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If Dennis has learned one thing from his time in the Pittsburgh Emergency Department, it’s that confidence is a fickle friend.
He thought he knew what it looked like. He thought he understood.
Be brave, he’d told himself, staring at the entrance doors on his first shift.
“You gotta believe,” Samira had muttered as they bent over a coding GSW victim.
“Have some faith.” A hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm. And while faith isn’t exactly a synonym for confidence, the way Robby said it sure sounded like it to Dennis.
Then, much later: “Jesus, Huckleberry,” Trinity said, hairclippers held aloft, “Trust me.” And even later— pushing him into his first explicitly gay bar— “Just be yourself. Or, no, be confident.”
And he had been. He showed back up to work after that first nightmare of a shift. He came in every day after. He’d advocated for his patients, stepped up for the difficult procedures, graduated with honors, even took charge when the situation called for it. He was good. And if not good, better.
Confident.
It’s some of that precious confidence he needs now, hesitating in the doorway to a patient's room. Dennis has the chart in his hand, and he pretends to scan it for a few seconds longer than he needs to. The nurse in the room— Bethany, he thinks— is already double checking the patient’s IV. The man is in his mid-forties, brought in after a fall with a blood alcohol level of 0.30.
And he’s angry.
Dennis clears his throat and finally looks up from the chart, watching as the man fumes in his bed. He’d have ripped out his IV and been out the door by now, except he can’t quite stand up right, and Bethany runs a tight ship. He’s still moving, though, and shouting, so his body has to be at least a little accustomed to this level of intoxication. This isn’t anything new, not to him.
“Dr. Whitaker,” Bethany says, looking relieved. Dennis offers her a tight-lipped smile.
“Mr. Johnson,” Dennis starts, taking a step in. “I’m Dr. Whitaker. This shouldn’t take long. We just need to—”
“Get me the fuck out of here!”
Dennis clears his throat. “Right. Unfortunately your blood alcohol levels require medical interference. Let me patch you up, pump you with a few fluids, and then—”
“You ain’t going anywhere near me. I don’t want your hands on me.”
Dennis determinedly keeps his eyes off the large cross necklace dangling from the man’s pudgy red neck.
“Mr. Johnson. You took quite a spill. I just need to check the bruising on your stomach, make sure it is only bruising, and then we can get you sobered up and out of here.” Dennis moves to Johnson’s bedside, setting his clipboard down and reaching for the man’s gown. He’s not an idiot, though, so he says: “Would you mind letting me see your stomach, Sir?”
A cold hand closes icy over his wrist. “Are you some kinda queer?”
It’s low, growled, but Dennis feels each and every word. They crawl deep inside of him, somewhere familiar, curling up like a tired dog in the pit of his stomach.
He inhales, blinks, pushes past it. He needs his hand back, he realizes. He tugs a little, carefully extricating himself.
“I need to examine you,” he says again, though quietly. He doesn’t look at Bethany. Confidence, he thinks. Keep moving forward.
“‘Cause that’s why I’m here,” Mr. Johnson slurs. “My nephew. He was supposed to inherit the house for his family. I told him there are enough rooms to fit all his little brats and plenty of garden space for whatever bitch he decides to marry in the future.”
Dennis lifts Mr. Johnson’s gown, keeping his eyes steadily trained on the dark purple bruising lingering along one of his ribs.
“Well, he turns to me, says ‘what if I don’t want a wife?’” Mr. Johnson shifts in the bed, mouth all twisted. “Can you believe that shit? My family— my blood— a blasphemous cock-sucking traitor—”
Dennis pokes a little too hard at one of the bruises. Mr. Johnson huffs in pain. Oops.
“Anyway, he’s out of the house, of course. Couldn’t have him under my roof. Under God’s roof.”
Dennis feels the moment Mr. Johnson’s eyes catch on the tiny silver cross necklace that hangs just under his scrubs.
Confidence.
“You a believer, boy?”
Dennis shakes his head, raises the gown a little higher. “I’m not entirely sure, Sir.”
“Not sure? Did you used to be?”
Used to be. Used to pray in the hayloft of the family barn, bare knees cut by the straw under him. Used to think he was closest to God there, rather than the church. At least in the barn he was alone. The preacher’s boy wasn’t looking at him with soft eyes that wanted everything Dennis could give him. At least in the barn, Dennis couldn’t offer all he had.
And then he’d found medicine, lost his family, gained a new one. And somewhere in there, God had gotten his map mixed up and headed off in the wrong direction, leaving Dennis alone with the Pitt and the cross on his neck.
…And Dr. Robby, who might as well be holy himself. You’d think he was, the way Dennis worships him. There’s probably a reason Dennis thinks of him whenever he thinks of The Church, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Yeah,” Dennis answers. “Used to.”
“My nephew stopped going to service three years ago,” the man mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Dennis. “You sorta look like him.”
“Right.” Dennis says, and wonders how Johnson’s still talking. There’s too much alcohol in his system to be acting so normal. Maybe he’s high-functioning.
“Sir? We need to reinsert your IV.” Bethany says, taking a step closer to the man on the bed. She reaches down to pull off the tegaderm, and Dennis uses the distraction to inspect some of the bruising further down the man’s stomach. There’s a slight protrusion on his last rib, pushing up slightly under his skin. It could be the way Johnson’s lying, but…
Dennis leans forward, reaching down to skim his fingers over the bump.
It happens quickly. Too quickly for honest lucidity.
Bethany pulls out the IV and Johnson yanks himself away from her and into Dennis, who, upon being jostled, accidently pushes a little too hard on what he now knows to be a broken rib. There’s no damage inflicted, of course, but you wouldn't know that from the way Johnson shouts. He whips out with his hand, shoving Dennis back, who stumbles a little but holds his footing.
“Sir—” Bethany starts, eyes wide with alarm. She holds a sterile needle in one hand, reaching towards his arm with her other.
And just like that, the monster is awakened.
“You’re not fucking sticking me again,” Johnson growls, suddenly upright in bed and grabbing her wrist. “No one touch me!” Dennis can see the way his fingers dig into her skin. Get him away from that needle, a voice in the back of his head whispers.
In a second he’s on the other side of the bed, yanking Johnson’s hand off Bethany’s arm. “Sir,” he half-shouts as Johnson tries to rip away from him. “Please, just calm—”
But it’s too late. Johnson is struggling, shouting, cursing, spitting and shoving like a wild animal being put in a cage.
And— well. Dennis grew up on a farm in Nebraska. If there’s one thing he can handle, it’s animals.
Keep him away from the needle, he thinks again. Keep him away from Bethany.
He wrestles Johnson’s arms back, grabbing his wrists and slamming them to the bed next to his head, propping a knee up on the mattress so he can get the leverage he needs to keep him there.
For a minute no one moves, and Dennis has to work not to gag at the smell lingering on Johnson’s breath. “Sir,” He says, letting out a breath. “You need to let us do our job.”
Johnson stares up at him, mouth twisting. There’s pure anger in his eyes, heightened by Dennis’s proximity.
“Fucking fag,” He whispers, and uses Dennis’s resulting full body reaction to rip his hand free, lunge forward, and punch him in the face.
Such a strong impact from such close proximity sends Dennis crashing back against the far wall, sliding down till he's sitting against it.
He can’t breathe. He can’t think.
Everything hurts.
For a moment, it all goes still.
And all Dennis can think is: so much for confidence.
Somewhere above him, Bethany is shouting. People are rushing into the room. No one is looking at him. He has to help subdue the patient, Dennis realizes. It’s the only thought that gets through the pain.
He pushes himself to his feet, trying to help shove Johnson to the bed, but is stopped with a gentle hand on his chest. He takes a step back, and then another.
He can feel something warm dripping down his cheek.
Shit.
He turns quickly, away from the mayhem of the room and out towards the floor. He cups a hand over his cheek, feeling the hot skin under his fingers and the blood seeping from where it was broken. He should clean himself up. He blinks hard.
Fuck.
Trinity sees him first, obviously rushing to help with the commotion in the room behind him. She stops dead in her tracks when she notices him, eyes wide and lips parted.
Dennis shakes his head, because it really was just a punch, and he’s probably fine. He’s not confused, or concussed, or anything like that. Just a little disorientated, maybe. But he can handle this. They need her in there. He waves her off, turning to a med cart and grabbing some gauze that he holds to his face. He needs to get to a private room to clean himself up and, honestly, just to take a moment.
“Whitaker, what—”
Dennis goes still, because he knows that voice. Fuck, does he know that voice. He swallows carefully and turns around, looking up at Dr. Robby. He keeps his hand on his cheek. Whatever Robby was going to say dies at the sight of him.
“The patient needs at least another liter of isotonic crystalloid,” Dennis says. “Probably just regular saline will do. He should be monitored, though.”
Robby looks him over. There’s something in his eyes Dennis can’t decipher. He takes a deep breath, and Dennis fixates on his chest as it rises and falls. He forces his gaze back up to Robby’s face. “I’m just gonna take care of this real quick,” Dennis says, gesturing to his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
And then it happens again.
A warm, heavy hand on his shoulder. Guiding. Owning.
In some ways, Dennis feels like he’s back in the pews of his church in Nebraska, the sermon washing over him. Because isn’t this the same? He’s being led, given direction, given purpose. He’s being guided down a certain path, forced to trust it’s the right one.
Robby leads him down the hall, turns him into a private room. Doesn’t let go of him until he’s got Dennis seated on the bed, pulling up a chair to sit in front of him.
“Mr. Johnson did this?” Robby asks, voice even. Dennis stares at him. When Robby raises a brow, Dennis clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s not bad. I didn’t hit my head.”
“You’re bleeding, Whitaker. Let me see. Come on.” Robby reaches up, ever so gently pulling Dennis’s hand away from his face, the gauze with it. His proximity is doing things it shouldn’t to Dennis, who has to press his lips together.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Robby asks as he inspects the wound.
Dennis nods on autopilot. And then hesitates. And then speaks anyway. “He was grabbing Bethany. I guess he didn’t want another IV. I thought I should get him away from the needle, so I pinned his arms to the bed. And then he called me a fag and punched me in the face.”
Robby pauses, pulling back. Dennis doesn’t know what to do with this newfound seriousness. Even in the most dire cases, it’s rare to see Robby without a glint in his eye or a snide comment. “Do you need to talk to Kiara?”
Dennis tries for a smile, just to lighten the mood. “I’ve been punched before. It hardly warrants a social worker.”
“No,” Robby agrees. “But homophobic assault does.”
Dennis stiffens, and knows Robby sees it. Robby, with his kind eyes and worn face. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he says eventually.
“It’s not about can or can’t,” Robby says, leaning back in to look at his cheek. “It’s about should. You shouldn’t have to handle that.”
And he’s so fucking close. Dennis can feel Robby’s breath on his cheek. It doesn't bother him nearly as much as Johnsons did. Distantly, he wonders if Robby knows.
“He wanted to know if I still pray,” Dennis says, and then hesitates again. He’s been doing a lot of hesitating recently.
Robby doesn’t look at him, still focused on gently swabbing his cheek. “And?”
Dennis furrows his brow. “And?”
“What did you say?”
“I… said I used to.”
“Hm.” Robby runs over the cut with the alcohol swab and Dennis flinches away from him. Robby grabs his shoulder, pulling him back in. Dennis can feel the heat of his fingers through his shirt. “Uh-uh,” Robby chides, “we need to clean this out.”
Dennis nods, silent, eyes fixed on Robby’s face. “Someone should check on his nephew,” he says. “I think they live together. He’s not old enough to be on his own. Social services should be called.”
“We can't call SS for someone getting too drunk.”
“That’s not it.” Dennis shakes his head, and Robby squeezes his shoulder to keep him still.
“Then explain.”
“He kept saying all this stuff. About how he didn’t belong under his— under God’s— roof anymore. He’s going to kick him out. They probably fought.”
“Why would he kick him out?”
“He went against God.” Dennis says. He tries to make it sound sarcastic, ironic, but it falls flat, and Robby pulls back to look at him.
“He’s gay?”
Dennis nods. Holds Robby’s eyes.
“Do you have an issue with that?” Robby asks, and there’s no judgement in his tone.
Dennis opens his mouth to say no, of course not, how could I, it’d be so hypocritical of me, but all he can say is: “I don’t know.”
Robby runs the swab over his cheek again. “You don’t know.”
“I… “ Dennis pauses, trying to get a hold of himself. “I think. I think that it’s fine for oth— for people.”
“But?”
“But— I—” This is unusual for Dennis. To stumble over his words like this. He thought he left the mousy pathetic version of himself behind on his first shift. “I think— no. No, obviously I don’t have an issue with it.”
“Whitaker.”
“Obviously,” Dennis says again, and flicks his eyes up to meet Robby’s. “I don't have an issue.”
Robby holds his gaze, and Dennis can see the tension in his shoulders. The way he holds himself still. The tightness in his chest. Robby’s hand falls from Dennis’s cheek, and before he can stop himself, Dennis reaches out and grabs his wrist.
It isn’t like how Johnson grabbed Bethany. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grip, just holds him. Desperate, aching, wanting something Robby definitely can’t give. He’s not even asking for it, not really, because there’s no chance in hell Robby reciprocates any of the fucked up things Dennis feels for him. But. But he has to tell him.
He holds Robby’s wrist, his hand, cupping it gently between his fingers. He stares at it, stares at the size difference, and thinks about how Robby could envelope Whitaker’s hand completely.
“Dennis,” Robby says from above him, voice gravely. “You don’t want this.”
Dennis looks up, meeting Robby’s gaze. He opens his mouth, closes it. They’re too close. Maybe Robby isn’t understanding what he’s trying to say. Maybe he should make it impossible to miss. It’s this faulty logic that pushes Dennis up and forward, tilting his head and—
And—
The pressure of Robby’s lips against his sends shivers down his back and a shock of something warm straight down the center of him. Robby’s lips are chapped and dry, but they’re real, and actually there, under his, because Dennis is kissing him, and oh, god, Dennis is kissing his boss.
He pulls away in the next second, shrinking back a tiny bit, desperately wishing someone would kill him right now.
He can’t tear his eyes away from Robby’s face. He should at least have the decency to look down at his lap, right? Surely that would be the polite thing to do here?
Robby’s eyes are dark, staring deep into him.
Dennis wants him to say something.
Please, say something.
Please.
“Plea-”
In the next second, Robby moves. He cups Dennis’s face firmly between his hands, and lunges forward. This kiss is much deeper, fiery, full of strength and conviction and God’s love. Dennis can’t think, can only reciprocate, fisting his hands in the front of Robby’s zip-up, pulling him in and kissing back just as hard.
He can’t even feel the throbbing in his cheek anymore, senses entirely consumed by Dr. Robby. He makes a sound, a whimper, probably, and it cuts through this bubble they’ve so carefully maintained.
The moment bursts and Robby pushes him back, firmly, standing up and moving to the other side of the room. He keeps his back to Dennis, who watches his shoulders rise and fall from the bed.
“Dr. Robby,” Dennis tries carefully, absolutely terrified.
“Don’t call me that.” Robby says. He doesn’t move.
“I’m sorry. I can go back— I’ll get Mr. Johnson to settle down, discharge him—”
“You aren’t going anywhere near him.” Robby says.
“Then look at me.”
Robby turns back to him, running his hands over his tired face. “Listen, kid, that— that shouldn’t have happened.”
“I know.”
“It can’t happen again.”
“I know.”
“On shift.”
“I— what?” Dennis freezes, staring up at his boss.
“I can’t do this with you,” Robby says carefully, like he’s choosing each and every word. “It would be bad practice. But I can't exactly… refrain from it either. Evidently. So. Find me after your shift. And if you still want— and we can talk.”
Dennis slides off the bed, crossing the room. There’s something in his chest now, something bright, that Robby undeniably just put there. He stops a foot short from Robby, reaching up and gently placing his hands on his chest. There's an evil, devil-sympathizing part of him that wants to see how far this can go. How far Robby can be pushed.
Confidence, he thinks.
He gently walks him back into the wall behind them, sliding his hands up his chest and into Robby’s hair. When he kisses him this time it's gentler, soft, but no less deep. No less passionate.
Robby allows this for a few seconds before carefully extricating himself, letting out a strained breath. “After shift,” he says again, but now Dennis can hear the shake in his voice.
“After shift.” Dennis agrees.
“I’m sending Santos in to finish patching you up,” Robby says, leaving no room for discussion. “I can’t— I think it would be better if someone else did it. I’ll go deal with Johnson.”
Dennis nods, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling. He retakes his seat on the bed. “Okay,” he says easily.
Robby stares at him for another few seconds. “Okay.” He says finally, and briskly walks out of the room and down the hall.
Dennis sits back, and waits for Trinity.
Well, he thinks.
If this is what it takes to get Robby’s attention, maybe he can stand a few more punches.