Work Text:
Being accepted into medical school was a type of saving grace for Dennis Whitaker.
Nebraska was- well, hard. Everyone who knew of or had driven the seven hours across the state or even paid attention in middle school history class knew that Nebraska was hard- hard to settle in, hard to live in, hard to continue living in, but most of all? Hard to be from.
“Oh, like- the state with all the corn?” If Dennis Whitaker had to hear one more mention of corn, he wasn’t sure his jaw would be able to clench his teeth any harder without cracking a few molars down the middle. And sure, it didn’t help that his family embodied out the stereotype of the hillbilly Dust Bowl farmers-
“Ah, a Cornhusker!” A slap on the back from the guy next to him in the introduction circle in faux camaraderie- if he had to do one more round of "Two Truths and a Lie” huddled around a too-small classroom, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to rough it out the next year before graduation.
“You’re from the Midwest- oh, don’tcha know.” Always said with an exaggerated accent and a gaggle of giggles at a med school mixer he couldn’t afford the ticket for, and Whitaker didn’t have the heart to snap back with that’s Minnesota, you dumbfuck, it’s a five and a half hour drive to Minneapolis, why the fuck would I have an accent like that-
He didn’t have enough friends to begin with, so his social capital was too limited to pick and choose his battles. Or push back against the silly comments. Or get too defensive without scaring people off. And it wasn’t like it was hurtful, or coming from a bad place. Most of the time.
Besides, he had reasons to be grateful. Med school got him off the farm, that was the important part of all this, he had to remember. He wished he could forget the look on his mother’s face at the end of his undergraduate program, the shine in the eyes of his older brothers when he’d told them he’d be applying, when he told them he’d been accepted, that his MCATs had gone well enough. They didn’t think much of it, but they knew. They all knew deep down that this was the key to getting away from the hay bales and stall mucking.
He had an idea of where he’d end up eventually. He knew there’d be hard days, but he was used to things being hard - he knew he could tough it out.
Spending hours in a musty basement during a tornado warning without electricity was hard. Having your favorite hen get picked off by a hawk was hard. Scraping by in your fourth year of school, selling your junker of a car, and essentially squatting in the same hospital you were assigned to in rotations?
Those first few weeks were hard, being so far away from home, and the hospital was familiar, because all hospitals were the same, but it was still cold and clinical, and he figured the design was intentional. Things like this had to be separate for normal people- people had to have a sense of relief leaving the cold white light when sick to go back to their warm, yellowish, quiet homes when they were feeling better.
That was hard.
What could he say? He had grown accustomed to the difficulty of it all, and had expected nothing less. When his bank account had hit the mild negatives, and the eviction notice was slapped onto his apartment door, and his first rotations started the next day, it was the only logical thing to do.
Still, hiding out in the spare rooms those first few weeks, things felt too tense, too fragile, like things would all come tumbling down when he was inevitably found out, a skittering rat hiding in the nooks and crannies of an otherwise well-respected and prestigious institution. A teaching hospital, in more ways than one.
Internal medicine had been nice, and was the longest rotation so far. He had liked OB too, with how quiet it was most days, and the sheer appreciation that was in no short supply- even the deliveries were nice, when they went well, and the mothers loved to thank him, pinching his cheeks, their eyes shining with glee that had nothing to do with him. Each rotation was meant to be fodder for making that ultimate decision, one of the most important in his life- and his fourth year was creeping closer to a close every day he had managed to stay on his feet.
When Santos had found him that fateful night, after all the gore and bloodshed of the first daylight shift in the ED, it had felt like someone had shined a light on the cluster of rats equivalent to his nervous system- Whitaker would know, he’d come across far too many chewing through the feed bags in the barn over the years.
Her eyes had been dark, and suspicious, and it didn’t help settle any of his nerves that had already been frayed from the 15 hours before.
That night, he had started to wonder if he’d be able to stay on his feet for much longer. His arms had been screaming with the buildup of lactic acid from compressions, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever forget the surge of activity through the doors that morning, or the feeling of the wind on his face while waiting for that emergency blood supply run, or the feeling of losing a patient- he’d had a few deaths so far in other rotations, but none on his watch. None that were his fault.
It hadn't been a difficult decision, even as Santos’s eyes had stayed glinting and wary as he packed his things up in silence into her car.
He knew he couldn’t think like that, so negatively. Even with his head pressed against her passenger seat window, he felt the weight of day start to push down on him, all of it a blur of blood and heat and sharp words and the feeling of hands on his shoulder, the charisma of their reluctant leader, Doctor Robby, influencing every inch of the ED even in the darkest moments.
Dr. Robby. Doc-tor Rob-bee, or just Robby, a name to remember, a good recommendation to have in the future, on his resume. His tongue rolled around the title, just like they’d done with every other attending in every other department he’d haunted. The first time they’d spoken, Robby had clasped a strong hand on his shoulder, walked him through the halls (okay, speedwalked, but still ushered him along), commanded an army of surgeons and nurses and residents like a wartime general. And the last time they had spoken alone, just the two of them-
He could remember how small Robby had looked, curled up in a ball, turned away from the door, huddled against the draped corpses. In any other situation it would have been comical- the juxtaposition of blood splattered against a cartoon fox and the smile of a cream-yellow lion. There had to be some separation, Whitaker reminded himself.
Whitaker didn’t exactly know what had come over him when he’d pressed his hand into the older man’s shoulder. He’d only known that the attending had been curled into a ball muttering some kind of language, Semitic in origin if he had to take a guess. He hadn’t expected it to help so much, even if Robby had shoved him away after with a sharp flex of muscle, pushing past him to trudge out into the lobby. Maybe it was just the shame, or adrenaline, or the fear that Dennis would say something, or laugh, or use it against him-
And he wouldn’t have dreamed of it, even if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of that desperation in the older man’s eyes to stay quiet, let the moment go unspoken outside those walls. How could he think that of me? That I would do something like that, that I was that kind of person? The thoughts were Whitaker’s first knee jerks of reaction, but then again, Robby probably hadn’t known what to think of him.
Maybe he had thought Whitaker would be hungrier, or more abrasive, or cocky and brash like some of his older peers.
He felt a quiet swell of determination in Santos’s passenger seat that night, watching the other cars on the quiet, rain-wet streets of Pittsburgh. If Robby didn’t know what to think of him, Whitaker would show him what to think. It seemed like the blood and gore of the day had seemed to melt off with his words at the end of the night, even as his voice shook. Whitaker saw the deep determination in his eyes, and it sparked something in him- the need to prove himself to this man. This stranger.
The next few days, weeks, even, were easier. They seemed to melt and glide into each other with the newfound stability he’d stumbled into.
Santos was a decent roommate, even if her bite and her bark were on equal standing. He hadn’t found the heart to mind, even if her many insults started to devolve into a sort of timid acceptance in the weeks following their trial by fire. It was her own type of acceptance, even a tentative affection.
“What do you mean you don’t have a driver’s license?” The third day. Whitaker had realized Santos wasn’t a morning person, so he couldn’t take vitriol personally before 10 AM.
He had tried to explain, to no avail. Santos before her mug of coffee had been touched was untouchable. “I do, it’s just expired and I haven’t-”
“Whatever.” She threw her car door open, the creak of the hinges making both of them cringe in the morning light. “Probably drive wagons where you’re from anyways.”
Then there was the shower incident, the sixth day. Whitaker had been taking in the glow of the refrigerator at 3 AM, reveling in the hum of the refrigerant and the freezing silence when an earth shattering screech came from behind him.
“Jesus Christ!” and he didn’t even have the time to suck in a shuddering breath before Santos had scurried off, leaving a trail of what he assumed was shower water on the linoleum behind him. No wonder she wasn’t a morning person. Whitaker made another vow- go to bed earlier. Stay out of each other’s domains. Avoid the bite zone.
She didn’t speak to him for another three days, out of virtue, he had guessed. The silence made their car rides less awkward.
Fourteenth day, second official week, and Whitaker felt real-life pride, nearly tangible. They’d fallen into a better rhythm now, their fragile arrangement feeling more sound after being battle tested. She’d taken him to make a copy of the key, their key at a Wal-Mart kiosk after their shift.
“Don’t go scurrying away on me while m’not looking now, country mouse,” she’d muttered with a shove to his shoulder, and it made him glow with something.
The fourteenth night couldn’t be marked as pleasantly.
“I don’t care if your license got- eaten by a horse, or whatever,” she’d shouted into the phone, the heavy bass from the bar she was at over the phone making him twitch with annoyance he’d never show. He was far too tired to complain. “My- fuck- no, my keys are on th- yeah, the counter. Can you- come pick me up?”
And that’s how they arrived at the quiet acceptance that kept them afloat: his hands threaded in her hair as she was hunched over the toilet, the colorful knick knacks littering her bathroom catching his eye as they’d settled into a quiet sort of routine.
She had taken up ordering the takeout while he’d taken up changing the lightbulbs- his nerves had started to settle, and that’s what was important.
It was difficult to think about anything else during the day, with the constant barrage of patients and questions and decisions Whitaker had to make. Robby had proven to be a good resource- Dr. Robby - and Whitaker found himself becoming more hands on, more confident, more engaged.
Maybe it was the fact he didn’t have that tension anymore, the looming threat of his life being upheaved. Maybe it was the supportive looks, or the quiet gratefulness the team settled into after that first day. Who could’ve known that led to feeling less drained at the close of every shift?
There was more time to take note of the most interesting cases he’d been able to work on, and the most interesting people he’d been working with.
Foreign object, Dr. King taking a morbid fascination, and being able to practice her bedside manner in the process- Whitaker took close note of her, found a deep-rooted admiration in how meticulous she was, how much thought she put into what others would consider minor cases. She cared.
Emergency chest tube, Dr. Santos, and her glee was palpable, that keen curiosity paying off in the weeks following their first day. In some ways, they’d started off on the same foot, both being new and being relatively young in the excess of experts around them. They worked well together, and they knew each other the best. She was his equal.
Gallstone surgery, Dr. McKay pulling him in alongside Javadi, and he was able to observe their dynamic and how trust had grown in the recent weeks between them- Javadi seemed happier, more confident, just like him. They’d gotten lunch together that day, slipping away in a quiet moment and laughing about the little things over their too-cold sandwiches and juice boxes. She understood.
Whitaker always felt the creeping presence of the person who guided the chaos into even workflows, or, more notably, the person who hadn’t visited the pediatric suite again- at least not while he was watching. Whitaker kept a close eye on him, but stayed back, melding into the swarm of activity- he figured there was no immediate need to bring anything up, or spark any undue awkwardness by fumbling over each other. When their eyes met every few hours, it was silent, like a line pulled taught, and snapped quickly when one of them averted their gaze.
He’d prove himself in his work, in his steadiness, or whatever this place would bring out of him, he was sure.
Stability also brought more freedom to breathe and get to know the city, more time after hours to decompress and think softly. With the time passing more and more quickly with each shift, Whitaker found he was just grateful he could leave the hospital at the end of the day and start to build the sort of separation the others took for granted.
Having more leisure time also meant more idleness. His mother had always warned him about his too-idle hands, and what trouble they could get into.
He’d caved during one late night. It was after a couple beers and a passing comment from Santos at the kitchen table, the cheap overhead light bulb making everything look more yellow- “No, the dating scene around here is shit. I mean-” She sucked another swallow from the cheapest 12-pack they could find at the liquor store. “You can still try, I guess. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
He’d hesitated with the words, the twisting in his stomach making the beer feel foamier.
“I think m’gonna hit the hay,” he’d said after that, standing abruptly. It wasn’t like he was a virgin, so he hadn’t been able to pinpoint why he was feeling so uneasy-
“Hay, you say?” He could see Santos’s eyes light up, formulating the insult with a grin, and before she could snap out whatever she was thinking, he’d already turned away with a groan, retreating into the darkness of his room.
A throb of something making his stomach twist again underneath the bed sheets, quiet enough to make the cricket song louder. The sound of home.
It wasn’t homesickness that was making him feel this way. In fact, he was less lonely than he’d been in the last few months, everyone in the ED coming and going and growing inevitably warmer with familiarity. Even Dr. Robby had given a few notable snippets of praise, clapping his shoulder with a fatherly huff of approval, or a ruffle of his hair and a grin, eyes crinkling in the corners after a successful diagnosis, and their gazes locked more frequently now, the thread snapping more hesitantly as of late-
Whitaker curled up on his side, a random assortment of unused dating apps making his eyes burn as tried to quell the ache.
He didn’t have daddy issues. In fact, he was very close with his father- as close as he could be with a God-fearing, scientifically skeptical Nebraskan Catholic man. He spoke with his parents every few days, the conversation fleeting and stilted. They didn’t understand, necessarily, and he hated that he understood their unease.
Still, something about Dr. Robby’s broad hands guiding him, how touchy he was- Jesus, why was he so touchy? Whitaker had tried to understand the only way he knew how- through observation. He didn’t seem super touchy with everyone else, maybe Dr. Collins every once in a while, but more than anything, those two just shared quiet glances a few times a day in understanding, communicating silently, as if they’d known each other in another life. The thought made him feel uneasy, but he didn't know why.
Were they together? And why should it matter if they were? It’s not like he wanted to-
A quick tap, and Grindr was being downloaded on his phone which was already short of storage. He tried to make out shapes in the dark, heart thrumming as he avoided his screen.
He just needed to let off a little steam, that was all. And if it was with someone older and broad and vaguely Robinavitch-shaped, then so be it.
His profile wasn’t incredibly up-to-date. Hell, the last time he’d used it, he’d had his location set to the hospital, which wasn’t a great look for potential suitors. All his pictures- no face, don’t use your face, you pervert, or your name, he’d read on a Reddit thread when he’d first created it in undergrad- were still vaguely accurate. A picture of his bare chest, which made him flush, but it was a good angle, and a clothed picture from the waist down, nothing too scandalous. Or identifying.
There wasn’t harm in scouting out the area if he planned to stay for a while. Santos’s apartment was a much more… appropriate location to have his profile set to, regardless of whether or not anything would come of it.
A scroll through the map, and there were a few active profiles around. Not bad. The glow of the screen made his eyes burn, and the too-loud vibration of a notification almost made him drop his phone into the sheets. Already? How long had he been scrolling?
The profile that appeared in his inbox made all the blood in his body face an impossible dilemma- face, or dick? Face or dick? Face... or dick?
bi daddy dom - 6’1 - can host - online
Whitaker felt his own eyes widen at the sight, heart rate picking up. Was this real? He’d had too much trouble with fake profiles in the past to take it at face value. His vision was drowning in an absolutely beautiful man when he’d clicked on the profile- there was no harm in being curious.
The profile wasn’t exhaustive, but it didn’t need to be- the pictures associated with it painted a thousand words. Or maybe, more accurately, a novel’s worth.
The first picture was similar to his and the hundreds of other profiles around him, bright from the neck down, pecs and neck full and hairy and practically shimmering in the glow of afternoon sun, a thin slip of silver around his neck. He wasn’t jacked, or peacocking like some of the other guys were, but the shoulders were full and thick and hinting at strong, veiny arms. God, he looked downright fucking edible.
The second picture- Whitaker had to slam his phone locked when he heard a creak in the hallway. False alarm, probably just Santos sneaking into her own room. There were too many instances of his parents bursting through his door to not make his blood pressure go up with any evidence of life this late at night.
He didn’t know if he should look again, his heart about to burst through his ribs.
He did anyway. The sight there to greet him made him suck in a breath, made his mouth water, made him clench his knees together, and made the panic wholly worth it.
Dick. Yeah, that was a dick on his phone screen. Grainy and out of focus and looked like it was taken circa 2005, but braced between two strong thighs and long and thick and veiny. Jesus Christ, it had to be at least eight inches, and Whitaker felt his throat clench up just by looking at it through spread fingers in shock, in disgust, in- well, horrified interest.
And he’d just gotten a message from this guy. Unprompted. It had to be some new breed of scam.
Whitaker swallowed thickly in the dark silence before opening the message, the butterflies in his stomach irritating him more than anything else. What would it be first: an ask for bank account information? His location? Or maybe he’d be lured out into the night, into some alley on the outskirts of town-
11:32 PM: hey sweetheart
Whitaker felt his nose crinkle. He shouldn’t even respond, even if the words made his ears burn pink. It was only a matter of time before this guy asked him to meet up in a dark part of Pittsburgh, or solicited feet pictures, or blackmailed him-
A follow up message, and Whitaker’s stomach churned, eyebrows pulled together as his eyes scanned the screen in confusion.
11:32 PM: what’re you up to?
What was any respectable, tax-paying citizen ’up to’ at 11:30 PM on a Wednesday? He wanted to snort- it was a stupid question. What was the point of catfishing anyway? What kind of weird sexual thrill did people get from lying or deceiving people? Or maybe they just wanted to be on TV in some weird twist of events. Freaks, that’s who. Still, if there was even a chance-
His fingers seemed to be typing back on their own volition. No!
11:33 PM: hi :-) just in bed, wbu?
He watched the other man type. He wondered if there was an age in his profile- from the stray gray chest hairs, he could have been old enough to be his father. What an unsettling thought- why did it make him throb again? An incoming message from Mr. Anonymous pulled him out of that line of thought.
11:36 PM: am i old if i had to google what ‘wbu’ means? lol
Whitaker rolled his eyes, again. This was definitely some extended, bizarre trap. He decided to cut the bullshit.
11:37 PM: what’re u looking for
Why he was entertaining this? For the chance at some exceptionally beautiful dick? Maybe he could reverse image search it, like they did in the TV show. Maybe that seemed too… crass.
11:40 PM: think i’ve found what i’m looking for :-) ‘wbu’?
Whitaker felt the overwhelming urge to delete the app, the memory as to why he doesn’t do this half as much as he used to rearing its head again. Still-
Another message came through, and God, this guy was pushy, too? Whitaker figured you got used to getting what you wanted when you looked like that. When your cock looked like that.
11:41 PM: just kiddin. i think you’re cute, wanna have some fun?
And get murdered? No, thank you. Whitaker clicked his phone locked again, and rolled over to plug it in. A general sort of malaise had taken over, and he knew he had to be up early, early enough for both him and Santos to get back to the hospital alive. He flopped on his back, eager for sleep and glowing red in the dark. Eager to forget the whole thing.
The next few days knee-deep in the Pitt went well.
As well as they could have gone in an understaffed, overcrowded, sweaty ED. It was getting colder outside, which helped cut through the general tension brewing- more accurately, with the lack of AC and the excess of body heat, being crammed together like sardines in cold white clinic rooms didn’t feel as stuffy.
Still, there were little nagging thoughts pulling at the corner of his focus in the days following. In the quieter moments, his phone burned in the back of his mind. He wasn’t stupid enough to keep it in his pockets after the amount of general fluids that he’d had the displeasure of getting sprayed with over the last few weeks, but it was there. Maybe it was the simple fact it had been way too long since he’d gotten laid, as he’d first hypothesized, or the fact that ‘bi daddy dom’ hadn’t messaged him again-
“I said clamps, Whitaker.” Robby’s resounding bark rattled him back into the present, into what was real and in front of him, wrist-deep in an emergency appendectomy, and right, that’s where he was.
“Yessir,” was what was mumbled back behind a flimsy white mask as he slapped the clamps into Robby’s hand firmly. He’d shed the apologies the first few days in action- they only took up precious space in the air.
“Thank you.” Normally, Robby wouldn’t have been the one on a case so procedural, or been so short in his requests, but Langdon was still out, for whatever reason, and people had to pitch in where they could- at least that’s what Robby had said in his pre-shift pep talk, and they’d all clustered together to take on the extra demand. At the very least, Santos seemed in a better mood, peppier and more talkative on the car rides home. Still no conversation in the mornings, though.
Whitaker hadn’t opened the app since that night they’d talked at the kitchen table. The idea of meeting up with an older man, a stranger who was 6’1 and probably wanted to strangle him to death in a dark alleyway… even though it made him throb uselessly on the best days, it made him cringe with absolute horror on the worst days.
There was no way he was going to go through with it. He could live in abstinence from now on, throw himself into this rotation, hell, maybe even choose to specialize in it, succumb to the chaos of it for the next 40 years of his life, cranky and ruthless from the lack of ejaculation. Was that a thing, or just another myth about male sexual habits?
That thought was more than chilling enough to make the decision for him.
And his mounting snappiness- it was impacting his work, which was tied to his education, and the straws that broke the camel’s back came when Princess and Perla merely giggled when he’d barked an order at them that morning. Too big for your britches, Whit.
That was hard. That and the cold sweat he’d woken up in the night before, entangled in a nightmare of having to get splashed with unknown liquids in a gruesomely Carrie-esque style every day for the rest of his life. With his head pressed against the passenger’s window of Santos’s rumbling car after an increasingly tense shift, the decision didn’t seem as difficult.
It really was the perfect storm that Friday, really, even if his nerves were shot when Santos had broken the news to him.
“I’m going out tonight, so- uh, don’t wait up, ‘kay?” It had been so nonchalant, with a glance over her shoulder like they both hadn’t just been on their feet for ten hours, and he’d given her a nervous little smile and nod that always made her light up a little brighter. I’ll be okay, it conveyed, and maybe he was a better actor than his tenth grade drama teacher had given him credit for.
She’d left later that evening, and he didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell, so he had to convince himself it was going to be fine. Maybe she had her own schemes to execute, and he’d kicked himself for not speaking up in that moment, proposed a mutually beneficial situation- hey, maybe if we share locations with each other, we wouldn’t have to be scared about hookups, or you could watch my location while I- while I-
The door clicked shut, and Whitaker had his phone out before he had even heard the lock click from the living room futon. The growing heat in his belly was enough to push down any trepidation, or instinct for self preservation, aching calves be damned. He needed this.
He swiped open the app, and his fingers were shaking. BDD, as he’d been calling him in that dark corner of his brain taking up space, was active. The decision didn’t even seem like a decision at that point, moving to type on autopilot.
8:46 PM: hey :-)) you free tn?
An arrow shot in the dark at a miniscule target, but it was all he had. It was all the energy he was willing to devote to such a lengthy endeavor- no pun intended - even if the weight of the spur of the moment decision hit him like a freight train. The jolt of energy after a risky text was a reliable stimulant.
He’d already been ten paces away from his phone when the notification went off with a warm buzz. He shouldn’t check. He shouldn’t look as desperate as he was. But-
8:48 PM: hi sweetheart. thought you’d gone cold on me
It didn’t answer his question- it was fluffy, and evasive, but the target had been grazed. Whitaker couldn't help but feel jittery. He clicked his phone shut while he went to shower, fluffiness unanswered. He’d get an answer eventually, he knew he would- and even if he didn’t, there were a million other BDD’s in Pitt that he’d crawl all over tonight with minimal effort. That he was sure of.
In the hour following, drying off his hair, towel plopped on his head, waltzing around Santos’s apartment like he owned it with music buzzing through the Alexa, he got two more messages. Two more. Jesus, this guy was more desperate than he was. It was a good sign, he figured- the psycho ones weren’t desperate, were they?
8:53 P.M.: yeah just got off work, gimme a bit
9:31 P.M.: okay, come over whenever. excited to meetchu
Whitaker’s wide eyes scanned the blue blobs with that trepidation rising in his throat again. He knew the bus schedule like the back of his hand at this point, it was a necessity with all the bouncing around he’d done- and the location the other man had sent wasn’t far from one of the nicer parts of town. Fuck. Fuck!
Whitaker didn’t do these things often, and even less so with the pickup in work during the day.
He hadn’t sent a confirmation message. Should he have sent a confirmation message? The bus was cold, and loud, and it was already dark outside. He’d expected the shakiness to dispel by now, pulling on the sleeves of his sweatshirt as he curled inward on the cheap plastic seats.
It wasn’t an abysmal part of town, at the very least. He knew Pittsburgh like the back of his hand, and had become intimately familiar with the long stretches of city blocks and the dark alleyways and the brightly colored bodegas he bought breakfast sandwiches from by the hospital. To him, the hospital had become the beating heart of the city, an integral part of the experience here, and he’d started to get a grasp on the zones that were more active, or more dangerous than the others. Everything else sprawled away from the ambulance bays, not towards them.
When the bus spat him out underneath a shimmering streetlight, he had to rely on the glow of Apple Maps on his phone lit the cracked sidewalk tiles- 0.4 miles, five minute walk. The glowing red battery icon at the top of his screen was not entirely reassuring.
The bus rumbled away, and both he and the driver knew it was too late to turn back now. The quiet of the unfamiliar neighborhood was setting in, even the birds hushed and settled in for the night. With a surge of bravery, or maybe brazen stupidity, Whitaker braced himself and moved onward. This had to happen.
It wasn’t an abysmal apartment complex, at the very least. Whitaker had started to realize these ‘leasts’ were becoming increasingly available. It wasn’t too flashy, but it definitely was rented by the upper crusts of the city, and was well maintained, even if it didn’t have a gate to keep people out. That was maybe a little too high end for Whitaker- he still felt like a creep, an infestation slinking through the parking lot of too-expensive cars, squinting to differentiate the apartment numbers in the dark.
He shoved through the door of one of the nicer complexes and slid up the carpeted stairs in silence. It was quiet, too quiet, apart from the rapid pattering of his heart- he could feel his rising anxiety in his chest, the frazzle making him queasy. His hand paused on the metal railing- there was still time to turn around, head home, rethink his life, call his mother-
219 was the lucky number. The apartment numbers seemed to swim in his vision, and he felt like he looked like a freak hesitating like this. Anyone could come out of one of those doors, and he was cursing himself for not at least asking this guy for a name, even if it would have been lied to in the first place. Only freaks used their real name.
With a shaking hand, he rapped quickly on the tall white door after a too-long moment of hesitation, trying to muster enough courage to stay standing even if he was quivering.
This was stupid. This was so stupid. The look on the night shift’s faces when he came in half-strangled to death was going to be the real death of him-
There was a shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door, like Mr. Anonymous was expecting someone, of course he was, and it creaked open. He had to look up to meet the man’s eyes, taller than he’d expected, and his vision was a bit fuzzy around the edges, but he met the gaze head on and felt them widen at the sight. Unabashed in the moment of truth.
Robby had started to wonder how many of his days would be like this- repetitive, monotonous, soaked in blood. He’d grown to love the ED in his younger years because of the variety, the conglomerate of different people and faces and personalities- but the days and the faces and the personalities had started to blur together in recent weeks.
There were bad days, and there were worse days. Nothing could even compare to the Pittfest incident, and he’d been thankful for that, knowing his entire team had been in a state of catharsis in the days following, almost fearful to show up to work, unsure of what would be thrown at them next without consideration. They had all been holding their breath in disbelief- even him, although he hadn’t wanted to admit it.
After a few stiff drinks- more than was medically advised for someone of his age- in the aftermath that night, he’d started to recover. His version of recovery, which was pushing down and moving forward. For the sake of his team.
Collins had been avoiding him, throwing herself into the flow of it all, unable to accept the fact she hadn’t been there. Jake continued to ignore his calls, and Langdon had stopped calling, and he couldn’t figure out which was worse- the not knowing, or the burden of knowing too much about it all. He figured he had to know- he was being paid to know everything, know too much about these people, care too much about them and their wellbeing.
He knew he'd grown snappier in the last few days, pent up and hungry for something- maybe a distraction from the whiskey waiting for him on top of the refrigerator at home, the quiet darkness of his apartment that Heather had poked fun at him for all those years ago- ‘God, this is a bachelor pad if I’ve ever seen one’, she’d said, and he had begged her to come in, give it a feminine touch, dress it up in a nest for the both of them in those short few months they’d found solace in each other.
They both saw how long that had worked out. It didn’t matter how quiet it got- he didn’t have the stomach for the apps, or websites, or whatever the kids were using these days to fill that void of loneliness, and maybe he was being contrarian about it, but it was hard to find the effort to nurture something outside of working hours, put in the effort to invest in small talk with someone before scoring.
He’d been curious and overly flexible in his youth. His profile had stayed up to date, but had been gathering dust over the course of the year, and even more so with the pull of the ED picking up again, piecing itself back together. The nagging itch to do something, blow off some steam outside of the alcohol had grown too loud to ignore.
Maybe that’s how he ended up here. He’d been scrolling next to an empty glass one night, on the edge and jittery, and felt the urge- or maybe his dick felt the urge- for some sort of connection. Maybe it was easier, or quicker, or less dread-inducing to find a pretty, faceless twink a few miles away and slide his hands up their sides. He’d done it before a few times, but he’d always been drunk. He always preferred meeting someone in person, or at a bar, forming something more natural, or-
Robby heard the knock at his door reverberate in his core, and maybe his dick a little bit, too. Why was he doing this? The thought rattled around his aching head as he padded across the kitchen, trying to muster up some sort of hospitality, channeling that bedside manner he was always praised for. You made your bed for two, now sleep in it.
He knew the kid, whoever the hell he was, must be scared too, or stupid if he wasn’t at least a little jittery on the other side of that door. The best Robby could do was try to make this as pleasant of an experience for both of them as possible, even if it fizzled before it got too far. Most of them did, anyway.
He let out a sigh to clear his head before clicking the lock over and opening the door with a tired smile.
The smile was too fake to maintain when their eyes locked in a cold stare.
“Whitaker?”
Now, that voice sounded familiar. He almost wanted to look over his shoulder, back into the stairwell, like this was some sort of dream. He could picture it now- Dr. Robby was surely climbing up the stairs now, barking at him for a suture, covered in blood and spit and glowing around the edges, like all things were in a dream. The way that the word was croaked, like someone had just woken up-
No, the voice was coming from in front of him. How could that be possible?
This was Dr. Robby’s apartment? This was- his eyes flitted over to the number punctured into the wall beside the door. 219. That meant- logically - the identity of ‘bi daddy dom’, the owner of such a beautiful cock that had made him salivate all over his screen every other night, the one who called him sweetheart and took ten minutes to figure out how emoticons worked-
“Doctor- Robby?” Whitaker croaked out, and the older man blanched white. The most convincing evidence was the outline of him taking up too-much space in the door, shoulders broad and demanding, even when they were curled in to protect himself. Whitaker had seen him more confident administering drugs that he didn’t even know how to pronounce yet.
“What, uh-” Robby looked like he was trying to find some sort of word, the vein in his neck throbbing. Whitaker pretended not to notice
“I must have the- the wrong apartment- number.” God, that was a struggle to get out of his mouth. It felt like every word was choked out, and floundering in the sun before dying at his feet, soaking in the silence.
He watched Robby go through what he realized were the multiple stages of grief, the lines in his face compressing and relaxing at the sight. Robby straightened after a moment as if in decision, ever the gentleman, and Whitaker felt as if a very bad decision had just been made.
How had he ended up here? How had he ended up on this man’s crinkled leather couch, watching him pace back and forth- one would think that he’d come to his door in the middle of the night, cloaked and drenched in rain with the stress he was exuding padding across his living room barefoot in his pajama pants. Help me, Doctor Robby, you’re my only hope.
Whitaker didn’t feel like it was right to look anywhere but his own hands balled into fists in his lap, a faded image of a child braced for scolding. When he had opened his mouth to say something, to relieve the older man of something, he was met with a sharp look, a silent order to stay quiet, I’m thinking for the both of us.
He sank deeper into the couch cushions, a sharp wave of shame threatening to swallow him whole.
Robby cracking voice snapped him out of his trance. “We should-” Whitaker’s half-lidded gaze didn’t leave his knees. “I can’t -”
“I can… leave,” Whitaker wanted to tack on ‘if you want me to’, but the sentiment was probably palpable enough for both of them.
Robby scoffed, running strong hands through his hair. Whitaker did look up for that, and his throat bobbed in a swallow- he didn’t have a clue on what his cue was. Was that not what Robby had wanted to hear? Or I could stay, and we could- we could-
Robby turned to face him, more sympathetic now. “You’re a student, Whit, and I- I-” He rested his hands on his hips now, legs spread in those flannel pants, and Whitaker felt like he was being pinned down by the older man’s gaze, frustration mounting, spurred on by the flush in his cheeks. Whit. A nickname that had stuck after the first few days in scrubs, and it made him fume.
He knew the sentiment- if he’d gone back home after this and Santos picked up a whiff of hospital (’Why do you smell like- ugh, is that Robby’s cologne? You don’t wear it well-’) he’d be eaten alive. Although he knew it would be worse for the older man, what with the ethics of it all. Whatever.
Robby was still talking in circles, and it wasn’t helping his case. “Look, m’sure you’re a very nice kid, but you’re just- that, you’re a kid, and I can’t- you know I couldn’t possibly-”
The droning seemed to grate on and on, even if the gruff voice had started to waver. Whitaker could take it, sinking into the couch with a growing feeling he couldn’t pin down. He’d taken a lot worse in the last few weeks, between the fluids and the death and the screaming and barking and scolding-
What was one more mark down in the never ending spiral of the complicated, fucked up, never-ending spiral of the ED? What was it worth, to have that fleeting connection severed forever?
He stood on wobbly legs before the movement registered in his head. Oh, he was a kid? He was getting really sick of hearing that by now.
Would a kid have had to couch surf the last year and a half? Would a kid have the gall to call out a time of death with the family in the room, sobbing and wailing like they always did? Would a kid have had to get sprayed with every bodily fluid known to man, catch rats and snap their necks, have a card decline at Dunkin’ of all places, have to duct tape the soles of his shoes-
His body seemed to be moving on its own, all a collection of nerve endings and synapses firing rapidly, too rapidly to process. His hand was pressed into Robby’s shoulder again just like it had been all those weeks ago, after he’d helped him off the floor, and with a flex of his elbow and a little pressure, he pushed, pushed, just like Robby had done to him. The quick stumble was enough to cut off Robby’s rambling, catching the younger man’s gaze with shocked confusion glazing his eyes. So predictable.
Whitaker hadn’t kissed many people in his life. There had been a few, and none of them had been particularly good, but this was different. This was so fucking different. He didn’t know what he had expected from ‘bi daddy dom', but he also didn’t know what to expect from Robby.
He didn’t even have the chance to be shown around Robby’s one bedroom apartment before a bizarre sort of heat took over the older man’s gaze from where he’d staggered. It was like he’d shoved him off of some cliff, into some blackened oblivion, into the waiting arms of a decision that was made long before he’d knocked on the door.
The feeling of beard scruff and tongue in his mouth was going to be revered for a long, long time, that much he knew. Robby had him pressed up against a scuffed cream-colored wall in the hallway, and there was tongue in his mouth, his attending’s tongue, those strong hands holding his biceps down. It was like it was revenge, or punishment, or some secret third thing he had a suspicion that neither of them knew what to name.
He knew what it felt like, that was for sure.
“Fucking- tease,” Robby snarled at him in between building beard burn, tone incredulous out of all things he could be, and Whitaker didn’t have time to think about how Robby had to bend down to kiss him, or the twinge in his vocal chords when he’d huffed in between the crush of lips and limbs. If he did stop to think about it, he knew he’d cum in his jeans, and he couldn’t do that, he’d been scrounging by on Santos’s laundry detergent for too long as it was.
Even with his back pressed against the wall, he still felt that urge to snap back. He fisted a hand in Robby’s ratty sweatshirt that the man lived in and put as much force as he could against his broad chest- and the older man didn’t didn’t budge.
In fact, Whitaker’s palms met broad, tough muscle. Okay, he might cum in his jeans regardless, breath ragged with the realization. Robby could only grin in the half-flickering hallway light, deliberate and evil, fucking evil.
“Do us both a favor, Whit,” Robby’s eyes gleamed, and Whitaker was starting to hate being called that- it’s what they called him on his tee-ball team when he was a kid, or when a professor got too soft hearted on him, all doughy and feel-bad with that look in their eyes. Whitaker’s teeth grit, nostrils flared, and Robby seemed to thrive on the look. “Use your words, hm?”
“Are you just gonna stare at me?” Whitaker was surprised at how stern his own voice sounded, even if it was a squeak in comparison to Robby’s grumbling. “Or are you gonna fuck me?”
Robby’s gaze wavered, and Whitaker swore he saw a glint of pride in that moment.
Robby had started to see a therapist after Pittfest.
It was the logical thing to do, and it wasn’t something he tiptoed around, or was ashamed of, and he knew Jack would’ve had his balls if he hadn’t gone at least once.
It had become a habit. He was not looking forward to telling his therapist about this. This.
The feeling of Whitaker's lanky fingers, so pale and frail in comparison to the tannish red of his own, down to the wisps of blond hair on his forearms- it snapped something in Robby. Something he didn’t want to admit was there in the first place.
The kiss had- happened. He hadn’t expected it to happen, and had plotted out in his mind what he had expected himself to do while talking himself around in circles in his living room- send him home with the bottle of wine he’d picked up, not a bribe, but an uneasy sort of understanding, sure. This wasn’t expected, but Robby had gotten used to the unexpected. He lived with it every day, made a meager living off of it. If he felt bold, he liked to think he thrived in it.
He felt Whitaker growl into his mouth by the time they’d stumbled over to the doorway of his bedroom in a tangle of limbs and want, and he really should’ve picked up around the place, but how could he have expected this? How could he have expected fucking Whitaker of all people to show up at his door, eyes dark and glossy and wet and looking up at him like that?
“Get- Get undressed,” Robby heard himself gasp out, his own arms shaking.
“Or what? ” and that was unexpected, too, the strength in the younger man’s voice, no trace of a warble, only brightly shining heat in his eyes, practically glowing in the dark. “You’re not the boss of me, doctor. Not here,” and God, Robby really couldn’t afford to cum in his pants right now- he didn’t have the energy to take another trip to the laundry room this week.
Robby surged forward, scruffing Whitaker like a dog by the back of that long line of neck, and he could tell the younger man felt a bloom of euphoria with the way his eyelashes fluttered and he let out a gurgled gasp. “Or I’m not going to fuck you.”
Whitaker nodded as best he could, and Robby released him with a growl. If it was to be a battle of wills, Robby could handle that. He could thrive in it.
Whitaker undressed shakily, splaying across the unmade bed, a trembling, pale siren in the dark, twisted in his unmade bed, and Robby had to brace the shitty wood of the doorframe to stay standing. Ratty tee shirt tossed aside, and he could see Whitaker’s birdlike chest fluttering, and he looked so frail in this lack of light, like Robby could snap him like a twig, but that mouth-
Whitaker spread his legs, then, dark eyes ducked down now, a pantomime of the shyness exuded before, and Robby’s mouth went chalky. Whitaker gave him a half grin.
His gamble had paid off, and now he was here, in a grown man’s navy blue and gray sheets, freezing. Trembling under the heat of the older man’s gaze, his mouth askew.
Maybe Robby had just needed someone to stand up to him, needed someone to challenge him. It had been a pricey gamble, one placed unconsciously, and it got him here, eyes dark and hungry and trying to be seductive as he spread his legs. His body had moved on it’s own accord setting this off, and his instincts had screamed at him to leave, run, scatter away from the light-
But it worked. It had seemed like Robby was trying to keep his cool, but Whitaker could tell that armor was chipping away with every slow glide of his eyes. It had worked, and now he had this hulking man eating out of the palm of his hand. Fuck yes.
With his knees spread, Robby’s face devolved into something ravenous, and before Whitaker knew it, Robby was between his knees against the edge of the bed, the scruff of salt and pepper scraping the sensitive inside of his thighs. God, Whitaker knew he could not tolerate this much longer, and he figured the knowledge was shared with the way his cock was a reddish pink and throbbing against his stomach, practically leaking as he leaned back against the shitty foam mattress topper.
“Y’re gonna get me killed,” Robby simply whined in disbelief against the inside of his knee in between kisses and nibbles, and Whitaker gripped the sheets with a whimper. “Fucking brat.”
Whitaker felt the urge to snap at him again, crack the reigns, fist handfuls of salt-and-pepper and drag him closer, but before he could protest by clamping his knees shut against Robby’s ears, Robby licked a long stripe against his cock, and he could only squeak and shudder with the feeling.
It was wet, and sloppy, and so fucking dirty it had Whitaker in a tailspin, helpless only to hold on and quiver. Robby’s strong hands came up to pin his hips down, and he could only groan with the spit and hot huffs of breath against him, sharp little dribbles of agony and-
And then robby slid even lower, lower, tanned dark hands slipping up to his thighs to spread him open, and yes, that was his attending, eating him out, strong fingers holding him open as he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Fu- Fuck,” Whitaker stammered out, and he slapped a hand over his own mouth, breath coming in waves. The feeling of prickling beard hair between his cheeks made him rut his hips back, Robby’s stupidly beautiful nose nudging against him as he made his own little grunts and groans of pleasure in between thick stripes of tongue. He was doing this for his own pleasure. “R-R-R- Robby-”
“Not so tough now, huh?” Robby grumbled into him, and Whitaker felt a full-body shudder make its way down his spine like a strung bow and knees askew.
He couldn’t even squeak out the words precisely, hips bucking deep into the buildup of it all. “M’gonna-”
Robby pulled away with a sharp huff of wet air, and Whitaker could’ve pulled his hair out, the buildup brought to an abrupt stop. Robby was a blur in front of him, scrabbling to unzip that stupid sweatshirt and shove it off, his pajama pants tented in the dark as he surged up to kiss him deep and wet and unabashedly.
The taste of himself was too intoxicating, the feeling of tongue in his mouth too heady to realize what else Robby was doing, the sound of fumbling in his outdated nightstand drawer, the gleam of silver wrapping and the shuffle of fingers and hands- a condom, a condom, that was what that was, Whitaker only half realized, and lube, too- that was necessary, he supposed. Who was he to protest?
When the wet head first nudged against him, Whitaker bucked his hips back sharply, hungry and ready and running on instinct, claws grappling at Robby’s impossibly broad and bare, bare speckled shoulders. He’d fingered himself before he’d come over, he wasn’t stupid and it wasn’t his first rodeo, as Robby and everyone else would’ve liked to think. He’d show them. He’d show him.
“Nuh-uh,” Robby murmured against his tongue, pressing him down with his weight to stop him from shoving back, their foreheads pressed together, and it was gentle, coaxing even. The full-body press was comforting in a way, a moment of reprieve for Whitaker to calm his galloping heart.
Whitaker didn’t have much patience for it. “Pl- ease,” he managed to wriggle out, and that seemed good enough for Robby.
A slow stretch and burn with a nudge of hips, and fuck, the pictures really didn’t do him justice. Whitaker squirmed, mouth gaping and lungs feeling too tight as his chin dipped down to watch-
And Robby slid a hand up to his jaw to pull his gaze back up, the lube wet and squelching and his voice too soft for the burning currently consuming him. His eyes were dark, and soft, and Whitaker could only blink dumbly. “Such a good boy, that’s it, fuck, baby, that’s so fucking good, so tight -”
Robby let his own eyelashes flutter by the time his hips were flush. “Don’t just- stop,” Whitaker managed to huff out, and it was borne out of panic, out of the fear he might actually split in two, and Robby’s fingers tightened on his jaw.
Robby leaned up and back, the long, muscular line of his body casting shadows in the dark, and there was already sweat matting the thick hair on his chest. Whitaker’s eyes were too blurry to take in the full glory of it.
“I decide what you get,” Robby murmured, “and when you get it.” His hands seemed like they were everywhere: on the back of one Whitaker’s knees, splaying him farther open, and on his throat, thick knuckles covering his entire warbling trachea, and on his chest, thumbing his sweat-slick nipples, and everywhere else-
Whitaker hadn’t registered nodding rapidly, agreeing to something he couldn’t fully comprehend, and Robby’s bed groaned in protest when he actually started to fuck. Just like everything else Robby did, he did it with an unwavering resolve, and it had Whitaker choking out little huffs of whines, overtaken by the feeling. Each slap of hips and wet squelch of lube ramped up the litany of sensations, and Whitaker was a sobbing mess by the time Robby had started to run his mouth again, hips working in short, rough slaps of skin.
“You gonna cum for me?” Whitaker figured that question was directed toward him, even with his capacity for speech limited, to say the least. The need to fight back, even with the hand on his throat was starting to make him feel drunk.
“Fuck- you,” he hissed, even if he had meant to choke out ‘fuck, I think I’m in love with you’, it only spurred Robby on further, hips bucking faster with a feral grin, the wet slaps filling the room even as Whitaker crumpled happily underneath him. He dug fingernails into sweat-slick biceps, toes curling. He’d hoped he’d left sharp crescent marks, bruised or scratched-
“Be good for me, come on, baby,” Robby hissed right back, and how could he not oblige?
Whitaker came hard and fast with fingers loosening around his throat, and the rush of blood to his head was too much to bear as he let out a broken sob- Robby followed quickly behind, fingers gripping his hips and slamming in roughly a few more times before he pumped wet and hot into the thin latex separating them. “Fuck yes.”
They’d agreed to share a weekend shift that week, and the morning shift was busier than usual that Saturday. 7 AM was when most of the later crew rolled up, hungover and hopped up on caffeine- including Santos, given her car had turned on that morning in the chill.
Her usual spot was right next to the reserved attending spaces. She had no complaints with the lack of Whitaker in the morning, especially since she could play her music without Whitaker trying to talk over it in the passenger seat. She hadn’t found it odd when she’d gotten a broken text from him the night prior- or, more accurately, the morning of. Her vision had been a little too blurry to fully comprehend it, anyways.
1:48 AM: don’t wait up, c u tmo
All the better for her, she figured- one less thing to be irritated with when he woke up far too perky for any human being before the sun even rose. Still, she half-worried about him once she’d pulled up in the parking lot- she should’ve shared her location, or gotten his. Oh Jesus, could she be charged if Whitaker was murdered on her watch, or something? She once watched a movie like that. What were the legal implications of the ‘roommate’ status? Shit.
She was too deep in unenthusiastic panic to realize a car pulling up next to her. When she’d heard a door open in the spot, she felt a twinge of relief realizing Robby had picked up a weekend, too. He also looked half-hungover, and he didn’t seem to notice her, dark sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. She moved to turn her own car off, absentmindedly grabbing her backpack and slipping out onto the pavement.
Whitaker was a grown man, he could fend for himself. This was the perfect opportunity to get Robby’s opinion on a few cases they’d seen in the last few days, have a chat with him over their coffee, get a foot in the door. Jittery and leaned against the hood of her car, she eyed the inside of his car- it was a nice car, and clean, and-
Her eyebrows scrunched a bit. He had a passenger? Robby didn’t exactly seem like the type to carpool, at least not on a Saturday. The older man slipped out, and Santos stood up straighter, eager to talk, even if she knew neither of them were exactly morning people.
“Doctor Ro-” the passenger door opened a bit more hesitantly, and Santos dropped her favorite rambler, hearing it clack across the pavement.
Whitaker shot her a sheepish smile, and Robby gave her a more polite one as he picked up her chipped mug and handed it back to her silently. Whitaker hung back, which she figured was more polite. Was that Robby’s sweatshirt he was drowning in, or had she had too much to drink last night? And why the hell was he carpooling with Robby, of all-
Whitaker slipped past her with a grumble- “Don’t ask, okay?” and she caught a whiff of Robby’s cologne. She dropped her mug again despite herself, the puzzle pieces snapping into place too conveniently as Whitaker flinched next to her. Robby kept walking, seemingly unphased by her revelation, and Santos could’ve sworn she heard him huff out a humorless laugh in the crossing the parking lot as the two looked on.