Work Text:
“Let the fun begin. Alright, we’ve got some new faces—”
The voice was far too chipper for six in the morning. And for someone like Robby.
“Good morning, students. This is resident Melissa King.”
The others introduced themselves in turn. Trinity Santos. Javadi. And finally:
“Dennis Whitaker, fourth year.”
Robby nodded to each of them in passing without slowing down for even a second, completely ignoring the utterly stunned look on Dennis’s face.
“Welcome to Pitt.”
Robby moved nonstop from one patient to another, his day has been off-kilter since morning. Dennis in the night. Jack in the morning. Adams’s anniversary. And then Dennis again.
If it weren’t for the endless stream of patients, his thoughts would have long since snagged on him. On the friendly neighbor. On Spider-Man. On his recklessness. God. And this is his reality.
“Sorry… Dr. Robinavich, she fell—”
“You go to the residents’ room. Drink some water,” Robby cut in without even looking. “You’re with me.”
He’s already walking away, not bothering to check if Dennis is following.
Of course he’s following.
On the way to the next bed, Robby finally looks at him. A brief glance. Professional. As if the night never happened between them. As if he hadn’t stitched his wound on his own couch. As if he hadn’t held his wrist, checking his pulse as Dennis lost consciousness. There’s no hint of “you idiot” in that look. Not a trace of worry. Only a doctor and an intern.
“What I want to know is whether you can work.”
It hits harder than it should. Dennis clenches his jaw.
“Yes. I can.”
A barely perceptible pause.
Robby nods.
“Then get to work.”
Mr. Milton, sixty-eight. Abdominal pain.
Dennis steps forward. His heart beats faster than necessary. His hand trembles slightly, and he grips the skin of his wrist, forcing himself to focus. First day. No one here will wait for him to pull himself together. No one will make allowances because he was pulling people out of flames last night. And that’s right. He exhales. Slowly. And leans toward the patient.
First day.
“Checking the gallbladder first,” he says, leaning over the man.
His voice sounds steady. Almost.
“Does it still hurt?”
“No, it’s gone now.”
Too calm.
Dennis freezes a fraction of a second too long. The machinery lags. Something doesn’t add up.
He shoots a quick glance at the monitor. Pulse present. Blood pressure normal.
“Let’s do an ECG to be safe,” he says, straightening up.
Somewhere to the side, Robby’s gaze. He doesn’t interfere. Just watch. Closely. Maybe too closely.
“Good,” Robby replies curtly.
A scream tears through the ward.
“Whitaker! We need another pair of hands!”
Dennis spins around instantly.
“Go,” Robby says, not even looking.
The next minutes dissolved into noise. Patients. Symptoms. Decisions. His hands worked automatically. The labs were normal.
Dennis almost believes it will stay that way. That the day will go smoothly. That his shoulder will stop aching. That he’ll catch his breath.
Almost.
And then the world breaks again.
“He’s unconscious!”
“Asystole!”
The world narrows to a single point.
Dennis doesn’t even remember getting there.
Not now.
Hands on the chest. The body beneath his palms is warm. Not gone yet.
“One.”
He presses down; the sternum gives.
“Two.”
Rhythm.
“Three.”
It’s hard to breathe. Not enough air. His shoulder throbs with a dull, pulling pain. The bandage under his gown tightens; the fabric sticks to his skin.
He ignores it.
“One. Two. Three—”
Harder. More. It has to work.
Voices somewhere nearby. Commands. Footsteps.
Only one thought won’t let go:
*not now not now not now*
“Whitaker,” Robby’s voice at the edge of his awareness. Even. Controlled. “That’s enough.”
His hands start to slip from sweat. His fingers lose rhythm. He corrects again.
“Whitaker. Enough.”
Dennis doesn’t stop.
“Dennis.”
His hands stilled, but not immediately. As if the signal lagged behind.
Dennis looked at the chest beneath his hands.
Nothing.
“Time of death…”
The words ring out clearly. Too clearly.
Dennis slowly uncurls his fingers. His shoulder aches. His chest tightens as if he’s forgotten how to breathe.
A warm hand lands on his neck. A light stroke of the thumb.
“Breathe out,” Robby’s voice is quiet. The kind of voice you only use when there’s no one else around. Or when you forget someone might hear.
His fingers didn’t leave. The thumb kept tracing slow half-circles. Dennis felt every touch too sharply for someone who had just been compressing another person’s chest.
He blinks. Lifts his gaze to Robby. Robby isn’t looking at the patient. Only at him. For the first time all morning, it seems.
“With me.”
Dennis’s hands still don’t obey well. The world sways.
Robby catches his elbow and leads him into an empty room.
“Take off your coat,” Robby says.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Don’t play with me, Dennis. I saw you work. Your arm. Take it off, just let me check the sutures.”
Dennis clenches his jaw.
Robby takes a deep breath.
“I just want to make sure you’re okay. Not for a report. Not for control. Just…”
“I’m fine, really,” Dennis tried to brush it off.
But Robby’s fingers gently hold his arm.
“Don’t run,” Robby says quietly.
Dennis clenches his jaw and moves it side to side as he decides to obey. Slowly. Because every motion sends a shock through his shoulder. The gown falls onto a chair. The gray T-shirt underneath shows a dark stain on the right shoulder. Soaked through.
Robby stares at that stain. A long time.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
Dennis’s breath catches as Robby’s fingers slide over his skin, checking the bandage. The warmth of the hand beside him spreads across his wrist. His shoulder still hurts, but the pain is secondary now.
“Robby…”
“Lift your arm. Slowly.”
Dennis lifts it. Robby pulls up the hem of the T-shirt. The bandage underneath is red, damp, the edges peeling off, and his back is a mosaic of bruises. Yellow. Purple. Deep maroon.
Robby carefully cuts away the old bandage and freezes.
The wound has reopened. The skin around it is red. The stitches the ones he himself had placed just hours ago have torn. Two out of three.
Robby doesn’t speak immediately.
“Damn…” he exhales. “This is worse than I thought.”
“I can… I can handle this.”
The words sound weaker than he intended.
Robby shakes his head. His fingers carefully trace Dennis’s shoulder.
“You need anesthetic. Now.”
“No. I’ve got it.”
“Dennis…” Robby’s voice softens but doesn’t lose its edge “You don’t have to handle everything alone. You’re not Superman, no matter what you do at night.”
“Sorry…”
“Don’t apologize. Just…” Robby pauses for a second. Then finishes the stitch. “Stop dying, Dennis. At least for this week.”
Dennis nodded slowly, eyes still downcast.
Robby pulls off his gloves.
“Just try to be more careful.”
He lightly touches Dennis’s neck.
Dennis holds his breath. He feels the warmth of Robby’s hand on his neck. It’s strangely calming. Though he doesn’t want to show how much it affects him. He slowly lowers his gaze to his own hands. To the bandage. To the stitches. To everything he can still control.
He barely manages to nod.
The ward shatters with shouts:
“Shooting at the Pittfest!”
Chaos crashed all at once.
People from Pittfest roll in in waves. The screams batter his ears, as if trying to knock the breath out of him. Dennis feels his muscles burn. His heart pound at a frantic pace. But his mind stays focused on every second.
Patients scream. Monitors beep. Colleagues run.
Every decision mattered.
At some point, Dennis stops knowing where he ends and the patient begins. He tears himself in two. He wants to save everyone. His hands move faster than his brain can process. He bandages, supports breathing, monitors heartbeats. Every motion carries tension and exhaustion, but also unwavering resolve.
But every time he looks up to call a nurse or check a dosage, he runs into Robby.
Robby is always there. Controlling quietly. Intervening only when needed. Giving Dennis the freedom to act. And staying an anchor.
A reminder: he’s not alone.
Dennis didn’t even notice when it happened.
When Robby’s touches stopped being accidental. When someone else’s warmth on his shoulder no longer felt like an intrusion. When he stopped flinching every time fingers closed around his elbow, his wrist, his lower back guiding, stopping, supporting.
Now Robby stands to his right. Closer than a doctor needs to be to an intern. Close enough that Dennis can feel him breathing. Deep. Steady. As if trying to pass his own rhythm along.
“You’re good,” Robby says quietly.
And with each patient saved, the fracture inside him shrinks a little. Part of him still wants to run out into the streets at night. But here, in this chaos, in these hands, he chooses to be someone who can save others.
And for the first time that day, Dennis feels like he can endure.
Not perfectly. Not without fear.
But endure.
When the worst of the madness ends, night blankets the city in heavy darkness.
Dennis sits on the edge of the hospital roof. His legs dangle into the void. Wind lashes his face, cold, sharp, as if trying to blow out the last remnants of adrenaline and exhaustion.
He didn’t remember how he got up here.
Inside, the world is splintering into a million pieces.
His feet had carried him on their own. Automatically. As if his body knew: silence only existed here. Above the city, where the lights below looked like scattered fragments of other people’s problems. Where no one screamed. No one called for help. Where he could finally stop being Spider-Man, an intern, a rescuer, a photographer.
He rubs his face with his palms. His skin is dry, rough.
Pittfest. The patients’ screams. A ribcage under his hands. Robby’s commands. The faces of those he hadn’t managed to save. It all twisted together into one painful vortex. His heart pounded like it was trying to break free. His shoulders trembled. His breathing faltered.
“Damn…” he exhales, almost a whisper.
His hands tremble. His fingers grip the edge of the roof, trying to hold onto something. Tears fall on their own. Without warning. It was too much.
He knew he was needed here. But if he’d been there… none of those people would be here. There wouldn’t be so many injured.
“Dennis?”
The voice is quiet. Steady. Familiar.
And at the same time, too soft for a night that demands hardness.
He turns his head. Robby stands in the shadows. At a safe distance, as if respecting his space, but unable to leave him alone.
“I… I…” Dennis can’t continue. His throat constricts. His eyes can no longer hold back the tears.
Robby walks over slowly. Squats beside him. Their shoulders barely touch. The wind carries the faint scent of coffee, now almost imperceptible.
Just warmth beside him.
The tears fell into the darkness below. Dennis didn’t even try to wipe them away, it was useless. They kept coming. Hot, salty, long held back. How long had he been carrying them? Months? Years?
“I can’t,” Dennis repeats, and his voice breaks halfway. “If I’d been there…”
Robby touches his shoulder. Lightly. Carefully. As if testing whether he would hold.
“Breathe,” Robby says. Steady. Calm. “You’re not God.”
Dennis shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.He didn’t have the strength to. And because Robby was right.
Robby moves closer. Now their thighs touch. His hand slides from Dennis’s shoulder to his back, a broad, warm palm settling between his shoulder blades. Pressing gently, grounding him, guiding him forward just a little.
“Just breathe,” Robby’s voice is right by his ear. Low. Calm. “With me. Come on.”
Inhale.
Dennis closed his eyes. Listened to the wind. To his heartbeat, slowly syncing with Robby’s steady rhythm.
He can be weak. Be just human.
And that… wasn’t terrifying
Dennis slowly sits up straighter. Leans against Robby. Still breathing heavily. The wind hits his face, cold, sharp.
But now he feels like he can endure.
Through the remnants of tears, a faint smile appears.
“You know…” he begins, trying to find words somewhere between laughter and a rasp. “If I’ve been carrying people all day, maybe now I can give you a ride on my web?”
He points at himself. Irony in his voice. Tired, but alive.
Robby huffed softly. Didn’t look away.
“You’re seriously suggesting I hang over the street on your web after everything we’ve just been through?”
Dry. But at the corners of his lips, a barely noticeable smile.
“Seriously. I’ll be careful, promise I won’t drop you,” Dennis leaned a little closer, eyes glinting. Playful now. “In return, you can hold onto me. So you don’t fall…”
Robby freezes for a second.
“No. I’m too old for that, Dennis. I’ll fall apart before I get to enjoy your flight.”
Dennis snorted, a crooked grin forming.
“Too old? You ran around the ward all day like a twenty-year-old resident.”
“That’s different,” Robby said, a quiet huff escaping him, though his gaze softened. “I can handle patients. Not your spider stunts.”
“Alright, old man,” Dennis muttered with a dramatic sigh. “Guess I’ll train solo.”
Robby just shakes his head. Smiles with the corners of his lips.
Dennis reached out, brushing his fingers along Robby’s cheek, quick, light, before pushing himself up. The web caught, and he pulled himself higher, the wind catching in his hair.
From below, Robby watches him, fighting back a flicker of irritation and at the same time, a sense of relief.
Dennis is okay, after all.
In his own chaotic way, but still okay.