Archive of Our Own

Dennis Whitaker did not like being touched. When he was younger, he was a master of dodging well-meaning hands on his shoulders, knees, waist, or ruffles of his hair. People in the midwestern belt were friendly, and touchy as unbelievable hell. Something about being a drawn in, anxious teenager just drew people to him. Women suggesting he wear lighter colours, men saying he could be great at softball, other teenagers happily telling him exactly what would get him a date. But he didn’t want any of those things. He spent his time at the library, reading old medical textbooks and articles, and doing more research than normally necessary into biology and chemistry. His neighbours were friendly, and they tried very hard to connect with him, but he didn’t care to reciprocate it. He didn’t want to stay in Nebraska, if anything, he wanted out of the tri-state area as quickly as possible, and connections hindered that. He skipped his prom, and his graduation, choosing to instead pick up his certificate at the post office on his way to the airport. His parents had been angry, likely even more angry when they found the note on his door telling them his name, and where they could find him if they ever decided to look. Since then, he’d been in Pittsburg, camping out in libraries, shelters, and the odd abandoned building. It wasn’t until Dr. Robinavitch that he was okay with touching, with the sensation of hands on his skin and his hair, and warming over his clothes. No one who knew him before would recognize him from the way he used to trip away from touches, to now where he was practically addicted. Robby grabbing his arm, his shoulder, patting his back and passing him from hand to hand over his body while they talked. Addicted really was the only way to put it.

When he was 26, a few months into his internship, he took a two month medical leave. He had to justify it to his school, and of course, his attending. He stepped into the lounge, arms crossed over his chest and head ducked.

“Whitaker,” Robby said smoothly, peering over the rim of his glasses.

“Dr. Robinavitch,” he replied, sliding into a chair. The older man smiled, warm and all encompassing.

“Just because this is an official meeting,” he put official in air quotes, “does not mean we have to use honourifics.” Dennis nodded, but didn’t loosen his shoulders, or drop his arms.

“So, you applied for medical leave, which your school approved of, but they’ve left it to me as to whether it’s necessary.” He spoke as if reading from a script, probably one he’d given to many interns and residents over the years.

“Why are you leaving?” He wanted to vomit, there was nothing he wanted less than to tell Robby, to tell his boss why he was leaving. With his school, it was easy, it was just a faceless email that said ‘time leave approved’ and no questions.

“I’m getting surgery in California, and it has a fairly long healing period.” Robby’s eyes narrowed in something akin to concern.

“You’re crossing the country for… surgery?”

“Yes, sir.” The older man raised his eyebrows, and interlaced his fingers with his hands on the desk.

“Whitaker, you need to elaborate. I’m not just going to give you two months off for something as non-specific as ‘surgery’. Is something being removed, or tested? Are you donating? Is there a possibility of cancer, or contagious diseases?”

“NO, no, it’s not cancer, it won’t kill me, I’m fine. It’s um.” He sighed, finally uncrossing his arms and rubbing his face.

“I’m getting top surgery.” His hands were still over his face, fingers pressed over his eyes so he couldn’t see what he expected to be disgust on Robby’s face. The older man, though, nodded and wrote something down on his notepad.

“Are you sure two months is long enough?” He peered through his fingers. Robby was still sitting there, spinning his pen in his fingers, watching like he always did. He didn’t look impatient, or annoyed at the way Dennis was hiding, he looked like Dr. Robby.

“It should be. I won’t be able to do heavy lifting or CPR, but I’ll be able to do everything else necessary.” He hummed, and nodded once more.

“Okay. I trust you have a physician helping with a care plan, medications?”

“Do you need to know that to approve my leave?” Robby’s lips curled into another smile, and he slid his glasses off of his nose.

“I don’t need to know anything, I’m asking as your friend.” Dennis almost wanted to kiss him. Almost wanted to climb on his lap and hug him, and do various other things that would be incredibly inappropriate, especially towards his boss. Instead, he explained the plan he and a volunteer doctor at a queer association wrote up, which would be largely executed by Santos.

“So… am I cleared for leave?” Robby nodded, slowly scrolling through the care notes on Whitaker’s phone. They were detailed, with notes of incline angles he should be at, amount of bedrest, foods he should eat, and things he could do on his own while Santos was at work. He wrote about bandage changes, his drainage pumps, and the how long he would have to wear a compression vest.

“These are very detailed notes. Has Santos read them?”

“She has some of her own, just the things she needs to know.” He blushed, and reached out to take his phone back.

“Some of it she didn’t need to know, like she doesn’t have to know about lotion or scar cream. I’ll handle all that.” Robby didn’t give the phone back.

“Are you going to be able to handle scar cream so soon after your operation?” He shrugged, once again crossing his arms over his chest. He usually used a 1.5 inch compression binder, but for a month before surgery, k-tape was recommended. For the last week before his surgery, he had resorted to sports bras. His surgeon hadn’t specifically suggested it, but with his own field surgery experience, he decided it would be best.

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You work in a hospital. You have two shifts worth of people who would be willing, if not eager, to help you.” Robby levelled him with a stare, a no-nonsense type of stare that made him want to invite the older man to oversee his entire surgery.

“I’ll ask it if I need it.” He nodded firmly, and finally handed Dennis’ phone back.

“Good luck on your surgery, Whitaker. I hope to see you before you leave.” The younger man watched as he left, somehow feeling full with acceptance, and unbelievably empty.

~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t until 3 days post-op that Dennis dragged his drugged up self back on a plane home. He was sore and tired, and probably looked like a vampire to the TSA agent who checked him out. The woman certainly should have asked him more questions, based mostly on his bandages and stumbling, but the dead-eyed look on his face scared her off. He slept through his five hour flight, drinking possibly too much water, and eating only pretzels. Once he landed, he only had a carry on, so he blindly marched through the airport to the pick-up zone, where Santos was waiting.

“Huckleberry!” She barked, jogging up to him. “Give me that goddamn bag. Get in the car, I have water, advil, and some jello.”

“Jello,” he muttered, letting his roommate slide his backpack off of his shoulder.

“Jesus, you’re blazed,” she chuckled, looping one arm around his waist, and leading his arm around her shoulders.

“I got you, Dennis. In the car we go, you got it buddy.” He muttered nonsensically, and she closed the door on him, pinching the bridge of her nose before circling the car and climbing into the drivers side. “How the hell did you get yourself out of the airport if you were this high?”

“Reptile brain.” Dennis grumbled, eyes slipping closed. Trinity sighed, and pulled the car back into the lane. She talked about her shift as she drove, and her shifts over the past few days while Dennis dozed against the window. It wasn’t dissimilar from their home life, with Trinity doing most of the talking and Whitaker only chiming in from time to time. Sometimes a real conversation would start, mostly on the couch with popcorn and a bottle of wine. Those conversations would go on late into the night, about work, patients, TV and hookups, and a fair few political debates. Once, most notably, one of the conversations ended with Dennis very drunkenly coming out, and telling Trinity about his upcoming surgery. The next morning, they discovered that they had sat together, shirtless, and sketched out the surgical lines on each other’s bodies, taking notes on their stomachs and talking about methods. He’d been embarrassed when he first saw the thick, black sharpie lines on his chest, but when his roommate laughed about having them too, the awkwardness was gone.

“Did you fall asleep? You fell asleep. Honestly, I should have just let Robby pick you up, you asshole.”

~~~~~~~

Santos had filled their house with food, and had apparently spent every moment that she wasn’t working, and he was out of the house, cooking. Mel and Victoria had both made dinners for him to reheat whenever he was alone, with cards wishing him a quick healing process. They had no idea why he was gone, along with most of the E.D, after all he’d only told the people he was required to. Robby needed to approve his time off, and Santos would likely notice her roommate suddenly not having breasts, but no one else noticed anything. Dr. Abbot likely also knew since Dennis picked up a few night shifts when he was bored, and it had become common enough that his absence would be noted. Other than that, everyone had been told the same simple truth. He needed surgery, and wouldn’t be at work. There was an influx of food, cards, and flowers, even a fruit basket from Langdon’s wife for unknown reasons. Dana had appeared at their apartment to check all his meds and make sure he had his room set up properly. She didn’t ask what the surgery was, all she cared about was that he was okay. The only one who had not said or done anything was Robby. Even Abbot had sent a case of beer, and a giftcard to a nice local smoothie shop. Dennis didn’t have the brain capacity to think about it, because why should he care? Instead, he tried his best to eat on time, drink lots of water, and keep up with his regular vitamins and medications. Trinity made a whiteboard like there would be in a hospital, with healing goals, meals eaten, and meds taken. Dennis marked things down as his day went on, and argued with Trinity about what he had and hadn’t done.

“Did you skip breakfast again?”

“I slept until noon, it was too late by then.” She stared blankly.

“Did you at least do your exercises and try a sponge bath?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. With the compression vest and the pain in his sides, he was walking around like a t-rex, and didn’t have the best range of motion.

“You’re such a man,” she whined, circling the counter to stand closer. He took a step back, permanently afraid that she would punch him. She wouldn’t of course, and he knew that she wouldn’t, but he was still scared.

“Why won’t you just let me help you? You’re in pain, and I can do it with no problem.” If he could’ve shrugged, he would’ve. Having someone help you bathe, even if it was just a wet wipe sponge bath, was embarrassing, even without bloody bandages on. He was slowly trying to handle more of his recovery on his own, having most recently refused to let her help with his compression vest. That of course meant that the compression vest didn’t come off, but at least he didn’t have to ask for help. She frowned at him.

“Would you prefer if it was a man, or something?”

“What? No, that’s… no. I’ve got it on my own, it’s fine.” She narrowed her eyes, and shook her head slightly.

“Just don’t hurt yourself. And please, put on some deodorant, it’s bad enough there’s a man in my house, you don’t need to stink it up, too. I’ll make dinner.” He needed his bandages changed, but he didn’t want her to see him. His body was already weird, but he was scared a flat chest might make it worse. He could call the volunteer doctor, or a friend from the association. Or he could ask one of the hundreds of doctors that he worked with, but that sounded horrible. He would take gangrene and rotted flesh over Javadi or Langdon seeing his new scars. Namely, such blatant proof of his transness, which he was not ashamed of, but still did not want to wander around showing off. He grew up on a farm, and being queer hadn’t been something to be proud of; certainly not so queer you underwent surgery. His mother would be ashamed. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought, before wandering back into his room. They had been eating on his bed the past few days, anyway.

~~~~~

Trinity was working the next day, which Dennis had known but not completely realized. There were plenty of meals he could prepare or reheat throughout the day, so he would be fine on that front. It was more so the loneliness, which he was worried about until he saw the sticky note on his door. Santos was a sticky note person, which pissed him off the first few weeks he lived there, but eventually they became useful. The fridge was free reign unless there was a sticky note, and they helped them organize their schedules, and appropriate quiet time. Studying, cleaning, what appliances were broken, everything was organized with her neon sticky notes. The pink one on his door simply read ‘Robby coming at 12:30. Don’t flash him.’ She had given no context or any further information, not even a text with details. He glanced at the clock above their couch. Robby was going to be there in 15 minutes, but since he was an old man, Dennis had maybe 5, 10 if he was really lucky. He groaned, and turned back into his room to power through the pain of a wet wipe sponge bath.

Robby was three minutes early. He was holding a motorcycle helmet, wearing regular jeans, thick riding boots, and a soft hoodie. Around his neck, he was sporting a stethoscope, and a nice med kit dangled from his shoulder.

“You look like shit,” he said plainly when Dennis opened the door.

“You wear that stethoscope everywhere, old man?” He grinned, and reached up to pat Dennis’ cheek. Then he brushed into the apartment, beelining for the couch like he had been there hundreds of times before.

“Come here. I want to check the incisions.” With his current range of motion, Dennis could not cross his arms over his chest, which was usually his nervous habit. Instead, his hands covered his stomach.

“Is this an attending thing..?”

“It’s a friend thing. And mild medical curiosity.” He didn’t want to, but he sat on the couch. Robby helped him out of his zip-up hoodie, and inspected the compression vest. Then, he began to undo it. It felt intimate, Robby’s hands picking apart the vest. It was like he was pulling open his ribs, reaching into his chest cavity to grab his heart. Dennis hissed as his muscles were released from the grip of the vest, and Dr. Robby looked at him with concern.

“Your surgery was two weeks ago. You have taken this off before, right?”

“Yeah, I have to change bandages, Trinity helped me. But I haven’t taken it off in a little while.” The older man frowned at the cotton pad over his chest, and the gauze holding it in place. “You should have moved on from these. When was the last time you changed this?” Dennis didn’t answer. Partially because he hadn’t changed them for a week and he didn’t want to tell his boss that, and partially because he was thinking that Robby could probably see too much of him right then. His spine, his ribs, his shoulder blades poking out of his skin, his collarbones making shadows over his chest. Entirely too much of him. Robby sighed through the silence, and dug through his bag for scissors with long, thin blades to get under the gauze. He cut all along the sides, from his hip to his armpit, until the whole thing could be pulled off. Underneath, Dennis was already fighting off an infection. It was ugly, red and irritated. He expected Dr. Robby to launch into a lecture about not being so self sufficient, asking for help before situations got dangerous, but he didn’t. He hummed, and began to dig through his bag. He wiped down the wounds, sterilized them, and wrapped a smaller cotton pad around Dennis, so quick it was like he had never been completely exposed. The back of his neck heated up while Robby looked at his compression vest, fingering the clasps curiously.

“There’s more steps to this whole… thing than I would have thought.”

“What, being trans?” The older man smiled, and placed the vest down. Were he more cynical, Dennis would have thought he intentionally placed it too far away for him to reach.

“I know the steps of being transgender. Well, as much as you can expect a 50 year old cisgender man to understand anything. But the surgery, there’s so much you have to do.” He twirled his finger in the air, and as if he were a patient, Dennis turned without thinking. His back was exposed, the current pad hadn’t been fully fastened, just tucked under his armpits. His awkwardly bent spine, lumpy ribs, wide hips and slim waist in full view. He felt heat radiating from Robby’s hands as he reached out, but still flinched when he finally made contact. His fingers were gentle as they mapped something out, making experimental taps and jabs along the way, digging into the most painful knots in his back as if they could be seen.

“You can’t lay down on your front, can you?” Robby’s hands were on his waist. Dennis felt like he was going to vomit. In med school, effects of top surgery came up in conversation exactly once. Mostly, it had been a debate about abortion and ‘body mutilation’ but the doctor had dragged some Redneck kid back into the class by asking what the first feeling a trans person might feel after getting top surgery. The Redneck had said regret.

“Correct! Breasts are a hub of hormones, they’re where a lot of your hormones are made, and moved throughout the body. So when they’re removed, and all the hormones go with them, your body feels like it’s drowning. After a little while, normally up to a week, it will calm down.” Dennis was lucky, his overwhelming feeling of regret and self hatred had numbed in just a few hours, but now, it felt like the hormones were beating him with a bat.

“No, it can burst stitches.” Robby hummed. Then his hands landed on his shoulders, and his thumbs dug into a knot at the top of his spine.

“Oh my god,” Dennis nearly moaned, one arm letting go of his bandage to prop up against the couch. The way the older man's hands danced around his back was effective, easily massaging the worst parts of him, while still somehow remaining almost clinical. The pads of his fingers and palms were rough, but so warm. How one man could produce so much heat was beyond Dennis and his current mental capacity. He was thoroughly affected by Robby’s touch, his body nearly shaking. Three weeks of barely moving, and sleeping in the exact same position had had an effect on his back, and having the worst of the pain and discomfort dragged out of him was jarring. Robby pulled his hands away, and took the sides of the bandage, fully wrapping them around Dennis to tie them together.

“Does that feel any better?” The younger man grunted into a pillow, attempting to roll his shoulders back, testing a particularly bad twinge he’d had in his shoulder blade.

“I think you killed me,” he muttered. Robby laughed, putting all of his materials into a sealable bag and putting it back in his kit. It had no label from the Pitt or anywhere else in the hospital, and Dennis thought that it must have been his own personal kit of surgical equipment. For anyone else, it would be an odd thing to own, but for Robby, it made sense.

“Before you put the vest back on, how about I help you wash your hair?” Dennis narrowed his eyes, turning slightly to stare at him. “Did Trinity put you up to this? How much has she been complaining?”

“Dr. Santos hasn’t complained at all. I read up on top surgery, and patient reports about mobility afterwards. I made a list of things you might need help with.” He shrugged like it didn’t make Whitaker think of unholy things to do to him.

“Is this another friend thing?” His face warmed in a smile, and he offered a hand to help him stand up. “Something like that.”

~~~~~

Dennis felt clean for the first time since his surgery. It had been awkward, getting Robby’s help to clean himself up, but the older man had been a good sport about it. He’d washed his hair, and dragged a cloth around his torso, and even helped him shave some annoying stubble off of his chin. The whole time, he talked about Dana getting in his business, and Abbot grumbling about a security guard asking why he was on the roof all the time, and Langdon getting his 30 day chip. It was peaceful, even if he was half naked in front of his boss. They ate lunch together, before Robby decided he really did have to leave.

“I’ll come back in three days,” he decided, pulling riding gloves out of his bag.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s medical curiosity.” Dennis frowned playfully, placing his hands over his stomach.

“Am I just a transgender guinea pig to you?” Robby smiled.

“Of course not. You’re also my favourite intern.” Favourite. Something in his belly curled, warming up and overtaking him. The back of his neck and his face went red as he grinned up at the older man.

“I’ll see you in three days, kid.” He squeezed his shoulder, light and fleeting, before grabbing his helmet and slipping through the door. Dennis nearly melted to the floor in a puddle of lovesick goo, but managed to contain himself until he got to the couch. His face was burning hot, and his lungs felt tight.

“I’m so fucking screwed,” he whispered, dragging his fingers through his newly cleaned hair. Santos was going to scream when she found out.

~~~~~

Three days later, Dr. Robby showed up at the door again. He had two smoothies in hand, glasses hanging low on his nose, and the same medical bag hooked on his shoulder. He was in his scrubs, and his large blue sweater, and huge brown work boots that definitely weren’t safe for riding.

“Please tell me you didn’t take your bike here,” Dennis said, pulling the door open. ‘Pulling’ was likely overzealous, it was more of a shove with his heel at the base of the door and keeping it open with his body.

“I plead the fifth,” Robby answered, handing him one of the smoothie cups. “Have you changed your gauze?”

“Trinity helped me yesterday. The note you wrote her saying that I required help was really nice, by the way.” The older man smiled smugly. When Santos had waved the paper in the air (it appeared to be a piece of a coffee filter) demanding that he let her help him when he was clearly in pain, he had expected a note from another intern, Dana at best. But it was Robby’s slanted handwriting demanding that Dennis get help when needed.

“Doctors orders,” she had sing-singed. He had only accepted because he really didn’t want to get an infection. She hadn’t had the same flair as Dr. Robby, seeing as she didn’t act reverent the whole time, or offer a massage, but it had still been nice getting help. Now, Robby sat him on the couch, digging through his bag.

“I realized after I left last time that I maybe should have asked before helping myself to your binder, so I’d like to offer an apology. That was inappropriate. Hopefully the smoothie shows my remorse.” He sipped it languidly, recognizing the brand on the outside of the cup.

“You asked Dr. Abbot for the recommendation, didn’t you?” He flushed. ‘Berry Blues’ had been the store Abbot had sent him a gift card for, and based on the smoothie he had received, it was a gift card he would actually use.

“It’s good to eat berries after getting top surgery. They have antioxidants and help with soft tissue repair. I asked him the best way to eat an orchard of berries, and he just sent me a link to the store. How did you know?”

“He sent me a gift card for this same place.” Robby sighed, and took a sip of his own drink, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Screw Jack and knowing things before me.” Dennis couldn’t help but let out a small giggle. The professional rivalry between the day and night shift was a joke for everyone but Abbot and Robby, who took it dead serious. They messed with each other and made fun of each other at every opportunity. It was an amusing friendship.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby, this was thoughtful. And I didn’t mind you touching my binder, I expected it when you walked in with a first aid kit the size of Texas.” He nodded in thanks, reaching out to touch the kit, almost protectively.

“You’re on leave, don’t call me doctor. It feels weird.”

“It’s the only name that feels right.”

“Just call me Robby. Or Michael.” Again, the feeling of the older man reaching under his ribs to squeeze his lungs, something intimate and personal. Dennis distracted himself with his smoothie while Robby dug through his bag, grabbing gauze, cotton, alcohol swabs, and the scissors he’d used three days prior.

“Can I change your bandages again?” The contrast of Trinity forcing him to let her help, and Robby peacefully waiting for permission was funny, if not a bit dizzying.

“Yes, of course. Thank you. And you don’t have to ask about the binder, just do what you have to do.” He raised his elbows like mock wings, allowing Dr. Robby’s passage to his ribs. He unclipped the vest with something like precision, helping slide it off Dennis’ stiff shoulders once he was done. He cut off the gauze, placed it on the side table and stared. Dennis let his arms lower, watching Robby’s face. He was just staring, scanning his scars like they had something to tell him. They weren’t as irritated, and the redness had gone down, but not enough that the thin scabbed line of blood and the stark black thread didn’t show up.

“They look much better,” he said softly, nodding like he’d done something about it. The younger man took another sip of his smoothie, only mildly amused by Robby’s fascination. Years before, when he met a trans author signing books at the library, he’d acted similarly. He was the first trans person Dennis had ever seen, besides himself. He’d been there, just being himself, and the younger man had been shell-shocked. He’d hunted down photos of people like him, and gotten stuck staring at scars, outfits and makeup, people who were just happy.

“Thanks for the approval, doctor,” he hummed, peering down his own chest. He was still somewhat obsessed with the sight of it, the goneness of his femininity and the thereness of his masculinity. Robby let out a small huff of air, and straightened up, turning back to his bag to get gauze and medical tape to hold it down. They sat in silence as he cleaned everything up, pressing tape down on the edges of the gauze.

“It sort of looks like I got stabbed.” Robby squinted.

“How many pec stabbings have you seen?”

“Maybe they couldn’t remember what side my heart was on.” His squint got worse, before he sighed and shook his head.

“You kids are weird.” Dennis let out a squawk of offence, slipping one arm through his vest.

“I’m almost 30!”

“You’re not even 27.”

“Which is basically 30.” Robby helped his other arm through the vest, sliding his glasses higher up his nose while he fastened the clasps of the binder.

“Remind me how you made it to medical school?” Dennis punched him in the arm weakly.

“You’re a dick.” He only barely contained the gay sex joke he wanted to follow up with, but the small amount of decorum he had left saved him. Robby just hummed, sliding the last clasp into place, right under Dennis’ armpit.

“Have you told anyone why you’re gone?” The air left the room. Robby wouldn’t air flaunt his business, surely he hadn’t told anyone, he was a professional for God’s sakes.

“No. I only told you and Santos.”

“Not Abbot?”

“I thought you might. He didn’t organize a meeting with me. Have you told people?” Robby took a slow sip of his drink, unbothered by the churn of Dennis’ stomach. Again, he felt like he would throw up.

“Of course not. You’re my student, your privacy is my responsibility. Can I ask why you haven’t told anyone?” So I don’t get stabbed on my way to work. What was he supposed to say? Not that, but it was accurate. He wasn’t going to slap his flag on his chest and stick a packer in his boxers, skip into triage and introduce himself with his pronouns. He was still in fucking Pittsburgh, he would get punched by someone, or just emotionally abused if he was lucky.

“It’s not safe to come out,” he said instead.

“I’m not ashamed of who I am, I’m trans and that’s a part of me, but it’s the part of me that puts me in danger.” He didn’t look at Robby as he reached out for his sweater, only barely getting it over his shoulders. He couldn’t pull things over his head yet, but he could zip up a sweater.

“Do you think someone would… do something?” Dennis smiled sadly.

“I have no idea, that’s the problem. It’s safest to assume I’m never safe.” Robby looked shocked. How wouldn’t he? A straight, white, cis man in Pittsburgh. Possibly more important, he was big, and he rode a motorcycle. No one was messing with him. Then, he straightened up, and schooled his face.

“If you ever decide you want to tell people, I’ll protect you. One word against you and I’ll bring hell down on their job.” Dennis was moving before he knew what he was doing. He leaned against Robby, his head falling to his shoulder. His eyes squeezed shut.

“Thank you, Michael. That means a lot.”

~~~~~

Robby didn’t want to be at work, watching as Santos stitched up a cut on a 7 year old’s forehead. He wanted to be buying smoothies, organizing his aid kit, and finding any reason to visit Whitaker. He wanted to be sitting in the far corner of his living room, a mug of tea next to him as he read too much about the healing process of top surgery, and more recently, statistics about hate crimes against trans people in Pittsburgh. Still, he leaned over her shoulder to do a quick surveil of the suture, before nodding tersely.

“Looking good, Santos.” She grinned widely. The kid on the table blinked up at them, tears in his eyes. It wasn’t a deep cut, so he hadn’t needed anesthesia, but he’d still needed stitches. He’d gotten painkillers, of course, but most kids were terrified of needles regardless of if they could feel them.

“No need to cry, Sam, you’re going to have a wicked scar after this,” she assured him, taping down the stitches. His mother looked up with concern in her eyes.

“It’s going to scar?” Robby stepped over to her, leaning down so Sam couldn’t hear.

“It will, but not badly. It wasn’t deep enough for too much tissue damage, but most boys are comforted by the idea of their injury sticking around.” Sam was sitting up, wiping away his tears and smiling wide, showing off all his missing teeth.

“I can’t wait to show Danny!”

“Danny is grounded after hitting you with a shovel,” his mother reminded him. All in all, Sam looked unbothered. Robby slipped out of the room, returning to his rounds. Asking Santos how Whitaker was in front of patients would not increase their satisfaction score, especially if he fell apart like he truly wanted to. He was honestly disgusted with himself, with how much he cared about his intern. He was a kid, and still, Robby wanted to hold him and kiss him and make him feel just as special as he was. He would check in, though, it had been a week since he’d seen the younger man, after excusing himself from bandage duties with the intention of maintaining his sanity. If he thought about those scars any more, he was going to go crazy. He hadn’t ever been interested in trans men, at least not to the degree he was with Whitaker. They were men, they were fun, and they were sexy. That was all he cared about, but something about Whitaker and his scars was drowning him. Something about the way the younger man was trusting him, letting him see him at his most vulnerable. The way he had leaned against him days prior had made him feel small, like Whitaker was a baby bird and Robby was some huge guard dog. He didn’t hate the image as much as he thought he would. He checked in on Mohan, and peered over the nurses station to watch as Langdon explained something to Mel. Javadi was in a trauma room with McKay and Collins, cleaning up after an impromptu finger amputation at a construction site. Dana was sitting at her desk, snapping gum and looking amused.

“You look like a mother hen,” she hummed.

“I think that would be an HR violation.” She rolled her eyes. Half the emergency department was sleeping together, and the other half talked to each other off the roof on a daily basis, they weren’t exactly HR’s favourite group. They dealt with Robby purely because he had seniority, otherwise one of the people who handled violations probably would have punched him by now. “How’s Whitaker?”

“He was alright last I saw him. No infection, getting a better range of motion.” She nodded, and glanced towards the lockers, where his had been mostly emptied. Whitaker himself hadn’t told Dana why he was out, and Robby hadn’t told her he’d been visiting, but as she did with most things, she managed to figure it out on her own. When it came down to it, Robby hadn’t had to tell her to keep it out of the rumour mill, she had done it on her own. Princess and Perlah either didn’t know, or had the decency to shut up about it. They understood how dangerous it could be for people to find out about Dennis, and for that, Robby was grateful. Across the nurses station, Langdon was rolling a chip across his knuckles. Mel was watching, glancing between the black and gold chip and Langdon’s eyes on the boards. He had taken a few months off for rehab, and as soon as he was back, she had been at his side like a lost puppy. Normally, Robby would disapprove of the relationship, and tell Mel to work with as many residents as possible, but the way they worked off of each other was impressive, and almost more importantly: Mel kept Langdon sane. He wasn’t freaking out, or yelling at people, because he was checking with her and fiddling with his chip. 60 days was coming up, and Robby was endlessly proud. He was still royally pissed off at him, but proud.

~~~~

Santos texted that she was going bar hopping with some of their coworkers, and that she likely wouldn’t be home until later. She added that Robby might stop by, because ‘he does more often than he doesn’t,’ which wasn’t accurate anymore. He hadn’t come by for a week, and even though it was probably for the best, it made him sad. Dennis had two weeks left on his break, which had already been extended by 15 days on ‘doctors orders’. He was becoming too comfortable with the feeling of Robby’s hands on his ribs, the slow-fast-fast way he knocked, and the way he sighed when he was pretending he wasn’t sighing. It was inappropriate, but he still kept the TV volume low in case the knock came to the door. He jumped at every scraped key, and tripped stair in the building, only moments away from pacing out of fear. He didn’t want to be so anxious and hopeful, but when the hollow rap of Robby’s knuckles hit the door, he nearly fell off the couch, only barely avoiding it with a hand on the back of the couch. It tugged his incisions painfully, but not enough to stop him from getting up and answering the door. Robby had a paper bag from the gift shop in one hand, and a bag of takeout in the other. He was in his scrubs, his lanyard had his doctor card hanging sideways, and his stethoscope was still around his neck. “I come bearing gifts.”

“I see that.” He grinned, and he waited for Dennis to step back to let him in.

“You miss me that badly?” He asked, tripping backwards to let Robby in the house. He slid his shoes off, dumping the takeout bag on the kitchen table, and the gift shop bag on a chair. He turned around, and beckoned Dennis over. He let out a nervous giggle when the older mans hand cupped the curve of his neck, hauling him close. Dennis grew up on a farm, he learned how to deal with things bigger than him when he was a toddler. If he didn’t want to be moved, he wouldn’t be. Some day, Robby would learn that, but now, Dennis was happy to let himself be shuffled about. Robby took his elbow in one hand, lifting his arm up gently to get at the clasps of the binder.

“Getting right to business, then,” he whispered, watching the ease with which Robby flicked the clasps open, like he’d been doing it all his life.

“You’re not supposed to wear it for so long. You should have been done with it last week.” The binder fell to the ground, slipping away with how small he’d made his shoulders.

“I stopped keeping track, I was just going to take it off when I came back to work.” Robby smiled warmly.

“Good thing I was counting, then. Have you been keeping up with your shots?”

“Robby, this isn’t my first time being trans.” Once again, he was shuffled off to the side, wherever Robby wanted him. He stooped down with a soft groan, pinching the vest between his fingers and holding it out.

“Go get a shirt on, huh? I’ll make this look like an actual meal.” Dennis’ feet were taking him back to his bedroom before he’d even fully realized it.

~~~~~~~~~

Dennis came out of his room in a button up, one of the few items of clothing he could put on without help. Robby was in a nice, felt, quarter zip sweater, having ditched his stethoscope and nametag. His socks dragged on the floor as he fumbled around the kitchen, carefully pulling plates out and setting them on the counter. The image should have felt similar to seeing Santos in the kitchen, a bit annoying but mostly sweet. Instead, it felt domestic. Something curled deep in his gut, felt like a cat purring between his lungs. He found himself walking into Robby, letting his head thunk against his broad chest, and his arms wrapping around him as best as he could manage. Robby’s laugh rumbled against his cheek.

“Well hello there.” He was warm, so very warm, and Dennis wanted to stay there against him forever. But he pulled his arms off, and tried to step back. He didn’t make it very far, with one of Robby’s hands coming up to grab at his jaw. His large, rough hands at his face, holding him tight.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, that was weird.” Again, he tried to step back, giggling awkwardly when Robby’s hand stopped him. His pinky and ring finger were under his chin, his middle finger was tucked behind the curve of his jaw. His pointer finger reached up his cheek, while his thumb pointed down over his chin. It was a claiming hold, and limited the movement Dennis could make. Robby let him go when he realized how it seemed, but still kept him close.

“Tell me what’s up.” This looks like a date, and I want you to have organized it that way instead of doing it by accident. Robby looked at him like a librarian expecting a late book, one bushy eyebrow raised and head tilted down slightly.

“You’ve just, ah, been here a lot.” Robby stiffened, no doubt seeing a very bad HR meeting in his future.

“And it’s been nice. You’re a great… friend.” The word twisted in both of their guts, knowing it was wrong, wrong, wrong. The older man nodded stiffly, his face having molded itself into something he would wear in the Pitt, not in a cramped kitchen. Like he was elbows deep in blood and shouting for drugs and equipment, not organizing pasta and salad onto small plates. The look reminded Dennis of the blatant truth: Robby was his boss. He was a teacher, a doctor, a 50 year old man standing under the buzzing lights of Trinity’s kitchen when he should be in his own home, not checking on the queer kid well out of the way of the hospital. What the fuck is he doing here? Robby pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit down before he could think about it any longer.

~~~~~

Robby was leaving, his glasses back on his face and his badge hanging from his neck. He told Dennis to open the gift bag whenever he felt like it, but to be warned that there was chocolate he might want to refrigerate. For the hundredth time that night, he wondered how Robby would react if he kissed him.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you before I start work again?” He asked, leaned against the wall to watch the older man tie his large boots back up. He had unbuttoned his shirt, the nylon rubbing straight on his scabs hadn’t been pleasant, and it wasn’t like Robby hadn’t seen it before.

“Maybe, maybe not. You could always come visit on your own.”

“Right, because the best thing to do on my extra two weeks off is to hang out in the ER.” Robby smiled, taking a few steps to stand closer to him. With Dennis leaning against the wall and Robby in his boots, their height difference felt like miles.

“I meant me, but I suppose the others would like to see you, too.” Whitaker knew that a ‘chill running up your spine’ was just instincts. Fear, adrenaline, and the human brains attempt at predicting the future. But the feeling he felt wasn’t a chill, it was a bright warm tingle, starting at the top of his spine and racing down, making his brain almost go fuzzy.

“Oh,” he stuttered. The face from earlier, the face of a doctor, was gone. Standing before him was Michael, a man who was very obviously staring at his lips. He stepped forward once more, stooping down almost dramatically for his face to meet Dennis’. His warm fucking hands were at his waist, fingers pressing into his flesh as they dragged him c l o s e r.

“Are you going to kiss me, Michael?”

“Am I allowed, Dennis?” His own hands- smaller and permanently frozen- slipped against Michael’s hair and jawline, tugging him down and kissing him hard. The older man let out a small grumble, pressing his back into an arch, and leaning down further. It certainly wasn’t a Disney kiss, but Dennis had been known to settle for hallmark. He sucked Michael’s lower lip into his mouth, biting it teasingly, before pulling himself away. Wet, sloppy kisses were smothering him, over his nose and eyes, forehead and cheekbones, all over his face. “Is that why you came over tonight?”

“Of course not. I wined and dined you like a true gentleman.” Dennis’ eyes sparkled.

“You were courting me, weren’t you, old man?” Michael smiled sheepishly, kissing his lips chastely a few times.

“I’m a gentleman,” was all he could muster in response. Dennis laughed, and pushed him off.

“Get out of my apartment. You can come back with whatever paperwork I have to sign for this to be legal.” A pout looked devilish on him, with downcast eyes and a teasing curl to his eyebrows.

“Kiss for the road?” Dennis was a weak, weak man. Michael was not a gentleman for the second kiss. Another hand on his back, a tongue in his mouth, free hand carding through his curls as he groaned against his lips.

“Down, boy,” Dennis said with a giggle, slowing them down with a few pecks. “Paperwork and legality. Then you can kiss me.”

“I’ll get right on that, then.” Michael stayed Michael, no Robby in sight as he traipsed down the hallway and to the stairs, whistling to himself. Dennis immediately wanted him to come back, but he was only a man, and he knew when to send someone away. Still, he stood in the doorway for what would be clinically considered ‘too long’.

~~~~~

When he opened the gift bag, he found a card signed by all his coworkers, day and night shift, and even a few regular patients. There was a box of expensive chocolates that definitely weren’t sold in the gift shop, and a small brown bear. It was maybe as tall as his forearm, and it had a sticky note on its face. Robby had scribbled his number, and an apology for the bad sewing. On the bears chest were two crudely stitched silvery lines, right under its sternum. It took all of his willpower to not start planning the wedding then and there.