Work Text:
i.
Robby never cared about driving in the dark. The stretch of empty road in front of him often cleared his thoughts; Less traffic and fewer chances of getting caught for recklessly going over the speed limit.
It was almost three in the morning when he found himself back on the streets of Pittsburgh. Tuesday nights were quiet at this time, bars long shut down and 24-hour shop lights bright, but vacant.
The quiet city is a different type of peaceful than the freeways he's been running on for months now. Knowing there were people in each house he drove by; heads resting on their pillows, baby swaddled in their cribs, heaters maybe turned on for the first time since the autumn breeze turned chilly. It felt less… lonely.
Robby wondered if Whitaker turned on his furnace, scrunched his nose at the summer's worth of dust burning against the heat. He thought about texting him, letting him know he was coming home — but Robby got too caught up in the feeling of returning. Perhaps a little embarrassed at the way he was acting beforehand. Like everyone would view his coming back as his metaphorical tail between his legs.
Regardless, he's quiet when he pushes open his front door. He cringes at the third step creak leading up to his living room, somehow forgotten. The place is tidy but lived in, not too dissimilar to how he left it; there's a sweater thrown over the back of the couch, a couple glasses in the sink, a bookmarked medical journal on the coffee table — it creates a strange lurch in his heart, seeing the way things just went on without him — no immediate fire to put out. Just life, continuing.
Picking up the sweater, he splays out the front of it, noticing some logo. Nebraska Huskers reads in big bold font, and Robby can't help but release a chuckle. Can't imagine Whitaker being into football, let alone a team called the Huskers. Jesus, it's tiny too. The kid is probably 3 sizes smaller than him. Robby puts it back down before he can start thinking about it in any more detail.
Walking down the hallway, he peeks into his bedroom. The door was three-quarters shut, a slight indication that Whitaker is currently sleeping there, and his suspicions are true as he locks eyes on a pale expanse of skin.
Whitaker is knocked out, stretched out in the middle of his bed with the duvet kicked all the way to his knees. It's a pretty sight, even though his wide-open mouth is releasing apneic snores and a sheen of drool is surrounding his lips.
Robby stands there for far too long, counting the moles spattered down his torso. They resemble a starry sky, and he wonders why he even left, when the best view he's seen in the last three months is right in his bedroom.
The couch it is.
Sleep doesn't come, and the buzzing under his skin isn't helping. He's convincing himself it's from driving all night, the rattle of the bike's engine making him jittery, not his resident in his bed.
He's making a serious dent in the cushions, watching his third episode of a historical docuseries, when Whitaker pads down the hall.
"Um, good morning?" Dennis sleepily says, standing over Robby, still horizontal — Dennis, still only in his boxers.
"You sound a lot less shocked than I thought you'd be. What if I was a burglar?" Robby asks, eyes forcefully trained on the television so as not to stare at the beautiful half-nakedness presented in front of him.
Dennis turns to the TV, zones out with his arms wrapped around himself, watching a professor-type man talk about the construction of the Colosseum. "I dunno if a burglar would stop to watch a show about the Roman Empire."
"Funny." Robby sits up, groaning at the stiffness of his bones. "You sleep okay?"
He knows the answer, but likes the way Dennis responds to the questioning. Bashful. Confounded.
"Like a dream. Your bed is…" Dennis smiles dreamily, scratches his stomach. Jesus, Robby feels like a pervert. "Yeah. Wow. So comfy."
It better be; it was expensive as hell. Good for his back after a twelve-hour shift. Will be after two and a half months of motel spring mattresses. He's glad someone else has gotten to experience it.
"So comfy you didn't even hear me come in last night," Robby says, mostly joking, but the tiredness in his voice makes him sound gruff.
It was a little concerning how much the kid's guard was down. The domesticity not entirely fitting into his image of their relationship. Colleagues? Friends?
Dennis chuckles, "My brothers used to say I could sleep through a tornado."
Robby pictures Dennis, small and sleeping in a corn field as a tornado barrels toward him. It makes him want to watch The Wizard of Oz. "Have you?"
"Only once." Dennis doesn't elaborate — either too revealing or too much conversation for this early in the morning.
"Anyway, welcome home. Gonna go," Whitaker points towards the bathroom. "I work today."
"Sure. Don't worry about your stuff, I'll come drop it off later."
It's probably too forward, but sleep deprivation has always made him sort of weird. Softer around the edges. It'll be nice to walk through the ED, anyway. Say hi to some familiar faces.
Dennis gives him a puzzled stare at this offering. "Are you sure—" Robby responds with a wave, dismissing any further protesting, and is honestly surprised when it works. He was expecting more fightback.
"Yeah, alright. Thanks, Dr. Robby."
He drifts off to the sound of the shower running. Dreams of constellations.
ii.
Being back at work was… challenging. A lot of things had changed in three months; some of which he agreed with, some of which was yelled about on the roof.
He blamed Jack at first for letting it happen. For falling to the whims of Al-Hashimi, which, after a long conversation, he realized was out of line. That he was fucking up, so soon after being back. 'I thought being on a motorcycle for three months would finally get the stick out of your ass, but I guess not!' as Jack lovingly shouted, and it put some shit in perspective. That they were just fine in his absence — that they were maybe better.
It's a problem, how small it makes him feel. But now, his ego isn't fighting back as hard — isn't inflating to the point of popping.
Settled is a good word for it. Sand drifting down to the soles of his feet instead of acting like an hourglass being flipped every couple of days.
He'll mention that to the therapist he finally called. Maybe he'll get a gold star.
Some things in the ED never change, though. Robby strolls in at seven thirty, taking in his destiny for the day. Lupe's thousand-yard stare is enough for him to gather that the night was rough, but seeing the board confirms it.
Absolutely fucked.
He's about to find Abbot or Shen, get ahead of changeovers, but he spots someone else first.
Whitaker is at Robby's workstation. It was another thing he let Dennis take over while he was gone. No doubt getting crumbs all over it, but Robby can't seem to mind. Doesn't mind that Whitaker has made his way to being the favourite. Not that he'll ever admit that.
It looks as though he was charting at one point, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as his head slowly dips over and over again. Not entirely conscious but not gone enough to slump down fully.
It's tempting to leave him, but the risk of neck strain prompts Robby to step in. He places a finger in the path Dennis's head keeps tipping forward, waiting for it to connect. Which was dumb, because Dennis nearly flies back off his chair when it does.
"Whoa, kid," Robby says, catching the back of the rolling chair before it crashes to the ground. Dennis's eyes are huge, darting around like he forgot he was on shift.
He rights himself, stares up at Robby's arms bracketing either side of him.
"Jeez, sorry." Dennis manages to push out, sleep sticky and blushing. There's a fingerprint-sized red mark forming on his forehead, and Robby tries not to laugh as he sits back onto the desk, giving him some room.
"They got you on a double?"
"Unfortunately. All the on-call rooms were stuffed full." Dennis muses, rubbing the crust out of the corner of his eye.
Short-staffed. Extra doubles. Again, some things don't change. He makes a mental note to use that against Gloria next time she has something scathing to say.
"We need you at your best. Next time, sneak into my office. I have a couch in there." Robby offers for some reason. He's been guarding that couch with his life since it was passed down to him. Oh well.
"Oh, really?" Whitaker smiles out, teeth just popping out through his lips. Cute. "That's… nice. Thanks, Dr. Robby."
"Don't mention it." Dennis nods, gets up to continue whatever he was doing before, but Robby catches him on his shoulder. Feels the warmth underneath his scrubs. "No, actually, don't mention it to anyone. Exclusive club only."
As Dennis scurries away, Robby wonders if he ever recalls their conversation about boundaries. If Whitaker calls him a hypocrite in his head as much as he calls himself one.
The back of his neck is burning, and he turns to see Parker, leaning against the hub with an unreadable expression. Knowing? Seeing? Entertained, maybe? "What, Ellis?"
She shakes her head in a way that conveys she doesn't have enough time to say it all.
"Nothing, Chief. Let's get started so I can go the fuck home."
iii.
Walking home cleared his head as much as the roof sometimes. He'd pore over the cases of the day as the chill bit his cheeks; what went wrong, what went right, what he can do to keep his head above water. By the time he reached his front step, he was able to just… put it all down. Leave it on the sidewalk.
Another therapy gold star.
He's thankful that his route home today passed by this particular bus stop, or else he would have missed him. A man passed out and slouched on the bench inside of a bus shelter. It wasn't uncommon for him to check on displaced people, monitor if their breathing is regular from a distance, and make sure he doesn't have to pull out his emergency Narcan or do something even more drastic.
After a few seconds, it clicks that it's Whitaker, dressed in a big beanie and puffer coat that is definitely too thin for this climate. He seems peaceful, eyes closed and features softened by the dim streetlights. Robby can hear tinny music blasting from his wired headphones and he wonders how Dennis hasn't gone deaf yet.
To avoid getting kicked, Robby stands in the doorway of the glassed-in structure and shouts his name.
It's a gradual thing, the way he comes back into consciousness. His face scrunches, and he pushes his arms in front of him, stretching as if he were waking up for the day in a cozy bed, not on a graffitied bench in the middle of the city.
Blue eyes pop open wide, finally registering reality and spotting Robby. "Ohhhh no. No, no no." He fumbles his headphones out of his ears as he shoots up. "What time is it?"
His lips are almost blue, and Robby can hear the chattering of his teeth. If he were out here for any longer, or were non-responsive, Robby would be turning them around back into the ED. But it's only been an hour since Whitaker waved his goodbyes, and it wasn't below freezing or anything. Just chilly.
"It's a little after nine, Whitaker. Were you trying to catch hypothermia?"
"I was waiting for the bus, but the eight-fifty is the last one, shit—" He's still fumbling around, picking up his backpack and anxiously running his hands over his pockets, searching for something.
Robby can't stand it. Watching him fret. "C'mon. You can warm up at my place, then I'll drive you home."
"It's fine, Robby. I can't ask you to do that. I'll just get an Uber or—"
"Dennis, you're not asking. I'm offering," Robby walks up close, rubs his pocket-warmed hands over his jacket arms, hoping the friction will tamp down some of the shivering. Robby feels warmer himself, just by Dennis bending his neck to stare up at him. "I'll make us hot chocolate."
Dennis is a ball of energy on the walk home. Apparently, a bus stop power nap can do wonders after a grueling shift. He's talking through the chittering of his teeth; going through a case that stumped him, shyly gossiping about other staff, questioning if the work holiday party will be as rowdy as last year.
Robby's responding, kind of. Hums in acknowledgment, briefly quips back, but mostly he's just enjoying hearing Whitaker talk. Their interactions are usually pretty short. Professional to a certain extent and stifled outside of that. It's not as if he wants it to be that way. But what he wants is irrelevant… inappropriate.
It's bleeding around the edges now — as Whitaker follows him into the blast of warmth in his front foyer.
He moves on autopilot, grumbling something to Dennis about making himself at home and throws his favorite blanket into the dryer. Thinks of his Bubbe as it tumbles around and around. How she used to have a heated blanket waiting for him after he'd be playing in the snow, would wipe the snowflakes out of his eyelashes and kiss his forehead. It was love, encapsulated.
That's not what this is. This is just getting someone out of the cold. Just helping a… friend.
The spark beneath his sternum didn't feel like anything just.
Dennis is standing by the stove when Robby finds him, stirring a small pot of milk. Fuck, he looks like he belongs there. A domestic dream that Robby thought was untouchable. Unattainable.
Robby drapes the blanket over his relaxed shoulders, coming up close enough to feel the warmth slide through Dennis. How pretty the flush rising to his cheeks is.
"Thought I was doin' that," Robby says, moving to take the whisk away from him, but Dennis is faster. Dangles it in front of himself, dripping milk onto the back burners.
"Gotta earn my keep somehow, Robby." It's teasing, looks a bit flirty with the smirk he's turned Robby's way. Their faces are so close. Their bodies nearly flush.
The kid doesn't have to earn anything, if he keeps smiling at him like that. God, Robby would give him the world.
Robby pretends to step back, look disinterested, then darts forward, capturing Dennis's wrist. "Ha!"
Pouting, Dennis flicks the whisk back despite his limited movement, and gets a splatter of milk on Robby's face. He doesn't mind. "That's cheating, you're way taller than me."
"Yeah, yeah." Robby releases him a bit, reaches for the utensil, but brushes against his fingers instead. Notices they're still cold to the touch.
The manhandling comes easy. Turning Dennis around and capturing both his hands, he brings them to his lips. Creates a channel with them to blow hot air into. He doesn't know how well it's working, but the ache to keep brushing his lips against the pale skin in front of him is making his heart beat rapidly. Robby wants to trail his mouth all up his arms, kiss the shy spattering of moles popping out of his shirt.
Their eyes connect, and it's intense for a moment — tension building beneath the surface. Their tandem want flitting around them like fireflies.
The flicker of distress across Dennis's face makes Robby pull back.
"Robby," Dennis stutters out, breathless.
Robby can't help but wonder what the hell he's doing, trying to - what? Seduce his fucking resident? What he needs or wants isn't important. It's selfish. Robby turns away, dropping Dennis's hands as he goes.
"Sorry," He mutters as he grabs the hot chocolate mix from the cupboard, trying to ignore the stifled silence between them and the stare he's getting from across the kitchen.
"What for?" Dennis nearly whispers, and Jesus Christ, he looks dejected. But Robby isn't going to let Dennis get wrapped up in this mess of him.
Robby desperately tries to change the subject as he pours the hot chocolate into mugs. Sprinkles a few marshmallows on top.
"You play any sports growing up?" Robby asks, remembering the Nebraska hoodie once tossed on the couch five feet from them.
And he doesn't really need to know this trivial piece of information, but he'll take whatever he can get. Add it to the growing list of things about Whitaker other than the surface-level very good doctor and devastatingly handsome.
Dennis follows Robby to the kitchen island and sits hesitantly beside him. The expression painting across his features can only be described as baffled, like the avoidance was giving him whiplash. He wraps his hands around the mug, waits a few beats before answering.
"There weren’t many team sports in Broken Bow. Football, if you could afford it." He plucks a marshmallow off the top, chews it slowly. "I was pretty good at running. Track."
Robby thinks he's pretty good at running too. Running away from the conversation they should be having, away from his problems and his own desires.
Still, he pictures Dennis in tiny running shorts. He tamps down the shame rising through him.
"You?" Dennis asks.
“My nose was always shoved too far into a book for sports. I was a complete nerd." Robby replies with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
The huff from Dennis could be interpreted as a laugh, but it doesn't reach anywhere else other than the tug of air out of his lungs. The room is sullen, stifled, fucking tense, and Dennis is the same when he stands from the counter. "I should go."
Robby stands, awkward. "Okay, sure, yeah. I'll grab my keys."
"The truck, please. I don't even know if you have one helmet for the motorcycle, let alone two."
He does have two; some pipe dream he had while he was on the road, of having someone wrapped around his back, holding on for dear life as they drive off into the metaphorical sunset together. It's all it was — a dream.
"Sure, kid."
Once he's back in his house, alone, he pours the untouched hot chocolate into the sink. Stands there long after it's swirled down the drain.
iv.
Robby wasn't even supposed to be within hospital walls today. All of the administrative bullshit that he had to tackle could have been done at home, but he was always more productive here — no creature comforts to distract him, no bottle of whiskey and a comfy couch to drown in.
It was also satisfying to work within earshot of Gloria, punctuate the tapping of his keyboard with loud sighs. Never letting her forget how much he hates this shit. The eye roll she sent his way as she was leaving for the day was all he needed to power through the rest of the schedule and budget report.
It's late when he decides to pack up; most of the day crew are gone, and the night crew is so focused they barely look up at him. The only person he spots from his team is Santos, tired-eyed and furiously speaking into the dictation microphone. She really needs to stop taking on so many cases, even if it secretly makes him proud. She reminds Robby so much of himself when he was a resident.
She lowers the microphone as she spots him approaching, looking guilty but mostly fucking exhausted. Hopefully this is her last one.
"Santos. I thought we talked about this." He smirks out. It's fun ribbing her, even though sometimes she goes too far into ribbing back.
"Hey! You're not even on shift today, and you're still grilling me. In fucking business casual, of all things." He looks down at his button-up and chinos. He wears these out of spite on admin days. Slowly takes his tie off as the day goes on.
"Hardy har. Where's the roomie?" He's trying to sound casual about it, but it comes out too fast. A little too eager in his mind.
They've been… distant. Robby is admittedly avoiding him to control some of these feelings he has and to let the kid move on, if he even reciprocates any of them. The silent ride home all those days ago and the sad look that Whitaker occasionally sends his way from across the ED is indication enough that they probably were. He feels like an asshole — but it's better this way. They'll both get over it, get under someone else. Even if thinking about Whitaker with anyone else makes his skin itch.
Whatever.
Santos squints at him, suspicious. "Don't know. He's around here somewhere; he said he'd wait for me to finish. Which will be fucking never."
Robby scoffs, "You should have gone into theater, Santos. Your dramatics are off the charts."
"Oh my god. Don't ever try to dad joke me again." She bonks the microphone against her forehead. "Please, I actually cannot take it."
He cackles, knocks his fist two times on her station, and turns to walk to his office. He wants to leave his laptop in there for the night, grab his coat and get the hell out of there, but the light shining underneath the door gives him pause. Maybe cleaning staff are in there despite his insistence he can tidy it himself.
As he opens the door and scans the room, he realizes how messy it is: piles of paperwork on his desk, boxes of files he's been meaning to sort through, a thick layer of dust on top of it all. No cleaning staff then.
He finally spots Whitaker, curled up on the small two-seater.
Dennis is still in his scrubs, the bottom hem of his shirt scrunched up, revealing his lower torso. The throw blanket someone gifted him balled up on the floor, and one of Robby's sweaters, left here at some point, draped over his face.
Robby understands that he genuinely offered this, but he didn't think Whitaker would actually take him up on it. Especially after the other night. The satisfaction it brings him is making his head swirl.
He should wake the kid up and send him on his way home, or have him help Santos with her charts, but he sits down in the battered office chair instead. Opens his laptop. The schedule could use a little reworking.
Except the schedule barely gets touched, because Robby is too busy glancing over his screen, watching Dennis toss and turn. Smiling as the sweater drops from his face, landing next to the tossed-off blanket. God, he's beautiful. All porcelain skin and ruddy cheeks, sharp features softened as he nuzzles into the fabric of the couch. Robby's fingers tingle with the need to touch, and he slowly realizes how much he misses him.
Misses grabbing his shoulder to pull him onto a case, manhandling him and watching the way he would come alive. How alive it made him feel in turn. It was mentorship at one point, turned admiration? Turned — what now? Some kind of crush that is one hundred percent reciprocated on Robby's end?
That revelation feels more terrifying and thrilling than riding his motorcycle with no helmet.
The buzzing of a phone breaks him away from his thoughts, and as he's reaching for his own, he realizes it's actually Whitaker's, perched on the edge of the desk. Trying to respect the kid's privacy, he lets it be, but the vibration happens again. And again. Then one long buzz alerts him to the fact it's not even moving Dennis, that he's still dead asleep, quiet little snores escaping his lips.
Robby rounds the desk, picks up the phone still vibrating, and sees that it's Santos calling. Most likely looking for the man sleeping a foot away from him. The fact that he didn't even tell his closest friend about Robby's offer is intriguing, like it's still their little secret.
He takes Dennis's phone, leans over him, and tries to wake him. "Dennis, hey." Robby rubs his sternum gently, muscle memory of waking up patients kicking in. It doesn't rouse Dennis completely, just makes him squeeze his eyes and let out a sleepy little moan.
"Baby, you have to wake up." Fuck, fuck. Robby did not mean to let that slip out. But the delicate nature of this scene is making him soft, tugging at his heart in a way that he's been trying desperately to ignore.
He gives in to it a little, brushing a hand against Dennis's sleep-heated cheeks, and perches on the edge of the couch next to him. "Santos is calling you, honey. It's time to go home."
"Mmph," Dennis whines out, still groggy but slightly more aware. He fumbles his buzzing phone from Robby and picks up the call.
"M'in Robby's office, I'll be out in a minute." Robby hears a tinny "WHAT?" from the other side of the line, then Dennis abruptly hangs up. Rubs through his hair slowly, as if he's alone, as if Robby wasn't sitting right next to him, wanting. Touching.
Dennis gazes up at him slowly, raking over his entire frame. Eyes land on his chest, slightly buttoned down and chest hair popping through. Christ, it's a charged look, and the sleepy smile accompanying it sends Robby's heart aflutter.
"You okay?" Robby asks, quiet.
They make eye contact. If he could stay in this moment forever, he would. "I thought I was dreaming."
"You dream about this ugly mug often?" Robby retorts. It's dangerous, this pushing. Waiting for the pull.
But Robby doesn't get an answer, doesn't even know if he wants an answer, as the loud knocking spooks them both.
"You guys better have your clothes on in there!" Santos says, muffled through the door. Robby stands, opens it, and gives her a disapproving look. She completely bypasses him, cranes her head around the doorframe and spots Dennis, still lounging on the couch, flushed and so fucking pretty. "What the hell were you two doing?"
The questioning has an air of joking, but Robby can't help but feel guilty. Caught. Dennis stands up, swaying a bit as he right himself.
"Doctor Robinavitch was ravishing me." Dennis lies, slurred from sleep and honestly kind of suave. It is the complete opposite of what either of them was expecting him to say, seeing as the way Trinity's jaw drops. The way Robby's cheeks flame.
It isn't true, obviously, but he wishes. Wishes and wishes and wishes.
Dennis brushes past him, through the door and past Santos. Leaving them with… whatever the fuck that was. Their equally confused expressions meet before Santos takes off running after him.
Robby can hear in the distance, echoed through the hallway, Dude, you can't just joke about that, that's our boss! from Santos, and a low How do you know I was joking? from Dennis.
Whatever else they say is lost in the chaos of the hospital, but there's hope in his chest now. Some prior walls of hesitancy breaking down, remembering how right it felt calling him baby.
Fucks sake, he has some thinking to do.
v.
The location to host PTMC's holiday party was always a fight. One in which he usually lost. It was more of a gala to Gloria, an opportunity to shmooze and drink expensive champagne and wrap it all up in a wealthy fucking bow, but Robby always wanted it to be more casual. Let everyone dress down instead of scrambling to find something pretty but professional. Force those who couldn't really afford it (Med students and interns with piles of debt looming over them) to step out of their comfort zones.
But for some god-given reason, this year, he gets his way.
There was still a discussion, although less heated than in previous years. After casual mentions of budget, of the fact that they still hadn't increased security, the lack of resources and all the other admin keywords — Gloria just agreed.
Agreed to host the holiday festivities at the (somewhat dingy) bar he and Jack had been going to for years. It was big enough, the food is decent, the staff is incredible, and Robby has always thought it would be a perfect venue.
And maybe it was Pittfest still in the peripheral. Or his sabbatical that she probably doubted he'd return from. It feels mostly like pity — like she's handing this party over to Robby as a way to chill him out. Or thank him. He can't figure out which one sets his teeth on edge more.
Regardless of the venue change, the overall dread of parties still lives under his skin. It sits and sits until he's outside of the bar, in his truck and watching big wet snowflakes fall onto his dashboard. Contemplating if he should just go home.
A knock on the passenger side window scares the hell out of him. "You coming in, brother?" Jack asks as he's gesturing to unlock the door. Once Robby does, he climbs in. Waits for an answer.
"I'm wondering that myself."
"How long have we been waiting for a party like this, huh? Fifteen years? It's not gonna be like the ones at the fucking Marriott, man. It'll be like Friday nights drinking whisky and playing darts."
Robby can't help but still be hesitant. Drinking and letting loose and existing in the dark with coworkers is recipe for disaster. Seeing Dennis, yet again, out of his scrubs. Out of the context of their jobs, with Princess and Perlah watching from the corner. It sends a shiver up his spine.
"What's going on in your head?" Jack inquires, giving him that look — the one where he's seeing right into his soul.
He'd rather go to ten of these parties than reveal the real reason, so he responds, "Fucking — nothing. Let's go."
A blast of warmth hits them as they enter the bar. It's decorated nicely, nothing extravagant but Robby can tell they put a little more effort in than their usual sticky tables and branded beer posters. There's tons of food on tablecloth-lined tables, doctors, nurses, and other staff filling the room with cheers and chatter in their dressed-down clothes.
Plus, it's non-denominational — which was important to both Robby and other staff.
"Look who decided to finally show up." Dana says to both of them as they swivel their heads around. Jack's probably looking for exit routes, and Robby looking for the person he's scared to talk to the most. What a pair they are.
She's wearing a nice tailored pantsuit - red and satin. And Benji is all dressed up too, dress shirt and slacks. They look spiffy, and his Bubbe would definitely approve, even though they're surrounded by gross wood paneling. It makes him feel like a schmuck in his three-quarter zip sweater and dark jeans.
"Against my better judgment, Dana." He gives his best, most sarcastic smile to her. Extends a hand out to Benji, who genuinely looks happy to be there. Looks happy beside Dana pretty much any time Robby's seen him. It's sweet.
"Doctor Robinavitch, you look well," Benji says, and both Dana and Jack bark a laugh in response. Dickheads.
"He looks like death warmed over, honey. But that was nice of you to lie to his face." Dana says.
Robby laughs with them. He can't be bothered to be indignant over the jabs because it's true. He feels like death. Lack of sleep, a couple extra therapy sessions that have been leaving him rattled, and picking up extra shifts as a way to distract himself from all of it.
This time of year is always hard for him. Commercials on TV showing big happy families, invitations from Janey to come to their Christmas dinner, one from Adamson's wife, too. It creates a bitter ball of yearning that lives in his torso until the holiday spirit fades away. It's jealousy, he knows. The strict aloneness of his life, the inability to commit even though it's what he's always wanted. A family he could have had once, if he didn't spectacularly fuck it up. Multiple times.
It's also a compound of all the loss. Him and Jake's relationship still fractured after Leah, Adamson still in the Pedes room in his nightmares, every single patient they lose — not able to spend the holidays with their families because they weren't able to be saved. His Bubbe. Fuck, he misses her the most this time of year.
Jack (and probably his therapist) would call it a savior complex. He just calls it December.
"Let's go get a drink, brother. It'll settle the nerves." Jack says, ushering him towards the bar. He orders a Boilermaker, needing the shot but also the beer to do something with his hands. Jack eyes him for a second, then orders the same. They cheers their shots before sending them back, and Robby almost orders another round before they get interrupted.
"Shots already? I told you this year was going to get wild." Someone says behind him. Someone he didn't think he'd be talking to so soon after arriving.
He turns to Whitaker, and nearly throws up the shot that just entered his stomach. The kid is wearing a regular white T-shirt, but burgundy leather pants accompany it. They are tight in all the right places.
Robby desperately tries to keep his eyes above board. This is a professional event.
"Whitaker, you clean up nice," Jack says, filling in the words Robby was trying to form. He just nods in agreement instead. Smooth. Dennis's cheeks heat, the pretty flush he's starting to love spattering his cheeks.
"Thanks, Abbot." He smiles shyly and reaches out to tap Jack's shoulder. What the fuck? "Sorry for interrupting you guys. Trinity is trying to get me to shotgun a beer, and even though I always beat her, she'll keep trying to win until she throws up."
Jack cackles, and Robby is still frozen. He's now picturing Dennis shotgunning a beer, the foam dripping down his chin and soaking his white shirt, rendering it translucent. He has got to get a grip.
"W-wouldn't want that. Hah." Robby manages to push out, cringing internally at his fumbling. Grip was not gotten.
Jack is glaring at the side of his head, and he ignores it, gives in to the magnetic pull, and touches Dennis at the nape of his neck, feeling the exposed skin heat. He shoves him closer to the bar, away from Jack. It isn't possessiveness at all, nope. Just… easier to talk to him. Privately. "What're you drinking, kid? You're empty-handed."
"Vodka soda, but I can get it—"
"I got it." He flags down the bartender, orders three more shots and a vodka soda. Puts his credit card down. "You enjoying the party?"
Dennis nods, blush still sticking. There's a nervous energy about him; he's sort of… bouncing. The leather is making little squeaks that Robby can barely hear over the music but every time he does his ears perk up like a dog. Fuck.
"Yeah! It's nice I didn't have to wear the same suit as last year." Dennis laughs, slides a hand into the sweaty curls at the base of his neck. Robby wants to replace it. "I'm not super great in stuffy environments like that."
"Me either, honey. Hence the change of scenery." Shit, he let a pet name out again. It feels less life-changing this time, but he's worried about the droves of people surrounding them. Actually, maybe he doesn't. The alcohol starting to warm through him is giving him a sort of fuck it energy. It's worth it for the smile it plasters on Whitaker's face.
Jack clears his throat behind them, and Robby swivels around. He's holding one of the three shots and giving him a death glare. "Let's get this over with. I'm too fuckin' old to be doing shooters like a college kid."
Dennis barks out a laugh and swallows down the whisky, gags and coughs after he swallows. It shouldn't be so attractive. "I just graduated college, and I can barely do them."
The look Jack gives him after that comment is even worse. The shame he swallows down burns almost as much as the alcohol. God, he needs to get some distance. "I'll let you get back to your friends. Drink some water, kid."
Robby half stumbles back towards the table with Dana and Benji, Jack hot on his heels. "You better start talking, man. What the fuck was that?"
"What was what?"
"Don't play dumb." Jack stops him walking before they reach the others. Turns him around. "Are you sleeping with him?"
Is he that obvious? "No."
"Do you want to?" Jack asks, quieter this time. Not exactly judgemental, mostly just flabbergasted. It creates a panic within him so strong that he resorts to pleading.
"Jack. Please don't. I can't—"
Jack cuts him off, sensing the distress. "Okay. Fine. But we will be talking about this whether you like it or not." He pushes Robby back towards the table. "Jesus, man. You looked like you wanted to eat him."
The rest of the night goes smoothly. Smoother than the beginning, at least. Robby doesn't take any more shots and forces himself to mingle, catching up with co-workers he doesn't have time for while they're working.
He avoids Jack, avoids Dennis despite the constant eyes on him. He learns that Benji is retiring, that McKay got her ten-year chip, that Javadi is leaving them for psych, that Mel's sister is so lovely, and that Princess has eyes at the back of her fucking head, apparently.
I hear that Whitaker is single. Available. with a waggle of her eyebrows. Robby attempts to play dumb. Giving a short Hm and makes up some excuse about Gloria calling him.
Gloria does call him eventually, placing a microphone in his hand as the whole bar chants "speech, speech, speech." Robby taps the mic a few times to make sure it's working and clears his throat.
"Hello everyone, uh — hope you're having a good night so far." A round of claps, a couple of whoops. He hates speeches, but he somehow pulls one out of him every time.
"This year has been difficult. Working in healthcare, in general, is difficult. But I look around this room and every face I see, frankly, doesn't give a shit about difficult. You show up every day and don't just treat diseases, or tend to wounds, or clean rooms, or move gurneys; you care for people."
Tears are welling up in his eyes now. Gratitude and memories and a culmination of every person in this room making an impact. He tends to forget about it sometimes.
"Humans, going through incredible loss and heartache and so much pain. Just like us. And at times, without someone to lean on, it can feel like you're drowning. Well, look around. These are your life rafts, and I hope I can be one for you too — if you'll let me. There aren't enough words to express how incredible you all are, so I'll leave it at that. Thank you."
Robby tips his nursed beer to the crowd, and they tip theirs back. Resounding cheers fill his ears and friendly pats on the back as he gets off the meager stage fill his heart. This profession sometimes tears him to pieces, but it's also his greatest achievement. He gives himself a gold star for at least recognizing that.
Dana's got a big smile on her face when he returns to the table. "You've had better, but it was a pretty good speech."
Robby shrugs, tired all of a sudden. "There's always next year."
"If we live that long, old timer," Dana responds, with that glint in her eye. God, he's so thankful for her. He's taken her for granted far too much in the past. Taken a lot of things for granted, really.
He tries to make it up to her by staying in this spot. Catching up on all of the things going on in her life that neither of them had time for, or made the time for. How well her daughters are doing (despite the stress of her middle child getting nearly arrested on campus), the vacation she has planned in February, and some juicy nurse gossip make their way in there as well. Robby can't help but cackle when she's on her fourth glass of Pinot and the number of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph’s in every sentence triples.
Benji must have a radar for it, as he makes his way back over to them. "Alright, hun. Let's get outta here."
Dana sighs, "Yeah, alright. If I have another, I'll have a headache for a century."
They move to get their coats on, and it breaks Robby out of the warm little bubble they've created. He notices how much the party has thinned out. There are still a few people dancing to Jingle Bell Rock, a few more shoved into corners playing drinking games, and a handful of people making out. He's thankful most of the higher-ups are gone, because they definitely wouldn't approve. It happens every year, though. Robby was one of them in his younger days.
It takes him a second to recognize one of the couples as Trinity Santos and Yolanda Garcia, shoved into a darkened corner booth. They weren't exactly subtle in their endeavors, sometimes loudly making plans on the floor when Garcia comes up for a consult. Robby wishes he could be that forward.
It also takes him a second to recognize that Whitaker was sitting directly across from them, cheek squashed into his hand resting on the table, asleep once again.
Dana, ever present even on multiple glasses of wine, asks, "You gonna take your boy home?"
His boy? "I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of our relationship."
"How long have I known you, Robinavitch?" She smirks, reaches for a hug. Robby accepts it despite wanting to run. "I know that look in your eye."
He releases her, and before he can even defend himself (not that he had much to work off of), she continues, "You're so damn stubborn. It's alright to want something good."
It's tempting to argue. Explain that he's still working out if he deserves good things — that most days he feels like a deep pit with no escape ladder. That Dennis is sunshine and softness and light and everything he's been denying himself for far too long.
Nevertheless, Dennis deserves to be taken care of. He shouldn't have to sleep in this dingy bar with loud music and a roommate who is clearly too preoccupied to go home with.
So he says his final goodbyes to Dana, walks over to their table, and promptly gets ignored by Garcia. She connects their eyes as she's connected to his resident and doesn't hesitate before going right back into it.
"Ahem," Robby grunts out.
Santos jumps and nearly falls out of the booth. Dennis is still slumped into his own hand. The whole thing is quite funny, but he holds in the laughter. "Sorry to… interrupt."
There's a murmured cockblock under Garcia's breath, but he chooses to ignore it. HR would have a fucking field day in here.
"How are you all getting home?" Robby asks.
Garcia answers, "My place is just around the corner."
"And Huckleberry here? How about him?" Robby says next, pointing it at Santos. The attending voice is slipping through for dramatic effect.
"There's this new fangled app," Santos replies, drunk and verging on disorderly. "It's called Uber. Or Lyft. Or, this one might be more familiar to you, a taxi." Robby does laugh then. Surprised by her audacity, mostly.
"I'm not eighty, thank you very much. I'll take him home."
"You sure about that, Robinavitch?" Garcia asks, suspicious. "He's very grumpy when he wakes up."
Robby is confused by that. Anytime he's woken up Dennis, he's been lovely. Blurry around the edges and pliable. But maybe it's Yolanda warning him. Proverbial shovel talk wrapped up in a lie. He didn't think her and Dennis were friends like that.
Trinity is equally suspicious beside her. She's usually better at hiding her emotions, but the empty beer bottles on the table are indication enough of why she's basically mean-mugging him. "Sure, boss. Take him home, but if anything — and I mean anything — happens to him, I know a place that keeps very sharp tools, and I know someone very good at wielding them." She turns to Garcia, grinning like an idiot.
Garcia scoffs, "Oh, you're bringing me into this murder scenario now?"
"It was only a light threat, babe."
Albeit how scary she can be, and how often she'll try to deny it, she's fiercely protective over Whitaker. Their unlikely friendship has continued to blossom since Robby returned from his trip, and they clearly care deeply for each other. So being threatened feels like he's getting a medal of honor, in a way.
"Understood," Robby says, grinning. Trinity only responds with a drunken salute, and slides out of the booth, pulling Yolanda with her.
He now has to figure out how to wake Dennis up, yet again. There's a familiarity to it now, even though it's bordering on concerning how often this kid naps. When was the last time he had his blood work done?
Robby slides onto the bench beside him while trying to come up with a plan. However, it's not needed, as Dennis's eyes are peeking open as Robby moves closer. "Hey Den."
Dennis kind of — flops onto him. His heavy head rests on the meat of his bicep, and Robby's cheeks heat at the intimate nature of the action. He nuzzles Robby's sweater a little, then looks up to him with an expression Robby reads as gratitude — sleep-dazed happiness. Robby's not sure if Dennis is feeling the same joy of this intimacy; maybe he just had a good night. Regardless, it suits him.
"Hi," Dennis says, barely loud enough over the music still pumping.
"Tired?" he asks and gets a mumbled approval. "I can take you home, if you'd like."
"Could we just stay here for a while longer?"
And they do. Quietly co-exist with practically zero space in between them. It's as nice as it is terrifying, with the somewhat confused glances they get from party-goers every once in a while. It doesn't seem to bother Dennis at all.
They eventually make their way out, saying quick goodbyes to everyone and shivering against the cold as they walk to the truck.
It's covered in a thick layer of snow, and Robby heaves a sigh as they approach.
"Where's the scraper? I'll clean it off as a thanks for driving me."
Like Dennis owes him anything. Like it hasn't been a privilege just to have him near for an extended period of time. "You'll freeze, sweetheart." Robby tosses the keys to him. "Start 'er up and crank the heat; it'll only be a minute."
Robby manages to get the car cleaned off, starting with the part of the windshield he could see Dennis through. He didn't want to go without seeing him for any longer than necessary.
The drive back shouldn't feel like autopilot, but it does. Robby would use his sleepless nights tracing the route from his place to the red brick apartment building in his mind. Robby dropped Dennis off all of one time, but he would often imagine how easy it would be to show up unannounced, ask Whitaker out to dinner. Or something.
It doesn't feel easy when they're parked and silent. Listening to the crackle of the engine cooling down. There's a fizzling sort of anxiety lingering in the empty air. It's like that moment when dropping a date off after a great night, and no one is sure whether or not to broach the subject of more.
Dennis beats him to it. "You want to come up? I have uh — coffee. Or tea. A lot of Monster Energy, actually."
He wants to. Wants to press his hand into Dennis's lower back, leading him up the apartment stairs. Box him into the inside of his front door and kiss him breathless. He shouldn't. He can't.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Den."
Dennis sighs and pats his pockets. He procures a small pack of Newports and reaches for the door handle. "Okay. Well. Can you at least stand outside while I have a smoke? This neighborhood isn't the best."
Of course he will. If he can give him anything, it's at least the ability to feel safe. Robby gets out after Dennis does and winces against the chilled winds bracing against his face. The roads are so quiet, and the streetlamps barely light Dennis.
It's fascinating watching Dennis put a smoke in his mouth, lighting it with practiced ease. He takes in a deep breath and holds it, visibly relaxing before the plume of smoke releases from his lungs. It's so hot that Robby doesn't know what to do with his hands. "I didn't know you smoked."
"You don't know a lot of things about me," Dennis says, snappy in one moment but resigned in the next. He ashes burning tobacco onto the sidewalk. Flicking it a few more times than necessary, like it's a coping mechanism he isn't aware of.
Robby doesn't know a lot about him. Not as much as he'd like, and not in the way that matters. But he's held on so tightly to the things he does know that it's been eating him alive. It was like putting together a puzzle and realizing, by the end, you were missing a bunch of pieces. Frustrating.
There's a loose thread on Robby's sweater, and he picks at it, nervous. Awkward in a way he usually isn't. "I'd like to."
The sardonic laugh across from him hurts, as if Dennis thought Robby was joking. Or lying. He offers the cigarette out to Robby anyway, and he takes it. Inhales on the spit-sodden filter and pretends it's the nicotine making his head spin and not Whitaker's saliva in his mouth.
Menthol? Really? He's about to question the choice of brand when Dennis speaks first.
"I grew up on a farm. I was practically born with a smoke in my hand." Dennis says, taking the cigarette back from Robby. He sucks in a long drag, and the red tip burns so brightly that Robby can see the shine in his big eyes. "My mom never approved, obviously. But my three older brothers would sneak them to me. I'd light it, and they'd look at me like—"
Dennis looks at the cherry tip, burnt nearly all the way to the end. Throws it on the ground and stomps on it. "— Like I was finally a man."
That gives a little more insight into Whitaker's upbringing. Or at least how Dennis feels about it. Robby had an inkling, with the apparent religious inner conflict and tentativeness of his first few weeks at PTMC. Being the youngest of four couldn't have been easy, especially in a small town like that. Pride roils through him as he realizes how much Dennis has come into himself. The confidence at work compared to when he first got there is noticeable. Admirable.
"Is that how it makes you feel now?" Robby asks.
"Not really. Mostly makes me think of lung cancer." Dennis fiddles with the pack again. It seems like he's contemplating having another. "I'm trying to quit."
Robby gets it. He's been smoking on and off since med school. He's down to only a few when he's drinking.
The smile he turns to Whitaker is supposed to be small, but the sheepish look on his face makes Robby bark a laugh. "How's that working out for you?"
"That was only my second for the day, so. Alright, I guess."
Robby takes the pack and lighter from his worrying hands. He slides another one out and lights it. Dennis seems thankful, maybe for the fact that he could have more nicotine, or maybe he's glad they could stand there together for a moment longer. Robby's the latter.
Their time is running out though, and Robby is ready to hand Dennis back his belongings. His heart too, maybe. Leave it red raw and bleeding in his hands until Dennis takes it. Or stomps on it.
"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Dennis asks quickly, like he wasn't sure it was going to come out or not.
The smoke tastes more acrid with the knowledge that this is it. That this may be the turning point, but feigning ignorance is easier. It's Robby's fucking go-to. "Talk about what?"
"Oh my god, you are so frustrating," Dennis says, stealing the cigarette and inhaling. It doesn't seem to calm him as much as before. Irritation lives on his face, and he's close enough that Robby could reach out and touch the furrow in his brow. Smooth it back.
"Whitaker—"
"No. Just let me say this before I lose my nerve. You left, Robby. You touched me — manhandled me for months, not so subtly made me your favorite, looked at me like I was something fucking special, and I liked it. Too much, probably." He scoffs, rubs a hand through his curls, tugging a little. "You left, and I don't — I'm not saying it was wrong to take a break. You needed that time away. But you offered me your house."
And if I don't come back, you'll have a swinging bachelor pad. Robby thought about that for weeks on the road. He pictured Whitaker throwing away all his belongings and moving in permanently. Giving the grand tour to Amy and making the office a nursery. It would be a better use of the space, probably.
He continues, "And then you gave me all these rules so that it was only me; staying there all alone, surrounded by your things and missing you. What was I gonna do if you didn't come back?"
"I did come back." Robby manages.
"Did you? Because it still seems like you're running."
He is. He's an expert at it by now. Shoving things so far down into his consciousness that his feet feel like lead. Getting on a motorcycle and hoping its rattle will shake him free. It's not that simple.
"It's fucking with my head, Robby. You keep taking care of me, calling me baby and bringing me in from the cold, only to push me away. Why can't you just — let us have this?"
"It's not that simple," Robby says, out loud this time.
"Why not?"
Because he's a black hole. Because he's ruined every single person in his life, and it hurts to much to think about ruining the good thing in front of him.
Robby can't control the valley of tears welling in his eyes.
"I'm a mess, Dennis. I'm fifty-four years old and struggling to keep my head above water most days, and you deserve —"
Dennis huffs a frustrated noise. "Why do you get to choose what I deserve, huh? I know we're not exactly… conventional. I know it's hard for you to let people in and that you have your struggles, but you have to figure out what you want." It's as if everything drains out of him, then. Like he's exhausted. Resolved. He takes a small step back. "Because I want you so much sometimes it feels like I can't breathe."
The confession makes Robby's blood run as cold as the air outside. It was something he knew, he wasn't completely blind to the reciprocation. Hearing it said so plainly is another thing.
It disconnects his brain from his mouth, and regardless of the desperate need he has to say it back, there's only silence.
"Fuck you." Dennis spits out. He's shivering, and whether it's from anger or from the frigid temperatures they've been standing far too long outside in, Robby will never know.
There's so much on the tip of his tongue, a tangle of thoughts he will never have the time to unravel and present, because Dennis leaves him on the sidewalk. Stomps up to his apartment and doesn't look back once.
The only word he manages to come up with as he's climbing in his truck is inevitable.
+1
They hadn't been on the roof in ages. Once the snow had overtaken the bird shit, they would wait until spring to meet up there. It was a little too treacherous to make their way through it to get to the edge.
So it was a little concerning when Robby asked for Jack upon arriving on shift, and Dana pointed up.
"Don't take too long, Robinavitch. You know New Year's Eve is always a doozy."
He waves her off and heads for the elevator, still bundled up in his winter gear. The door opens with a creak, and Robby follows the indents left in the snow from Jack's army boots.
Robby can't even say hello before he's getting an earful. "You know, for someone with a doctorate, you sure are fucking stupid sometimes."
"Good morning to you too." Robby shuffles to the railing beside him, thankful that both of them are on the safe side. The metal is cold through his thick jacket, but Robby can't seem to care. Enjoys the way it grounds him.
"The swing shift I worked the other day — your boy looked like he got thrown in the gutter," Jack says, nonchalant as ever.
Again, with the your boy. Not even close anymore. It's been a tense week, Whitaker giving him the complete cold shoulder to the point that he can barely even get eyes on him. His name on the board is usually the closest he gets, because the patient load he's taking on is borderline concerning. McKay questioned him about it the other day, and Robby could only shrug. Made some excuse about how he's still trying to prove himself. Dennis is proving himself to be pissed off.
It's fucking killing him, though. What could have been, if he just gave himself over to it.
"You do too, brother. What the hell happened?" Jack asks.
It's more about what he didn't do. What he was too chicken shit to do.
Robby rolls his eyes at the digging anyway. "Does it even matter? I fucked it up."
"Oh, here we go with the martyr shit again." Jack leans against the railing further, trying to catch Robby's eye. "How many times are you going to get in your own way, huh?"
Robby can't do anything but shake his head. Hide.
"Never once, in the time that I've known you, have I seen you look at someone like that. It's honestly kind of gross, the way the love sort of…" Jack splays a hand over Robby's face, wiggles it around. "Overtakes you."
Fuck, that word. The L word he so often avoids. I want you. I need you. Open your legs. When can I see you next? is usually what he says instead — avoiding the writhing feeling beneath his skin rather than looking love in the face. It's too vulnerable.
"Love? Are you serious?"
Jack is getting irritated now. A sardonic laugh pushes a cloud of cold breath in front of them. "Are you fucking for real, man? What else would you call it?"
There is no other way to describe the way he feels about Dennis. It's bile in the back of his throat, a stutter in his heart. An itch that nothing will scratch unless he can finally fucking touch him again. No one talks about how insane love makes you feel. How consuming it is. How wonderful it is, despite of.
So, yeah. He's stupid.
Robby hugs Jack as an unspoken thank you — gratitude, for finally wrenching his eyes open.
Thoughts of how he's going to make it up to Dennis swirl through his head as they tentatively walk back towards the roof doors. Jack, as always, is one step ahead of him.
"Santos called about an hour ago. Whitaker has the flu and won't be coming in. He could probably use some soup later. Or some company."
Goddam, he could hug Jack again. Scheming bastard.
He googles when his favorite deli closes as the elevator doors slide shut.
The red bricks of the apartment building are mocking him. The glass door too. They're whispering in his ear: don't be a fucking coward.
Is this what love is? Shivering, alone, terrified? It is if you don't let it in. The building answers back. Or maybe it's his therapist in his head. Or Jack. Or Dana.
Regardless, he's been standing outside of Whitaker's apartment for ten minutes. Chicken noodle soup in his hand definitely turned cold. But despite the shaking of his entire body, he presses the buzzer.
302 - Santos.
There was an expectation of him having to make his case to Santos in the little vestibule where the intercom sits. Robby knows she's angry with him, sending him daggers with her eyes during the last week, very clearly giving him attitude when they were on a case together. It sucked. This all sucks.
But he gets buzzed in immediately. Counts the steps as he climbs the dirty set of stairs up to level three. He waits a moment outside of 302 to try and catch his breath before knocking, but the door is ripped open before he even has a chance to lift his arm.
"You're not Garcia," Trinity says. She's dressed up, clearly on her way out the door for some sort of New Year's Eve plans.
"I am… not," Robby replies, not really knowing what else to say.
She leaves him standing there, briskly walks into what Robby can assume is the kitchen, and returns with her purse and a bottle of Tamiflu, the fruity liquid kind. She shoves it in his hands alongside the soup.
"I'm still so fucking mad at you, but he needs to take twelve mills of this in twenty minutes. He kept throwing up the pills."
Robby is shocked. Shocked that she's entrusting him with this, even after everything. Fuck if he'll take it for granted.
"Okay. Yep. I can do that." Robby says, switching places with her a little awkwardly.
She turns back around, "You have one more chance, boss. Take care of him."
I will try with everything I have is what he wants to say, but she slams the front door before he can, nearly clipping Robby.
The instruction gives him some momentum as he takes off his shoes, enters the kitchen, and blindly looks around for a bowl. The soup goes into it, and into the microwave.
He's a doctor who needs to administer medicine. Medicine that needs to be taken with food. That's muscle memory. That's what he does.
Robby snoops as it's heating up. Despite how small the apartment is, it's full of stuff. Not in a hoarder way, but in a cozy, long-lived collector type of way. There are art prints, posters, and framed pictures covering nearly every inch of the walls. Little tchotchkes and different genres of books bursting from shelves. Even more pictures on the old white fridge in the kitchen, held on by letter magnets.
He touches the Polaroid of Dennis, held up with magnets that read 'RATKLLR'. Dennis is making a silly face, posturing a peace sign to the camera. Robby laughs despite wanting to cry, wanting to take this photo home with him, regardless of how tonight goes — missing him even though he's only a room away.
Here we go, Robby thinks, as he's balancing the hot bowl of soup in one hand and shoving the medicine under his armpit. He knocks a few times on what he can only assume is Dennis's door.
There's no response, but fuck it, he opens it anyway.
"Trin, I told you to go. I'll be fine."
Dennis is sitting up in bed. Pale, sweaty, ethereal in the warm light of his bedside lamp; naked, mostly. Beautiful. Fuck. He's got his phone shining up from his hands and his expression is shocked at the sight of Robby in his doorway.
Robby can't even take in the room around him, eyes laser-focused on Dennis. Like if he looks away for even a moment, he'll disappear.
"Hey. Thought you might have been sleeping." Robby manages. That's what he was hoping, at least. The sleepy and soft introduction that they somehow keep finding themselves in would be more familiar. Maybe it's fate that this time he isn't.
Dennis covers his chest a little with the comforter, forcing his socked feet to pop out of the end. "I uh — I've been sleeping all day."
"Good. Rest is important for recovery." Robby moves further into the room, avoiding some clothes on the floor. "I brought you some chicken noodle."
"What?" Dennis takes the bowl, shaking arms reaching out for it. Looks into it like Robby just handed him poison. "Is this a fever dream?"
Robby huffs a laugh and gestures for Dennis to eat. He takes a couple of spoonfuls into his downturned mouth. Confusion radiates off of him. It would probably be anger if he wasn't so sick.
"Jack told me you called in. This deli by my house has really good soups, so. Yeah." Robby says, sheepish. He's a bit irritated at how clunky he feels in the moment. How dramatically different he is in the ED. Confidence and competence just whooshing away when confronted with the man in front of him.
Dennis is picking up on it too, like what Robby is saying isn't enough. Maybe he was expecting an outpouring of feelings straight away, confession — or a rejection. He most likely didn't expect to see Robby at all.
"Eat some more, then you've got to take your medicine," Robby says as he's lowering himself gingerly onto the corner of the bed. Close, but not touching. Not enough to spook him.
"I am a doctor, you know. I can take care of myself." Dennis murmurs, a hint of petulance leaking through.
And he could, probably. The flu symptoms don't seem too bad at the moment. No shivers wracking through him, breathing sounds normal. No vomit, since he's been there at least. But Robby can't fathom letting him take care of himself right now. Alone in his apartment on New Year's, sick and heartbroken because of Robby. He just hopes that he won't make it worse.
"Yeah, but I like taking care of you."
Protests are forming from the man across from him, "Robb-"
This is it — the actual turning point. If Dennis doesn't like what he has to say, if he was too late and too stupid, then that's okay. He'll deal with the aftermath. But it has to happen now.
"It's my turn to talk, sweetheart. Sorry." Robby cringes, feeling a bit bad about the pet name and the interrupting. Not enough to stop, though. "You weren't wrong that I was running. I'm terrified, truthfully — of my own feelings for you, of the potential to ruin this before it even starts, of ruining you. I might have, already, but I need you to know that I care for you. I'll care for you, regardless if you're done with me or not."
He pauses. Collects himself a little. Tries to pivot from being too self-deprecating as he places a hand over the top of Dennis's socked ankle.
"I've looked at you like you're special because you are. You're an incredible doctor, a wonderful friend, a good person. Selfless. Beautiful."
Robby can hear a small intake of breath across from him, but he can't stand to look up yet. To see how this is being received.
"You told me to think about what I want, and there's nothing I've wanted more than you. I want to know every detail of you. Put a picture of you in my wallet and cook you dinner and open my eyes to see you across from me, every morning. It's too much, Dennis. I can't be — normal about it."
Finally, with a big exhale, Robby glances over at Dennis. He's still holding the bowl, and the spoon. He's still shirtless, and sweaty, and pale and gorgeous and agape. His mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are wide, wet, boring into Robby. Blinking a few times, like falling out of a daze, he holds out what's in his hands.
"Take the soup."
Why the fuck is the soup a concern at the moment? Is this the part where Robby gets thrown out? "What?" Robby asks.
He thrusts it out again. "Take the fucking soup, Robby. Please."
Robby does, turning and placing it on the dresser carefully. There's rustling behind him, then a hand placed on his shoulder — another, in his beard, turning him back.
Then Dennis is kissing him.
It isn't gentle. It's hungry. Overtaking and mind-numbingly good. Robby can't help but respond with fervor, groaning as he tangles his hands into Dennis's hair, grasping on like a lifeline. Like finally being tethered after floating in the wind for ages. Their teeth clack as Robby pushes in further, breaking the seal of his lips to reach his tongue in. Dennis tastes like soup, sickness, and desperation.
Robby's getting lost in the feeling, the overwhelming sense of need, when Dennis pulls back. Just a hairsbreadth, spit still connecting them before falling onto their respective lips.
"You're here," Dennis says, like a revelation. Smiling.
Robby smiles back, watery. "Yeah, honey. I'm here."
They join back together. Slower this time. Languid brushes of their lips that feel like an answer, like coming home, like a warm bed with fresh sheets. Soft strokes of their tongues together, pleading, surrendering, igniting. It's love, and it's everything, and Robby doesn't know if he'll ever be able to untangle himself from him.
Their hands both wander, Robby's ghosting over the notches of Dennis's spine, clammy. Over his hips, unable to suppress the need to squeeze them. He pulls Dennis into his lap and swallows the squeak he releases upon being moved.
Dennis's hands reach underneath his sweater, and the contact on his bare back is almost as molten as the fire in his abdomen. The contact, everywhere, is sending tingles throughout his body, and if they don't stop soon, Dennis is going to know exactly where the heat is traveling.
Before Robby can gently separate them, explain that maybe they should slow it down, Dennis wrenches his head back. Throws his elbow and hacks a dry cough into the crease of it. It sounds like it hurts, and Robby feels an idiot for worrying about an erection rather than Dennis's health.
"Sorry, Shit," Dennis says into his elbow, releasing a few more coughs. He looks back to Robby, guilt painting over his face. "Oh my god, I'm gonna get you sick."
The laugh that releases from him is a surprise. He couldn't help it, with how cute Dennis looks, worrying about something that doesn't matter in the slightest, as if anything would stop Robby from wanting to live in this moment.
"There's literally nothing else I care about less than that right now. Are you okay?"
Dennis nods. "Just — lightheaded."
Despite the glint in his eyes, the happiness so clear in his expression, he still has the flu. Robby pats his sweaty forehead, feeling for his temperature and brushing the damp curls away. "Sweetheart, I think you should lie down."
"Yeah. Alright." He extricates himself, and Robby immediately senses the loss. He wants to follow him up to the pillows where Dennis is settling himself in.
Instead, he grabs the bottle of Tamiflu, searching around the comforter for a bit before making contact. "Santos will kill me if you don't take this now." Robby glances at his watch. "You are half an hour overdue."
Dennis groans, "It's so gross. It tastes like rotten Fruity Pebbles."
Robby rolls his eyes, no heat behind it. "They always say doctors make the worst patients." He stands up, hands Dennis the bottle, and lowers down to kiss his cheek. Affection coming so, so easily. "I'll get you some water."
There's disappointment in Dennis's eyes. Worry, perhaps, that Robby might leave. "I'll be quick, I promise," he reassures.
Once he returns, with water and some saltines he managed to scrounge up, Dennis is under the covers again. Cozy in a way that makes his heart lurch. Safe and snuggled and relaxed, despite the racking coughs he heard just a moment ago.
"Will you stay?" Dennis whispers out, unsure.
I'll never leave, if you let me.
Robby's always been better at action than words. He unzips, removes his sweater, unbuckles his belt, and shucks off his pants. He's trying to do it in a way that's not sexy, but also not not sexy — not wanting Dennis to get the idea that he's asking for something, but anxious about Dennis seeing more of him for the first time. If loose boxers and a black undershirt is really that much more of him.
Robby fluffs the pillow on the other side of the bed, dramatically smacks it before climbing in beside Dennis, who is producing a noise he can only describe as giggling. It's so adorable Robby can't help but immediately cuddle up close to him.
"Did you know you snore?" Robby asks, grinning.
Dennis gasps and smacks his t-shirt-clad shoulder. "I do not."
"I've been collecting evidence, Den. You definitely snore."
He laughs, snuggles up even closer. Rests his head on Robby's chest. "Well. You better get used to it."
He already is used to it. Already cherishes it, but feigning annoyance is more fun. "I'd rather get used to your CPAP machine," Robby grunts.
"Oh, you didn't bring yours, old man?" Dennis retorts, head swivelling up to look him in the eye as he insults him — little shit.
Robby kisses him instead of responding. Too enamored by him looking at Robby with such fondness. It's quick, dispelling, drowsy.
Fireworks pop in the distance. The closed windows muffle them, but it reminds Robby that it's New Year's Eve. That he has so much to look forward to in this upcoming year. That most of it is contained in the four walls of this bedroom, dozing.
Resolutions have never been something he's followed, but he's certain he has one now. To remember this moment for the year to come. The heartache, the fear, the happiness, despite. The hope for the future. God, the hope is as bright as the colourful flashes of light outside.
The hope stays with him as he finally, finally falls asleep.