact.
It doesn’t escape his notice when Whitaker joins one of the families in prayer over their daughter’s lifeless body. He finds himself entranced by the way those lips move around each word — practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times. Like he could do it in his sleep. It makes a man wonder about what other sorts of talents that mouth might possess…
“He’s good at that, isn’t he?”
Robby startles at the sound of Dana’s voice. He can feel the skin on his neck growing hot as he whirls around, eyes wide, and asks, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Not sure you have the necessary equipment for one of those, ice man,” she says, gesturing vaguely towards his chest. Everyone’s a damn comedian.
“You wound me,” Robby says flatly. “What have I done to earn your ire this time around?”
“Well, for starters, you keep answering my questions with other questions. Some would consider that rude.” Dana pauses, making sure to look Robby in the eye before she adds, “Also: it seems you’ve wormed your way into the head of one of our most promising med students. If I didn’t know better, I might start coming to the wrong conclusions about your character.”
It’s about as close as they get to talking about ‘the Heather thing’ without several drinks in them. Dana’s got strong opinions on what went down, and Robby understands why — really, he does. It just… not worth rehashing. Especially not when there are absolutely zero similarities to be drawn between that scenario and whatever the hell is happening between him and Whitaker now.
(Which, mind you, is nothing. Nothing is happening between them — not outside of Robby’s perverted mind, anyway. Because it shouldn’t. It can’t.)
“You and your rumors,” Robby scoffs, because he can’t think of a more clever rebuttal that doesn’t come in the form of a question.
“Yeah? I’ve heard that one before. Couldn’t have been more than ten days later that I was being summoned by Jenny in HR to vouch for your ability to remain impartial on the job. I’d rather avoid the ambush this time around, if you don’t mind.”
Robby winces. Maybe he deserves that, but damn if it doesn’t sting.
“My point is, I hope you know what you’re doing. For his sake and yours.”
So do I, Robby thinks helplessly, because when does he ever?
Friday rolls around in what feels like an instant. Robby stayed up far too late the night before browsing websites he’d rather die than name, which means he needs about three times more coffee than usual in order to function.
“Hey Dr. Rob— woah!”
Dennis’s quick reaction time is the only thing that stops the two of them from colliding head-on. All Robby can think when gloved hands grip his forearms to steady him is Holy shit. The kid’s a lot stronger than he looks.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t—” Robby starts, but denying it would be a lie. He settles instead for a matter-of-fact, “Been a long week.”
Robby would like to blame exhaustion for the way Whitaker’s next question catches him off-guard, but in reality the kid is just that damn disarming. “Maybe you need a drink or two…?”
“Usually does the trick,” the older man admits.
Dennis laughs. It’s loud in a way that catches Robby by surprise. Is he really that funny? Is this one of those instances where somebody’s laughing at him, only he’s too out-of-touch to notice? Then Whitaker says, “I- I just wanted to extend another invitation, since you ended up coming last week,” and oh. The kid’s nervous.
Dana’s voice echoes in Robby’s head:. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’ It’s… sobering. “I’m busy tonight, sorry,” he says, though in reality the only plans he has are with his couch and his TV remote. Whitaker’s face shifts minutely, expression unreadable, but those eyes. The kid’s eyes tell Robby everything he needs to know. He just looks so pathetic, is the thing —so down on his luck, like a soaking wet kitten shivering on his doorstep— that Robby feels he has to do something. “Tell you what, Whitaker. Hand me that pen.”
Dennis obliges. Robby fishes in his pocket for the pharmacy receipt he knows is still in there. He flips the thing around, scribbling ten digits in what he hopes is legible handwriting. He’s been told he’s a walking stereotype in that regard.
“If you’re in a pinch with the sports trivia, shoot me a text. I’ll leave my ringer on.”
“That’s— I, uh. Thank you, Dr. Robby, but I think that’s against the rules of trivia night…”
And, G-d. Was this kid created in a lab? Was he designed with the express purpose of pressing all of Robby’s buttons at once?
Later, Robby will blame his abysmal sleep schedule for the lack of restraint he displays in the moments that follow. What he should say is ‘you’re right, my bad,’ or maybe ‘good on you for protecting the sanctity of trivia night.’ Something casual. Harmless. What he does instead is lean in a bit closer, voice low, and —like something straight out of a bad porno— murmurs, “I know for a fact you’re capable of discretion, Whitaker.”
When Dennis’s whole face turns pink in the seconds that follow, all the older man can think is adorable. Then he wonders if that blush goes all the way down…
Did Robby mention how screwed he is?