Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

10 months is enough to change a person. Whether it was their perspective, personality, looks or even taste. 10 months did a lot of good to Dennis Whitaker. From a farm boy nobody in Nebraska to an intern at PTMC.

He was able to find a home, a good couple of close friends, and confidence in his work. He was now able to feel the same warmth in his body he felt years ago in Nebraska. He didn't see disdain in his mirror anymore.

You could see the difference in his posture and the way he carried himself. The change in his figure and hair, looking less like 'wet cat' as Santos described him as.

It's been a while since Whitaker felt like himself. He wasn't sure if others took notice in his change, he can't even blame them since its hard to notice a difference in somebody when you work with them for 12 hours on a regular basis. You get used to the people around you. Maybe too used to them.

At least that's what he believed, it's not like anybody is even interested in him to even notice. But Robby most definitely did. He noticed his graceful demeanor. The glow that wasn't there before. The less prominent eye bags, which he lowkey misses. His exhaustion after a long shift is still there of course but now it is accompanied with satisfaction. And Robby most definitely noticed his hair. It was all he could possibly think of.

It was longer than ever, with a slight mullet form and slight curl at the nape of his hair and forehead. It made him look softer and cozier. Before Whitaker's appearance gave the older man an urge to give him hug due to the fact how pathetic and pitiful he looked. Now, he has an urge to feel his curls under his palm. Have that softness surround him like the warmth of a sunny day. To know what conditioner he uses in order to achieve that fluff. Smell him. And touch him with no intent of stopping.

Sometimes when he would gaze at him a little too long he could still see the same person who extended a hand during his meltdown on 'That Day'. The same person who got his scrubs dirty in every possible way on his first shift and managed to kill all the rats. At the first glance at him, there was nothing significant. He's useful sure, probably will become a great doctor in couple of years but nothing outstanding.

Never would he think that Dennis Whitaker would plague his mind like this.

Robby already lives with so much guilt, adding a crush on one of his med students certainly does not help. And yet, Whitaker's is the only guilt he could let himself enjoy. He knows how wrong it is to even think about it. Not even his tenure could save his ass out of this.

He knows that he shouldn't. And he wouldn't of course. Right?

It's not like Robby even has the time to think about him. He's an attending. Gloria's on his ass all time about some bullshit. Someone's dying. Collins giving him the attitude for no apparent reason. The hospital lights annoy him despite working as a doctor for decades.

He focuses on that, his responsibilities and staying sane. Today will pass like any other day passes. And he will not touch Whitaker's hair. That would be way out of line.

Unfortunately, The ER's too calm today. They managed to handle all of the night shifts leftovers quickly. No one died. Dennis didn't have change out of his scrubs. And none of the staff messed up.

They had two hours left on their shift. Which meant they could finally have a normal shift for the first time in their lives.

Naturally, as the ER wasn't busy the break room was. It's not often you would see the break room packed as it is today, not due to inactivity but rather the hospital's lack of budget to repaint the chipping walls or fix the fridge's door, it's a miracle that the coffee machine is still standing.

At the table, Mel, Mohan, Princess and Robby himself were playing cards, while Dennis accompanied them but did not partake. By the coffee machine, Santos and Donnie were discussing movies as they always were, this time it was either about Tron or Voltron if there is even a difference. And, Dana leaning at the edge of the door while texting somebody.

It was safe to say nothing could go wrong from here. Not even Shen's usage of the Q word could ruin their day.

The conversation at the table had lulled, the only sound the soft slap of cards and Princess’s quiet groan as Mel laid down a winning hand.

“Read ‘em and weep,” Mel said, a smirk playing on her lips. “Full house.”

“That’s the third time tonight,” Mohan grumbled, tossing her cards down. “You’re either lucky or you’re counting.”

“Or you’re just predictable,” a quiet voice said from the periphery.

All eyes, including Robby’s, shifted to Dennis. He wasn’t looking at his tablet or fidgeting with his scrubs. He was watching the game, his chin propped on his hand, a faint, almost imperceptible curve to his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Mel said, her smirk widening in challenge.

Dennis straightened up slightly, his gaze flicking to the discarded pile. “You bluffed a weak hand two rounds ago. You folded early when Mohan raised last time. But every time you get a genuinely good hand,” he paused, his finger gently pointing towards Mel’s betting pile, “you stack your chips instead of scattering them. You did it just now.”

A beat of stunned silence hung over the table.

Princess leaned forward, squinting at Mel’s neat, cylindrical stacks. “Holy shit. He’s right.”

Santos burst out laughs while joining the conversation. “I’ll be damned. Huckleberry’s a shark.”

Dennis’s cheeks flushed a faint, warm pink, but he didn’t shrink back. He just gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, as if to say, _I just observe._

It was that shrug. That quiet, confident, utterly unassuming shrug that did it. The intelligence, the insight, the way he commanded the table’s attention without even raising his voice—it was a current that ran straight through Robby, erasing every rational thought, every rule, every ounce of self-preservation. The 10 months ago Dennis would've never done this. It's nice to see him grow. It almost made Robby feel pride in him.

He was moving before his brain could catch up.

The world narrowed to the space between his chair and Dennis’s. The raucous debate about Tron by the coffee machine faded. He saw nothing but those soft curls at Dennis’s nape, catching the ugly fluorescent light.

His hand lifted.

And then his fingers were there, sinking into the hair at the crown of Dennis’s head.

It was just as soft as he’d imagined. Softer. He was definitely using some kind of a special conditioner. The slight curl wrapped around his fingers like a caress. He felt the solid warmth of Dennis’s skull beneath his palm, a shocking, intimate contact. He registered the perfect texture, the clean scent of generic hospital shampoo—and the absolute, petrified stillness of the man beneath his touch.

The world crashed back in.

The card game had stopped. Princess was frozen, a card halfway to the table. Mohan’s laughter had died in her throat. Mel’s smirk had vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock.

What. the. actual. fuck.

Robby snatched his hand back as if burned. The burning sensation of those curls was a brand on his skin.

For a long, terrible moment, the only sound was the coffee machine's final, pathetic gurgle.

Dennis slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head to look at him. His expression was unreadable, a blank mask of pure, uncomprehending shock.

The burn still carried his hands, a searing punishment. "Excuse me," Robby mumbled, the words ash in his mouth.

He didn't wait. He turned and shoved his way out of the break room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dana push off the doorframe, her phone vanishing into her pocket as she followed him out without a word.

The door swung shut.

It was in that exact, suspended moment that the door was pushed open again.

"Oooo, you guys playing cards? Can I join?"

Dr. McKay stood in the doorway, her cheerful voice a stark, dissonant note in the heavy air. Her smile was bright and utterly oblivious, her gaze skipping over the pile of stunned faces.

Her eyes finally landed on Dennis, still seated but rigid, his face a carefully controlled blank as he stared at the now-empty doorway. The cheerful question hung in the air, met with nothing but the lingering, uncomfortable quiet.

McKay’s smile faltered. Her head tilted.

"...What did I miss?"

The question was directed at the room, but it landed squarely on Dennis, pinning him in place. He was now the sole focus, the center of a scandal he didn't ask for, left to face the curious, probing eyes of his colleagues alone.

And just like that, he was the center of everything. The curious stares from Princess and Mohan, the weight of McKay's confused smile. He was left sitting there, holding the silence Robby had left behind.

Chapter Text

The silence didn't continue too long.

"Whoa," Santos breathed, a low whistle cutting through the quiet. "So, Dr. Robby can't keep his hands off Huckleberry. That's... new. And kinda creepy."

A snicker came from near the coffee machine. Donnie.

"Say what now?" McKay said, her voice pitching higher with intrigue.

Princess leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. A small, knowing smirk played on her lips. "You should've seen the way Robby was caressing his hair. Like he was petting a prized poodle."

Dennis flinched, the word "caressing" hitting him like a physical blow. "Hey," he said, his voice tight. "That wasn't a caress."

Princess raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Then what was it, Whitaker?"

"It was... it was an accidental touch," he stammered, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears. "He was just... reaching for something."

"Really." The voice was Mel's. She hadn't taken her eyes off him. "Because this isn't the first time he's touched you like that, is it?"

The room, which had been buzzing with low energy, went still again.

" What? " Mohan said, his head whipping towards Mel.

Mel just shrugged, her gaze still locked on Dennis, pinning him to the spot. "You guys never notice? The hand on the shoulder that stays a beat too long. Steering him through a crowd with a grip on his neck. It's never been... this blatant. But it's always been there."

A heavy pause settled over the room.

"Now that you mention it..." Santos murmured, his earlier smirk gone, replaced by a look of serious contemplation.

That look lasted for all of two seconds before her face split into a wide, wicked grin. "So, Huckleberry," she drawled, leaning forward. "The real question is... how long have you two been fucking?"

The question hit Dennis like a bucket of ice water. "What? No! We're not—it's not like that at all!" he sputtered, his face burning. "He's my attending!"

His denial was lost in the sudden explosion of noise.

"Okay, hold on, I've got five bucks on it starting during the second rat incident," Donnie called out from the coffee machine.

"That rat incident? Too early," Mel countered, a calculating glint in her eye. "That was still pity. I say it was during the pharmacy mess last month. Shared trauma."

"Twenty says Robby made the first move in an on-call room," Santos declared, slapping the table.

"I'll take that action," Princess said coolly. "Whitaker looks like the type to crack under pressure. He definitely confessed first during a late-night charting session. All that forced proximity."

"It makes sense," Mohan added, finally joining in. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "He's always harder on you than anyone else. I just thought he was an asshole. But it's because he's paying more attention."

"Exactly!" Santos said, pointing at Mohan. "He's always watching you. I thought he was just waiting for you to screw up. But the way he looked at you just now... that wasn't about work."

"Remember last month when you had that fever?" Mel cut in, her eyes alight with the memory. "Robby practically ordered you to go home. When you refused, he spent the whole shift hovering, bringing you Gatorade. I had to suture a six-inch laceration by myself because he was too busy playing nurse."

"He wasn't playing nurse," Dennis mumbled, his voice barely audible over the analysis of his own life. He felt dizzy, like the floor was tilting. Every anecdote they offered was a piece of a puzzle he'd refused to look at, and now they were slamming the pieces into place in front of him.

"Then what was it, Dennis?" Princess asked, her voice losing its teasing edge and becoming genuinely curious. "Because from where we're sitting, it looks an awful lot like—"

"Stop."

The word wasn't loud, but it was sharp. It cut through the chatter with the precision of a scalpel. Everyone fell silent, startled by the force of it. They all turned to look at him. Dennis, who never raised his voice. Dennis, who always shrank from conflict.

He was standing rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked at each of them in turn—Santos, Mel, Mohan, Princess, McKay, Donnie—his face a mess of confusion and anguish.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He took a shaky breath, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only a raw, vulnerable exhaustion.

His shoulders slumped. He stared at the scuffed linoleum floor, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, so quiet they all had to lean in to hear.

"Just... stop. There's no way," he swallowed hard, "there's no way he even likes me like that... right?"

The question hung in the air, naked and sincere. All the teasing, all the bets, evaporated in the face of such genuine disbelief.

The break room was dead silent, save for the persistent hum of the broken fridge. They weren't looking at a source of gossip anymore. "Whitaker," Samira said gently. "The man just publicly pet you like you were his favorite golden retriever. I think it's a safe bet that he... notices you."

Princess let out a long, slow breath, she looked at Dennis, really looked at him—the tremor in his hands, the sudden paleness of his skin. "The question isn't what we think," she said, her voice low and serious. "The question is, what are you going to do now? Because that?" She pointed a thumb towards the door Robby had fled through. "That can't be taken back. And you're the one who has to work with him next."

-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-

The door to the supply closet clicked shut, plunging them into a dim, cramped space surrounded by shelves of gauze and saline bags. The air smelled of antiseptic and dust.

Robby stood with his back to Dana, his shoulders hunched, one hand braced against a metal shelf. His entire body was rigid with tension.

“Well?” Dana’s voice was a low, sharp blade in the quiet. “Start talking. And don’t you dare give me some bullshit ‘I don’t know’.”

Robby let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “What do you want me to say, Dana? That I lost my mind? Consider it said.” He finally turned around. His face was ashen, his eyes wide with a panic she rarely saw in him. “What did I just do?”

“You tell me. Because from where I was standing, you decided to pet your intern in front of God and everyone. What was the thought process, Robby? Was there one?”

“There was no process!” he snapped, his voice cracking. He ran his still-burning hand through his own hair, tugging at the roots. “He was just… he was sitting there. And he said something smart, and he had that… that look on his face. And the next thing I knew…” He trailed off, gesturing weakly with the offending hand before letting it drop to his side in defeat.

Dana took a step forward, her gaze unwavering. “What did you think was going to happen, Robby? You keep touching that boy—a hand on the shoulder here, a ‘guiding’ grip on the neck there—of course you were going to cross a real line at some point. You’ve been skirting it for months.”

“Do you think I’m not acutely aware of that?” Robby’s voice was rising, edged with hysteria. “Gloria will crucify me. He could report me. He should report me.” He paced the two steps the tiny room allowed, a caged animal. "There's no coming back from this. None."

He stopped dead, his back to her, his head bowed. He went very still, and when he spoke again, his voice was a hollow, broken thing, stripped of all its usual sharp edges.

"It was so soft, Dana," he whispered, the words a confession to the shelves of sterile supplies. "His hair. It was all I could think about for weeks. And it was... it was so much softer than I imagined."

The admission hung in the dusty air, more damning than any excuse. It wasn't about a mistake anymore. It was about a craving, finally indulged.

Dana watched him, her arms crossed. The anger on her face softened into something more complex—a mix of pity and fierce, frustrated loyalty.

“Okay,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Panic time is over. What are you going to do now?”

Robby finally turned to face her, his expression bleak. "What is there to do? Wait for the axe to fall."

"The axe?" Dana let out a short, humorless laugh. "Robby, this isn't an axe. It's a cancer. And it's already metastasized." She leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. "Let's be real. If he goes to Gloria, you're done. Not 'reprimanded' done. 'Kicked out of the OR and sent to a disciplinary hearing' done. Your tenure might mean they don't fire you, but they'll stick you in some admin hellhole until you quit. You'll be the guy no resident is allowed to be alone with."

He flinched.

"And if he doesn't say a word?" she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, brutal whisper. "It's worse. Because now you're living on a lie. Santos is probably texting half the surgical wing right now. By lunch, the story won't be that you touched his hair—it'll be that you had him pinned against the crash cart. Every time you look at Whitaker, every time you give him an order, everyone will be watching, waiting for you to snap. You think you can teach him like that? You can't. You torched that bridge the second your fingers touched his head."

She pushed off the door and looked down at him, her expression stark. "So stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're not the victim here. He is. And you're going to have to face him. The question is, are you going to do it before Gloria calls you into her office, or after?"

Robby didn’t answer. He was too busy drowning in the memory—the exact weight of Dennis’s skull against his palm, the way a single light curl had wrapped around his finger like a question mark. He could still smell the faint, clean scent of hospital shampoo, a scent that was now permanently fused in his mind.

Dana’s words weren't an axe; they were a bone saw, humming and precise, cutting through the last of his denial. She was right. He wasn't the victim. He was the disease.

"He's the only one who didn't look at me like I was a monster," Robby whispered, the confession spilling out to the dusty floor. "After everything. After the breakdown, the screaming, the… all of it. He just… refused to leave me alone and comforted me."

"And you repaid him by making him the center of the worst kind of gossip in a place that runs on it," Dana said, her voice flat. There was no judgment left in it, just a cold statement of fact. It was worse.

He pushed himself up from the floor, his body feeling a hundred years old. He looked at Dana, really looked at her, and saw the fierce, complicated loyalty in her eyes that he absolutely did not deserve.

"What do I do?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"You walk out of this closet," she said. "You find him. And you talk to him. You apologize. Not some mumbled 'excuse me'. A real apology. And you give him control. You ask him what he wants to do. You tell him you'll accept any consequence, and you mean it. You give him the upper hand, Robby, and you pray he's a better man than you are."

"Okay," he breathed, the word tasting like ash and absolution.

He reached for the door handle, his hand trembling. The hallway outside was bright, sterile, and loud with the ordinary sounds of the hospital—a cart rattling, a page overhead, the distant beep of a monitor. It was a world moving on, completely unaware that his had just ended. He had to find Dennis. The thought was more terrifying than any code, any angry administrator, any surgical complication. He had to look at the one good thing he’d found in this place and watch himself ruin it.

Chapter Text

The 8th floor is practically a ghost town. Empty rooms, dark halls. Dennis didn't even think, his feet just took him there. Room 814. The door was still unlocked.

He shoved it open and closed it behind him, leaning against it. His heart was a frantic bird beating against his ribs. The room was just how he left it months ago. Stripped bed, dusty floor.

He could still feel it on the top of his head. The weight of Robby's whole damn hand. The way his fingers dug in, just for a second. Not an accident. Not even close.

Caressing .Princess's voice in his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Wrong. It was all wrong. The guy who pulled him out of his own head, the one person who seemed to see something in him... saw this ? Saw a thing to be touched without asking in a room full of people?

His stomach turned. He pushed off the door and paced the short length of the room. Two steps, turn. Two steps, turn.

He used to hide here when he was nobody. A farm boy who didn't belong. Now he was hiding again, but this was worse before it was out of desperation now it feels cowardice. This wasn't about not being good enough. This was about being seen in a way that made his skin crawl. And the worst part, the sick, shameful part he was choking on—a tiny, traitorous part of him had liked it. For one second, before the silence and the stares, it had felt like belonging.

He knows that if this were to happen when the two of them were alone, would Robby stop? Would even he himself let Robby stop? If he continued, could Whitaker touch him the same way?

The clock on the wall, a relic with a cracked face, read 5:48 PM. His shift wasn't over. Robby was still out there. Everyone was still out there.

The old Dennis would have stayed here. He would've waited until the day shift was long gone, slipping out like he was never there. But the old Dennis didn't have patients waiting on his notes. The old Dennis didn't have people who'd notice if he vanished. Sometimes, he wishes he could go back being his past self even as miserable he used to be.

He pushed off the wall, his body feeling heavy and unfamiliar. The memory of Robby's hand was a hot, stubborn spot on his scalp. He could still feel the exact shape of it, the pressure. He could still smell Robby's soap mixed with the sterile air.

He scrubbed his own hand over his hair, hard, trying to wipe the feeling away. It didn't work.

What was it? What was that touch? It wasn't a pat on the back. It wasn't a shove. It was… possession. Like Robby was checking if he was real. And the look on his face right before he ran—that wasn't anger. It was pure, undiluted panic. The same panic Dennis felt curdling in his own stomach.

He thought about Robby's hands. How they were always moving—gesturing, writing, stitching. Always sure. Always knowing what to do. He'd watched those hands save lives. He'd trusted those hands.

And now his mind, traitorous and unwinding, showed him those same hands somewhere else. The same sure pressure on the back of his neck, pulling him in. Those fingers, which he'd seen slide a central line into a pulseless vein, tracing a line down his own spine. What would that calloused skin feel like on his hip, under his scrubs? Would it be rough? Would it be gentle?

His breath hitched. The thought was a lightning strike, terrifying and bright, frying every sensible nerve ending. He was hard. Just from the thought. In this dusty, empty room, his body was betraying him completely.

He was angry, yeah. He was disgusted. But under that was this… this _wanting_. A deep, shameful curl of heat low in his gut. Because for one stupid second, before the world fell apart, it hadn't felt like a violation. It had felt like a door opening to a room he didn't know was there. And that was the most messed-up part of all of this.

The clock read 5:52. He had to move.

He splashed water on his face, the cold a sharp slap, trying to shock the feeling away. The guy in the warped reflection looked pale, his eyes too wide. He looked like the kid from Nebraska again, but now with a secret that made his skin feel too tight.

He shoved the door open and headed for the elevator. The ride down was quiet. When the doors opened on the main floor, the noise of the ER rushed in—a chaotic, normal sound that didn't care about his crisis.

He took a breath and stepped out. He kept his eyes on the scuffed floor, making a beeline for the patient board. Just do the job. Finish the shift. Be a doctor.

He was focusing so hard on the board he didn't see someone step into his path until he almost collided with them.

He looked up.

"Dennis," Robby said, his voice low and strained. "Please. Can we talk? Outside."

Not in an on-call room. Not in an office. Outside. Where it was neutral. Where Dennis could walk away if he wanted to.

Dennis just gave a tight nod. He followed Robby through the automatic doors, the humid evening air a shock after the hospital's sterile chill. They stopped a few feet from the exit, away from the smokers' area, the traffic on the street a distant rush.

Robby turned to face him, the setting sun painting his profile in orange and gold. He looked exhausted.

"Dr. Robby, it's... it's alright," Dennis started, the automatic excuse ready on his tongue. "It must have been an accident. It happens. It's okay."

"No," Robby cut him off, his voice firm but not unkind. "It wasn't an accident. And it's not okay." He took a shaky breath, his eyes full of a turmoil Dennis had never seen in him before. "I crossed a line. A major one. I am your attending physician, and what I did was a breach of your trust. Do not make excuses for me."

Dennis’s weak smile dissolved. The forced calm he’d been clinging to cracked, leaving him exposed.

"I'm not going to report you," Dennis heard himself say, his voice quiet but clear over the sound of a passing bus.

Robby stared at him. The grim mask of professionalism finally cracked, revealing pure, unguarded shock. "Why not?" The question was a breath, desperate and confused.

"Because..." Dennis's courage faltered. He looked down at the cracked pavement, then back up, meeting Robby's gaze in the fading light. "Because it didn't... feel like an attack."

The air between them changed.

Robby took a half-step closer. His voice was low, rough, meant only for him. "What did it feel like, then?"

Dennis's heart hammered against his ribs. This was the cliff's edge.

"It felt... nice," he whispered.

The admission hung in the air, fragile and immense. Robby didn't move. He didn't look away. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something softer. Something hopeful, and terrified, and real.

"Nice," he repeated, as if tasting the word. He was quiet for a second, his eyes searching Dennis's face. "Just... nice?"

The question was a push. A gentle one, but a push all the same. It asked for more. It dared him to be specific.

Dennis felt his face get hot. He looked away, at a flickering streetlight down the block. "No," he mumbled to the pavement. "Not just nice."

He could feel Robby watching him, waiting. The silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It was thick, full of things neither of them knew how to say.

"It felt... good," Dennis said, the words feeling too big for his mouth. "I liked it."

There. It was out. He'd jumped. He risked a glance back at Robby.

Robby's breath left him in a soft rush. He looked like Dennis had just handed him something precious. Something he thought he'd broken.

"Oh," Robby said. Just that. He ran a hand through his own hair, a nervous habit Dennis had seen a thousand times, but it felt different now. More intimate.

"Okay," Robby said, his voice a little steadier. "Okay."

"So what happens now?" Dennis asked.

Robby let out a long, slow breath. "I don't know," he admitted. He looked back at the hospital, then at Dennis. "I still can't be your attending. That part... that part has to be real."

Dennis nodded. That much was obvious.

"But," Robby continued, his voice dropping. "Shift ends in an hour. There's a diner two blocks from here. The coffee's terrible. Great pies though"

He wasn't looking at Dennis anymore. He was studying a crack in the pavement, his shoulders tense. For some reason, when Robby puts someone in a vulnerable position or giving them his full focus the eye contact is there and strong. Yet, in moments like these he could barely hold it.

Dennis felt a slow smile spread across his face, the first real one since this whole mess started.

"Terrible coffee sounds perfect," he said.

Robby finally looked at him, and the relief in his eyes was like the sun coming out.

/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\-/-|-\

An hour later, the shift change buzz filled the ER. Robby found Shen by the central station, already looking buried in the night's chaos.

"All yours," Robby said, sliding his final chart onto the desk. His voice was flat, stripped of its usual biting energy.

Shen glanced up, his brow furrowed. "You sick, Robby? You never leave early. It's against your religion."

"Just do me a favor and don't ask," Robby muttered. He didn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel and heading for the lockers. Each step away from the bright, noisy epicenter of the ER felt like shedding a layer of lead. He didn't let himself think, just moved on autopilot, changing into his street clothes and walking out the automatic doors. The evening air was cool, a relief after the hospital's constant, recycled warmth.

Across the department, Dennis was shoving his notebook into his worn backpack, his movements jerky. He just had to get out, get to the diner, and not throw up from the nerves twisting his stomach into knots.

The locker next to his clanged shut. "Hey, Huckleberry. Bolting the second the clock hits seven? You got a hot date I don't know about?"

Dennis flinched, nearly dropping his keys. Santos leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. She was still in her scrubs, a streak of something yellow—probably nutritional supplement—on her sleeve.

"What? No," Dennis said, his voice coming out too high. He cleared his throat, focusing intently on the zipper of his bag. "I'm just... meeting up with a friend."

The lie hung in the air between them, thin and transparent as plastic wrap. Santos was silent for a beat too long. Dennis could feel her eyes on him, dissecting his nervous energy, the way he couldn't quite meet her gaze.

"A friend," she repeated, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. She pushed off the lockers and took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Right. A friend . Would this friend happen to be a certain attending physician who looked like he was about to have an aneurysm all afternoon and then mysteriously vanished early?"

Dennis's head snapped up, his face flooding with heat. "It's not like that. We're just... talking. Getting coffee."

"Uh-huh. Coffee." Santos's smirk widened into a full-blown grin. She reached out and straightened the collar of his jacket, a gesture that was both teasing and oddly sisterly. "Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. But just so we're clear," she said, her eyes locking with his, full of mischief and a sharp, unspoken understanding. "I'm expecting a warning text if you aren't coming back to the apartment tonight. Nothing detailed, just a 'hey, don't wait up' or a single eggplant emoji. A girl needs to know if she should double-lock the door and eat the last of your yogurt."

Dennis was mortified. "Santos—"

"Go," she said, laughing and shooing him toward the exit. "Go get your 'coffee' with your 'friend'. Sort out whatever bullshit that's going between you two cause it's not looking good. He's a mess, but he's our mess."

Stunned, his ears burning, Dennis just nodded mutely and hurried out. The automatic doors slid shut behind him, cutting off the hospital sounds. The diner's neon sign glowed two blocks away, a promise and a threat pulsing in the twilight. He started walking, each step a frantic drumbeat against the pavement, a chaotic rhythm of pure terror and a giddy, electric hope he hadn't dared feel in ten years.

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The diner was a relic, all cracked red vinyl and the smell of old grease and strong coffee. It was half-empty, mostly night owls and people avoiding going home. Robby was already in a booth in the back, two thick white mugs steaming in front of him. He stood up when Dennis approached, a clumsy, nervous gesture that made Dennis’s stomach flip.

“You came,” Robby said, his voice a little rough.

“You said the coffee was terrible,” Dennis replied, sliding into the booth opposite him. “I had to see for myself.”

A real smile, small but genuine, touched Robby’s mouth for the first time. “Well? Verdict?”

Dennis took a cautious sip. It was bitter and burnt. “You weren’t lying.”

“I try not to,” Robby said, the weight of the words settling between them. He wrapped his hands around his mug, staring into its dark depths. “About the important things, anyway.”

The silence that fell wasn’t the terrifying kind from the break room. This was different. Heavy, but full.

“I talked to Shen before I left,” Robby started, his gaze still fixed on his coffee. “I told him you’d be on his service starting next week. I said I was… too personally invested. It wasn’t helping your training.” He finally looked up, his eyes full of a painful honesty. “It’s the truth. And it’s the only excuse that wouldn’t raise more questions. It’s done.”

It was the right thing, the only thing. But it still felt like a door closing. Dennis nodded, the reality of it sinking in. No more of Robby’s intense, frustrating, brilliant tutelage. He didn't think it would happen this quickly

“Shen’s a good doctor,” Dennis said, because it was the only safe thing to say.

“He’s an ass,” Robby corrected, a flicker of his old self returning. “But he’s a competent ass. You’ll learn a lot. Just… different things.” He took a slow breath. “But this,” he continued, his voice dropping. He gestured between the two of them, sitting in this shabby booth. “This isn’t me being your attending. This is just… me. Asking you if you’d like to share a cup of terrible coffee with me.”

Dennis looked at him—really looked. At the tired lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still a mess from a long day, probably from tugging it too much as he always does. This wasn't the powerful, infallible Dr. Robby. This was just a man. A man who had messed up, and was trying, in his own awkward way, to find a path forward.

The warmth of the moment gave him a sudden burst of courage. He leaned forward slightly.

“Can I ask you something?” Dennis said, his voice quiet. “Seriously. Why… why did you do it? In front of everyone. What was going through your head?”

Robby’s face tightened, the guilt flashing back. He looked down, swallowing hard. “I told you. I wasn’t thinking. I just—”

“No,” Dennis interrupted, softer this time. “Not the guilt part. I get that part. Before that. In the second your hand was moving. What was the reason?”

Robby was silent for a long moment, his knuckles white around his mug. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Because I’ve watched you become this… this brilliant, capable man. And you were sitting there, with the light from the window catching your hair, and you were so damn smart and sure of yourself. And I just… I had to know if it was real. If you were real. I needed to touch you or I was going to lose my mind.” He finally met Dennis’s eyes, his own shining with a desperate sincerity. “It was the single stupidest, most selfish, most unprofessional impulse of my entire life.”

The raw confession hung in the air. Dennis held his gaze, letting the words settle. Then, a slow, small smile touched his lips.

“So,” Dennis said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You were distracted by my hair.”

The tension shattered. A choked, surprised laugh escaped Robby. He ran a hand over his face, his shoulders shaking with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Yeah,” he admitted, a real grin finally breaking through. “I was completely derailed by your hair. It’s very… fluffy.”

“It’s a mullet, Robby. You were undone by a mullet. It's barely even a proper mullet”

“A very fluffy mullet,” Robby insisted, and now they were both properly laughing, a quiet, giddy sound in the sleepy diner.

The moment was broken by a waitress who appeared at their table, her notepad ready. “You boys decided on pie yet? We got apple, cherry, and a key lime that’s seen better days but’ll still get the job done.”

They ordered two slices of apple pie. As she walked away, the easy laughter settled into a comfortable quiet. The ice wasn't just broken; it was melted, swept away.

The easy laughter settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind that didn't need to be filled. For a long moment, they just sat there, the hum of the diner a soft blanket around them. Dennis traced the wood grain of the table, a small, content smile on his face. Robby watched him, the frantic energy from the hospital finally gone from his eyes, replaced by a quiet warmth. The waitress had long since cleared their pie plates, leaving them with the cold dregs of their coffee, two men marooned in a sea of red vinyl as the diner slowly emptied around them.

"You know," Robby said, his voice soft, breaking the silence gently. "This is the first time I haven't felt like I'm on a clock in... I can't remember how long. Not just the hospital clock. The one in my head. The one that's always counting down to the next disaster."

Dennis looked up, meeting his gaze. He understood that clock. "It's loud," he said simply.

Robby gave a slow, acknowledging nod. "Deafening." He swirled the muddy grounds in the bottom of his mug. "But right here... it stopped." He paused, his gaze drifting to the dark window, their faint reflections ghostly against the night outside. He seemed to be gathering his courage, his fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic. "My apartment is a ten-minute walk from here," he said, the words careful, measured. "It's... also quiet. And I have coffee that's marginally better than this swill. We wouldn't have to... do anything. We could just... not be here anymore."

He said it all while looking out the window, as if confessing to the night. Dennis could see the slight tension return to his shoulders, the way he was bracing for a polite rejection. It wasn't a demand, or even a strong suggestion. It was an offering, laid out on the table between the sugar caddy and the napkin dispenser. A fragile, hopeful offering.

Dennis felt his pulse kick up a notch, a steady, thrilling drumbeat in his ears. This was the next cliff. The diner was safe, public, deniable. A story they could both tell as "just coffee." Robby's apartment was something else entirely. Private. Intentional. A door opening into a part of Robby's life he kept sealed off from the hospital.

Robby seemed to sense his hesitation. He finally turned from the window, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes were wide open, vulnerable. "We don't have to," he added quickly, his voice dropping. "We can just... call it a night. This was... this was more than enough."

But it wasn't. Not even close. The conversation had been a starter, a tasting menu of the person behind the attending.

He looked at Robby—really looked—at the man nervously awaiting his decision in a dingy diner, and felt a surge of protectiveness, of dizzying possibility.

He met Robby's wary, hopeful gaze and held it.

"Marginally better coffee sounds like a pretty high standard to live up to after all this," Dennis said, his voice steady, a slow, sure smile spreading across his face. "I'd like to see you try."

Chapter Text

The world had narrowed to the space on the other side of Robby’s apartment door. The walk from the diner had been a silent, tense bubble, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the frantic heat under Dennis’s skin. Now, standing in the dim hallway, the only sound was the jangle of Robby’s keys, a nervous percussion to the drumbeat of Dennis’s heart.

The lock turned with a definitive thunk.

The door swung open, and Robby stepped aside to let him in first. A gentleman’s gesture, absurdly formal given the electric current arcing between them. Dennis crossed the threshold.

Robby’s apartment was definitely everything he expected it to be. The floors were dark hardwood, the walls a neutral grey. A single, expensive-looking leather sofa faced a fireplace with a pristine, unused hearth. A stack of unread The New England Journal of Medicine sat perfectly aligned on a glass coffee table. It was clean, tasteful, and utterly lifeless. It smelled of lemony polish and, faintly beneath it, the distinct, clean scent of Robby’s soap. It was the home of a man who slept somewhere else, a waiting room for a life that hadn't started. Or rather waiting for someone else to make it into a home.

Dennis stood awkwardly in the center of the living room, feeling like he was tracking dirt across a showroom floor. Robby closed the door, the click of the deadbolt echoing like a gunshot in the quiet. He didn’t move further in, just leaned back against the door, as if barricading them in—or himself out.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. The easy camaraderie of the diner booth had evaporated, replaced by the terrifying reality of their isolation. There were no waitresses here, no clattering plates, no public facade to hide behind. It was just them, and the ghost of a touch that had started it all.

Dennis could still feel the memory of Robby’s hand in his hair. It was all he could think about. The weight of it, the slight scratch of a callus, the way his fingers had curled, possessive and sure, before the realization.

Robby was watching him, his gaze a physical weight. He looked utterly wrecked. The casual confidence he wore at the hospital was gone, stripped away to reveal something raw and uncertain beneath. His eyes were dark, the circles under them pronounced in the low light. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, torn between the urge to jump and the instinct to flee.

“Dennis.”

His name was a rough scrape of sound, so different from the way he’d said it in the diner. This was an unknown territory that Dennis hopes to survive.

Dennis just looked at him, waiting, his breath caught in his throat.

Robby pushed off the door, but he didn’t come closer. He stopped a few feet away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He was fighting a visible battle, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid with tension.

“I want to touch you,” he said, the words blunt, forced out. “I’ve been thinking about it… God, for months. Just… touching you.” His eyes dropped to Dennis’s hair, and the hunger in that look was so stark it made Dennis’s knees feel weak. “I want to put my hands in your hair and not stop this time. I want to see if it’s as soft as I remember. I want to feel it against my skin.”

He dragged his gaze back up to meet Dennis’s, and the guilt was back, warring with the want. It was the same tortured look he’d had when he’d fled the break room.

“But you have to consent,” Robby said, his voice dropping to a desperate, hushed tone. He took a half-step forward, his expression one of pained sincerity. “You have to say yes. Explicitly. Because if you don’t… if you have even a single doubt…” He swallowed hard. “I will respect your wishes and leave you alone even if it is the last I want to do right now.”

The raw vulnerability in the confession undid Dennis completely. This wasn't the powerful attending violating a boundary. This was a man, laid bare, handing Dennis all the power.

All the fear, the confusion, the shameful flicker of excitement from the break room, the giddy hope from the diner—it all coalesced inside Dennis, hardening into a single, solid, certain point.

He took a step forward, closing the distance himself. He looked directly into Robby’s worried, stormy eyes.

“Yes,” he said. The word was quiet, but it was clear and solid and unwavering in the hushed room. “It’s okay.”

The effect was instantaneous. It was like watching a dam disintegrate. The tension shattered in Robby’s frame, his shoulders slumping in relief. A shuddering breath escaped him, and the last vestige of restraint vanished from his eyes, replaced by a blazing, focused intensity.

He closed the final distance between them in one swift, fluid movement. His hand came up, not with the frantic, impulsive energy of the break room, but with a reverent, deliberate certainty. His fingers sank into Dennis’s hair, his palm cradling the curve of his skull. It was the same gesture, but it was everything the first one wasn't. It was a question answered. A pardon granted. A benediction.

He fisted his hand gently, his thumb stroking a slow, soothing arc against Dennis’s temple. The touch sent a jolt of pure lightning straight down Dennis’s spine.

“Okay,” Robby breathed, the word a whisper against Dennis’s lips.

And then he pulled him in.

It was deep and searching and desperate, a silent, frantic conversation that spoke of all the months of stolen glances and repressed longing. Robby’s other arm banded around his back, crushing them together from chest to thigh, as if he could fuse them into a single being. Dennis met him with equal fervor, his own hands coming up to clutch at Robby’s shoulders, his fingers then tangling in the soft, disheveled strands of his hair, ruining whatever was left of its professional style.

Robby tasted of terrible diner coffee and a unique, essential flavor that was just _him_. Dennis drank it in, his head spinning. This was really happening. The world had shrunk to the points of contact: Robby’s mouth on his, Robby’s hand in his hair, Robby’s solid chest against his.

They broke apart, gasping for air, their foreheads pressed together. Robby’s breath was hot on his face.

“Bedroom,” Robby rasped, and it was less a suggestion and more a shared, urgent goal, a destination they were already moving towards.

The journey there was a clumsy, frantic shuffle. Robby walked him backwards, never breaking the seal of their mouths for long, his hands roaming under Dennis’s t-shirt, mapping the skin of his back with a surgeon’s intent. Dennis’s own shirt was pushed up and over his head, discarded somewhere near the sofa with a soft rustle.

Robby pushed him against the doorframe of the bedroom, his mouth leaving Dennis’s to blaze a hot, open-mouthed trail down his jaw to his neck. He sucked at the sensitive skin there, and Dennis cried out, his head falling back against the wood with a soft thud. His hands scrabbled at Robby’s belt buckle, fingers fumbling in his haste.

“Impatient,” Robby murmured against his throat, the word vibrating through Dennis’s skin. There was a dark, thrilling amusement in his tone.

“You have no idea,” Dennis gasped out, finally getting the buckle undone.

Then they were falling onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths. The rest of their clothes were shoved away, a button popping from Robby’s shirt and skittering across the floor. The sound was loud in the room, a testament to their desperation. Dennis didn’t care. The world outside this room, the hospital, the gossip, the rules—it had all ceased to exist.

There was only this: the slick heat of skin on skin, the sharp, delicious bite of nails, the ragged, pleading of each other’s names. The moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes across Robby’s back as he moved above him, then beside him, then below him. The power dynamic that had defined them for so long had not just vanished; it had been inverted, explored, and shared. Here, in the dark, Dennis was not an intern. He was a man who knew how to make the brilliant, infallible Dr. Robby come completely, gloriously undone.

Robby was everywhere, his touch both demanding and reverent. He explored Dennis’s body like a man memorizing a new religion, his lips and hands and tongue worshiping every newly revealed inch. He whispered against Dennis’s skin, his voice a low, guttural thread of sound, all the things he’d been too guilty to even think before.

“You have no idea,” he breathed into the hollow of Dennis’s throat, his hips moving in a slow, devastating rhythm. “No idea what you do to me. I thought about this. In the on-call room. During rounds. God, Dennis.”

Dennis could only clutch at him, his own responses reduced to breathy moans and gasped pleas. He learned the secrets of Robby’s body—the way he shuddered when Dennis’s teeth grazed his hip bone, the sharp intake of breath when a thumb circled his nipple, the broken, shattered way he cried out Dennis’s name when they finally, completely fell over the edge together.

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Time bled back slowly, like ink on wet paper. Sensation returned one piece at a time. The weight of Robby’s arm, heavy and possessive across his chest. The damp coolness of sweat drying on his skin. The frantic, steady beat of Robby’s heart against his side, gradually slowing to a calm, strong rhythm. The scent of sex and their mingled sweat, a primal, intimate perfume that filled the air.

Robby’s hand moved, his fingers gently, absently combing through Dennis’s hair again. This time, there was no question in it. No guilt. No desperate hunger. It was just a touch. A quiet, possessive, peaceful touch. A habit already being formed.

Dennis let out a long, slow breath, feeling boneless and sated in a way he never had before. Every muscle was liquid, his mind a blissful, empty quiet. He felt… claimed. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he truly belonged to someone, and they to him.

After a long, content while, a practical thought nudged at the edges of his blissful haze. He shifted slightly, the movement making the muscles in his thighs protest pleasantly. He groped blindly on the floor, his fingers brushing against rough denim and then finding the cool, hard rectangle of his phone. He pulled it up, the screen lighting up with a sudden, harsh glow that made them both blink in the darkness.

Robby stirred, nuzzling his face against Dennis’s shoulder. His voice was a sleepy, deep rumble that vibrated through Dennis’s very bones. “What is it?”

Dennis turned his head on the pillow, looking at the man beside him. Robby’s eyes were closed, his face softer and more relaxed than Dennis had ever seen it. A small, unguarded smile played on his lips. A wave of sheer, dizzying fondness, so powerful it was almost painful, washed over Dennis.

He looked back at his phone, at the time glaring back at him. 11:47 PM. And then he saw the text notification from Santos, sent over two hours ago.

>> Santos: So??? Is the coffee that good? Do I need to send a search party?

A slow, dazed, and utterly satiated smile spread across Dennis’s face. He felt a bubble of laughter rise in his chest, pure and uncomplicated.

He tapped out a quick reply, his thumbs clumsy.

>> Dennis: Sorry. Got distracted. Not coming home tonight.

He tossed the phone back onto the floor, not waiting for a reply. He turned back into Robby’s warmth, settling against him with a contented sigh.

Robby’s arm tightened around him. “Everything okay?” he mumbled, his voice thick with impending sleep.

Dennis curled closer, tucking his head under Robby’s chin, right where it seemed to fit perfectly.

“Yeah,” he whispered into the dark, the word full of a wonder he couldn’t contain. “Everything’s perfect.”