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“Okay, hey, somebody get a picture of the board!” Robby calls out to the room of frazzled staff. “Quickly, we’re about to go analog.”
Dennis has his hand in his pocket before Robby can even finish his sentence, immediately running to the board and snapping a photograph, all of half a second before the screen flashes with a large ‘Signal Lost’ box.
The kid’s always fast, always efficient, and this moment doesn’t prove otherwise.
The other monitors start going offline in a staggered wave, one after the other, blinking out across the department. Voices sound in a murmur–Princess noting the loss of the phone lines, somebody else groaning as their iPad loses connection midway through filling out charts, and a more general hubbub of all the staff under thirty asking how the floor is going to cope without the computers.
Jesus, Robby should’ve kicked his sabbatical off this morning.
Somewhere off to the side of him, Abbot speaks, tone lilting with amusement.
“This is going to be fun.”
Robby snorts, despite himself and the situation around them, shaking his head as he looks at the chaos ensuing.
His gaze drifts back to the nurse’s station and stays there.
Whitaker is leaning forward against the desk now, weight braced on his forearms as he sends the photo out to the staff around him, phone held against the surface as more people gather. Distantly, Robby thinks about how the crowd will make Dennis run even warmer than he usually does.
As if on cue, a bead of sweat gathers at the kid’s temple, darkening the hair there by a fraction, as it curls tighter against his forehead. Robby often jokes to himself that he can guess what hour of the shift they’re on by the state of Whitaker’s fringe alone. Early on, it lies flatter, like the boy ran a brush through it on the journey in. By mid-shift, it starts to give up a little, curls starting to form as the heat and movement takes its toll, until by the end it mirrors the tighter ringlets at the base of his neck, soft and persistent where they brush against the collar of his scrubs. Robby isn’t sure when mullet-adjacent styles came back into fashion, and he’s almost certain he’s never endorsed them, but, much like anything else that he does, it still works on Whitaker in a way that catches him off guard.
As small a change as it is, the newer hairstyle is just another one of many things that separates the Whitaker Robby knows today from the one he met ten months ago. His confidence has surged; it’s there in the way he speaks and the way people listen, in the way he carries himself through the ER with a practised ease. He’s headstrong, he’s assertive, and he’s become an excellent instructor for the new med students.
Robby frequently tells himself that Whitaker looks older now, too. It’s bullshit, mostly, and he knows it. The damn kid looks like bathing in the fountain of youth is part of his morning routine. Robby remembers having his first errant grey hairs and permanent lines of exhaustion etched into his face by the time he was that age, which was, Jesus, over twenty-five years ago now. Still, it was easier thinking of him that way for his own sake sometimes. Just enough to make the way his eyes wander over the boy’s frame feel marginally justifiable to himself, to soften the weight of the moments when a hand on his neck or shoulder stays far longer than it should. As if convincing himself of it makes those instincts any less inappropriate than they are.
Santos slides in beside Whitaker before Robby can sink any further into the thought, bumping her elbow into his arm as she does. She says something to him quietly, pairing it with a grin that’s all mischief, and Dennis laughs under his breath, nudging her back with an easy familiarity. Whatever she’s said, it still has him smiling as he raises his phone again to send her the board.
Robby looks away with lead in his gut.
He’d asked her about Whitaker earlier without really meaning to. Asked Santos how things were going at home while living with him, part idle curiosity, part being incapable of keeping the kid’s name out of his mouth for more than five minutes. It had started off well, Robby being more outwardly pleased than he probably should have been upon learning that Whitaker is apparently a bit of a weirdo outside of work. In its own way, it had been comforting to know, knowing that he found a way to loosen up once he was outside of these walls.
Then Santos had mentioned the weekends, and how Whitaker spent most of his time with the wife of a patient who passed away last year. Something about setting him to work on her farm, then he had remembered, vaguely, that she’d been pregnant the last time she’d been here. To a degree, the thought of it felt wholesome. Nice farm, pretty young woman, a baby: it was the kind of ready-made life most people could only dream of; it was no surprise that Whitaker had become attached. Hell, the situation practically invited it, and Whitaker had never been the type who was good at walking past people in need. It’s part of what makes him such a fantastic doctor.
What Robby hadn’t liked, however, was how quickly jealousy had flared anyway, sharp and reflexive. It was out before he could dress it up as anything close to nonchalant or respectable. He knew his tone had shifted the second he’d asked whether Amy was Whitaker’s girlfriend, the question coming out with an edge of envy more than interest. Worse when he’d paired it with standing straight, body stiff and fidgety, rather than the lax posture he had held over the desk seconds beforehand.
He tells himself now, as he told himself then, that this is about responsibility, about his role as attending. Dennis is kind to a fault, eager to help, quick to give pieces of himself away, and Robby has a duty to make sure that kindness isn’t being exploited. It’s no lie that patient relationships are complicated; they’re ethically messy and absolutely something that needs to be addressed before lines blur any further. That’s the main reason Robby needs to talk to him. That’s the justification he reaches for as he excuses himself from Abbot’s side.
Not the fact that the thought of Whitaker cozied up and building a life somewhere else sits wrong in his chest.
Definitely not that.
Robby exhales slowly as he turns his attention back to the man in question, mentally rehearsing the awkward conversation bound to ensue, and desperately clinging onto the scraps of professionalism he has left when it comes to Whitaker as though it might steady him.
He hates how his fingers itch to reach for him the moment he’s in his orbit.
Hates even more that he lets himself indulge in it; the digits closing around the back of the boy’s neck once he’s close enough. His blunt nails card through those soft curls as he squeezes, offering Whitaker a smile that he’s sure doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Whitaker, you got a sec?” He asks, but he’s already dragging him away from the crowded desk and to the nearest stairwell.
Whitaker lets himself be guided without comment, brow creasing faintly as they step into the stairwell and the door swings shut behind them. The noise from the floor dulls instantly, leaving them in the hush of concrete and echoing footsteps from somewhere above.
Robby allows himself one more squeeze before he drops his hand back to his side, clearing his throat.
“Sorry, could you send me over that photo?” He asks. Not what he wants to ask; he’s just grateful he can still form words while his mouth feels full of sand.
“Oh,” Dennis blinks, then nods. “Yeah, sure.”
He unlocks his phone and coughs into his hand as he quietly asks Robby for his number. He types it in carefully, double-checks the digits, and texts the board across, nodding towards Robby’s pocket as it buzzes.
“That’s me,” he says, before frowning and scratching the back of his neck. “Obviously, y’know…,” he trails, waving his own phone in the air.
Robby has been alive on this planet for 54 years, though he is almost certain this is the most awkward moment of his life.
“Thanks.”
The silence between them thickens and grows awkward. Whitaker rocks back on his heels, then forward again, looking up at the ceiling. Eventually, he lets out a long breath and speaks first.
“I’m gonna guess,” he says after a beat, “that sending you a photo wasn’t what warranted the privacy.”
Robby exhales through his nose and shakes his head. Before he can speak, Dennis is going again.
“Is everything okay?” He asks, trying to reach Robby’s eyeline. “Sorry, that was a dumb question with the whole… cyberattack thing,” he waves his thumb toward the door. “But everything else…okay?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he says,
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Uh…”
Smooth, Robinavitch. Real fucking smooth.
“Shit, uh,” Robby squeezes his eyes shut and pinches his nose so hard he’s almost certain it’ll bruise. “Miller. Amy Miller.”
When Dennis doesn’t answer, Robby can’t work out if it’s because he’s being dense or because he likes watching him suffer.
He tries again.
“Are you seeing the widow Amy Miller?” he manages, silently congratulating himself for being able to string a fucking question together.
Dennis closes his eyes and sighs.
It’s enough of a confession for Robby to purse his lips and nod his head.
It isn’t that Robby expected anything different. And it’s certainly not that he has any right to feel the deep, unpleasant drop in his gut at the thought of it.
Dennis is in his mid-twenties, and the Miller girl, as Santos had been so kind to point out, is young. Young in that practical, uncomplicated way that makes sense on paper. Even if Robby were to remove himself entirely from the equation, strip away the frankly egregious inappropriateness of an attending wanting anything with his own subordinate, Amy Miller still has far more to offer Dennis than Robby ever could. More free hours. A farm that our own Huckleberry knows how to exist in without even trying. A baby. A life that doesn’t revolve around shift patterns and borrowed sleep.
Time, most of all.
Dennis has it in front of him in a way Robby no longer does; years stacked neatly ahead, unspent. By the time Dennis is even forty, Robby will be pushing seventy, assuming he even gets that far. Not that anyone is guaranteed anything, his mind adds reflexively, because he works in an ER and he’s seen enough younger people die to know better. Enough sudden endings and unfinished lives to understand how theoretical the future really is, and—
“No.”
Whitaker’s quiet voice pulls Robby from his spiral mid-thought, and he briefly wonders if he’s just been staring at the kid like a freak this whole time.
“What?” He supplies helpfully.
“I’m not seeing her?” Dennis says, staring up at him with those sunken eyes that look cartoonishly big on his thin face. Robby makes a mental note to remind him to eat later.
Huh.
Robby just nods again, but he’s already moving, sliding back into that familiar cadence of authority in the hopes his voice doesn’t shake.
“Only because that kind of situation can get real fucking complicated, Whitaker. She was vulnerable, and you were involved with her care. I just want to make sure you don’t feel obligated to be there, or that you’re not being taken advantage of.” He pauses, chewing over his next words carefully. “It’s not my place to tell you who you can or can’t see. That’s not my job. But it is my job to check in and see how you’re doing.”
Dennis lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I’m really not seeing her,” he repeats.
“Okay,” Robby says, then presses anyway. “It’s just if you were—“
“I’m gay, Dr. Robby.”
Robby’s mouth opens, then closes. “Oh.”
“So, no girlfriend.”
The stairwell suddenly feels too quiet.
Dennis hesitates before clearing his throat.
“I just… help out sometimes? A farm is way too big for one person to handle by themselves, especially with a baby.” He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with being the focus. “And I’m good with kids. I’ve got, like, a million nieces and nephews; it’s not an obligation thing.” He pauses, brow furrowing a little. “I really thought Mr Miller was going to pull through. I can’t… I can’t stand knowing somebody needs help and not doing anything about it.”
Robby’s chest loosens, and he reaches out again, hand enveloping Dennis’ shoulder, thumb stroking once where scrubs meet bare collarbone.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Robby says, voice gentler now. “I’m sorry for prying. I just had to make sure I did my job. These situations get messy, and it’s up to me to step in when I think lines are beginning to blur.”
Dennis nods, leaning into the touch enough that his jaw grazes Robby’s knuckle.
“You’re not wrong for what you want,” he continues. “But you’re also not responsible for everyone. You’re never going to be able to help everybody all by yourself.” He meets Dennis’ eyes again and smiles. “But that’s what we’re here for. You’re a fantastic doctor, Whitaker, and an even better man. I don’t want you to forget that, and want to make sure you look out for yourself first.”
Dennis opens his mouth to reply, but his words are cut off by the door swinging open.
“Robby?” It’s Dana’s voice that sounds, the top of her head peering over the open door. “Sorry, you free a sec? I just need a sign-off.”
Robby exhales, nodding.
“Yeah, be right out.”
Dennis smiles, like he’s decided whatever he was going to say can wait. Robby gives his shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back.
At the door, he hesitates.
“Uh,” he says, then winces internally. “You’ve got my number now, Whitaker. Use it. If you need anything.” He clears his throat. “Three months is a long time. It’d be nice to hear from you while I’m away.”
He hates how warm his face feels. Hates himself a little more for going from don’t pursue inappropriate relationships to fucking instigating one.
Dennis’ hands fidget at his sides. “Yeah. Yes. I can do that.”
Robby turns to go.
“But, Dr. Robby?” Dennis speaks again, stopping him from taking another step. “Phones go both ways,” his smile has turned sheepish. “I know you’re supposed to be taking the time off, and I feel kinda guilty stealing any of it, but…” He shrugs. “You have my number, too, and, selfishly, I’m going to miss you.”
Robby stares at him for half a beat too long.
“Oh,” he says, brow hitting his hairline as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I mean— I’m gonna miss you too.” Then, “Everybody. I’ll miss all you guys.”
But the damage was already done. Dennis’s eyes fell to the floor, but his cheeks were darker, teeth peeking over his lip as he smiled again.
Robby gestures weakly to the door. “I should.. Yeah, I should go.”
As he walks back out onto the floor and signs whatever it is Dana wants without fully registering it, Robby’s mind runs a mile a minute.
Technically, he wasn’t Whitaker’s boss for three months, so it was okay, right?
God, Robby was fucked.
His gaze drifts over as the stairwell door opens again.
Dennis steps out, fingers straightening out his stethoscope. His cheeks are still a pretty pink, and his smile a toothy grin as he all but hops over to where Santos has wandered to.
Yeah.
Robby is so fucked.