Chapter Text
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to fuck your boss.
It’s entirely natural; you spend your whole day with your boss, they’re in a position of power, they obviously have money… it makes sense to be attracted to them. A lot of people do, it’s fine if you keep it an inside thought! Secretly being into your boss is not wrong.
The only inappropriate part of it, in Dennis’ case, is that they're both men. Not that being gay is unnatural— well, he consciously knows that it isn’t. Subconsciously, he’d really rather not think about it at all. Why confront your homosexuality when you can ignore it instead?
Dennis is gay and attracted to Michael Robinavitch. These are two of the things he hates most about himself, but he can repress them. Usually.
Tick, tick, tick, drones Trinity’s turn signal, in time with Dennis’ eye twitching. He clenches the passenger door handle, wondering if he should just tuck and roll onto the street.
It’s not like he’s suicidal, but he’s just been accused of being—
“A twink,” he echoes, gaping at Trinity over the center console. “Isn’t that for gay guys?”
She barks out a laugh, her eyes shooting wide with disbelief. She makes the turn, one-handed, all while side-eyeing him. “You’re saying you're not gay.”
“Well, uh! What makes you think that?” He’s trying to be calm, but his voice echoes off the car windows. High-pitched, tremulous. Trinity squints at him.
“Your music taste, your face, the way you stand, the ‘O’ face you make when Doctor Robby grabs you” —she lists, counting on her fingers, then looks up at the road— "fuck." She hisses as a bright red sports car cuts her off, and lays on the horn.
“Wait,” Dennis pales at the last one, genuinely nauseous. “Is that true? Has everyone noticed that, does everyone think that?”
She frowns at him, as if just noticing he’s going to have a panic attack. Her tone gets slightly gentler, as gentle as Trinity can be. “Don’t shit yourself. It’s probably just me, I'm the only person in The Pitt with a working gaydar.”
He slumps, putting his head in his hands on the dashboard, next to her Ellen Ripley bobblehead with its head wobbling up and down. They go over a pothole, and he nearly gets a concussion, catching himself on the glovebox.
It's 6:30 in the morning, and they're both headed to work in Trinity’s secondhand Subaru. It's way too early for this kind of conversation, and too close to the start of his shift to be thinking about Robby and “gay” in the same sentence.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he mumbles in defeat. “Seriously, Trinity.”
“I won’t out you, Huckleberry, don’t worry about that,” Trinity says benevolently. “We're in this together. Gay and Gayer.”
Silence. She comes to a stop at a red light and flicks her blinker on again. Tick, tick, tick.
Dennis finally manages, as she turns left, “... Who’s Gay, and who’s Gayer?”
She laughs and doesn’t answer him.
When Dennis was sixteen years old, he made his first best friend.
His name was Trevor, and they’d gone to the same school since elementary, in the same class, separate ends of the classroom.
Trevor sat closest to the board with a group of three friends, always laughing and confidently raising his hand. His nuclear family's two-story house had a white fence around the garden, a big oak tree near the window, and a swing on the front porch.
To Dennis, who walked twenty minutes every morning to the nearest bus stop, Trevor was untouchable. Dennis felt that way about all of his classmates, actually— he was just the dirty kid in hand-me-downs at the back of the class, in a whole different orbit.
There was nothing particularly interesting about Dennis Whitaker. The teacher had to auction him off when they did group projects, and he barely said a whole sentence throughout each school day.
But one Wednesday at lunchtime, Trevor came up to his secluded corner of the cafeteria, interrupting him mid-bite of his sandwich. “Hey, man, can I sit with you?” He asked, smiling, his white teeth flashing.
Dennis had looked over his shoulder, like there was anyone else around that Trevor could’ve been talking to. He turned back around, meeting Trevor’s twinkling, dark brown eyes.
Finally, dumbly, he said, “Uh. Sure.”
From then on, Trevor didn’t leave him alone. Dennis still isn’t sure why. He could’ve thought Dennis’ country boy shabbiness was somehow cute, or was just so bored he decided to take pity on the loneliest kid in school.
Either way, they were inseparable. They walked between classes together, Trevor brushing off his other friends to cling to Dennis' side down the hallway. They did all the typical small-town high school hangouts: going to the gas station, the dollar store, Walmart, all with Trevor grinning at Dennis and insisting on paying for their shitty snacks.
It was a calm, relaxing fall, so slow and sweet that Dennis barely noticed it happening. When, weeks into their friendship, Trevor leaned in and kissed him over a bag of gummy worms, Dennis didn’t panic. He leaned into it until they were both laughing, licking up the taste of sour sugar from each other’s mouths.
It was so easy that he forgot what it would cost him.
In their sophomore year of high school, months after that first kiss, it was over. Trevor’s mother caught them making out on his bed, with the door stupidly unlocked.
It wasn’t the first time they’d gotten to third base. Frotting, hand stuff, mouth stuff— they’d done it all. The weight of the cross dangling from his neck lay light on Dennis’ throat when he was in Trevor’s bed, pants dangling from their ankles, sweet pleasure blossoming from their touches.
It was all cute, teenage fun until that door swung open, and Mrs. Harris’ wide eyes met them half-naked on Trevor’s comforter. She didn’t scream, but she fumbled with the knob, nearly dropping the bowl of grapes in her hand.
Dennis finally felt aching, burning shame. He shoved Trevor off of him and pulled his pants up, gasping for breath.
Trevor backed away and slid his jeans back on, nervously reaching for Dennis’ hand. His fingers trembled only slightly, with no cold sweat or tears in his eyes. He looked as guilty as any normal teen would after getting caught having sex by his mother.
Dennis was finally reminded that he couldn’t afford to be like this. He couldn’t love another boy.
When they were dressed and mostly composed, Mrs. Harris took them downstairs and asked them how long they’d been dating. Her voice was gentle. Trevor said, “Nine months,” as Dennis wanted to blurt, “We’re not.”
She asked Dennis if his parents knew, and “yes” tumbled out of his mouth, desperate.
She smiled and told him she’d call them so they were “on the same page, is that alright, sweetheart?” Dennis said nothing at all. He opened his phone and showed her his mother’s number.
Now, Dennis understands that this was his penance. He could’ve easily told her, “No, thank you, my parents are homophobic, they’ll beat my ass,” but he didn’t. Instead, he silently watched her make the phone call. Trevor stroked his back soothingly as he fell apart.
Over the phone, his mother’s voice was gentle, too. She said, “Oh, kids these days are so irresponsible. Send him home, and we’ll have a talk. Thank you for telling me, ma’am.” Only Dennis could hear her pacing feet, her clenched teeth.
Mrs. Harris drove him home with Trevor next to him in the backseat, holding his hand. “Are you okay?” He asked Dennis quietly, concerned, thumb sweeping over his palm. Dennis nodded, and before he got out of the car, he kissed his cheek.
Trevor smiled. Dennis turned down the path and, without looking back, opened the front door.
For weeks after, Dennis’ eye was swollen shut. He could barely breathe or bend over with the dark green-blue bruising on his stomach and ribs, which was a problem when his chores had been doubled.
Dennis was pulled out of public school, and his phone— that he’d barely scrounged enough part-time paychecks to buy himself— was taken away.
The private Christian school he transferred to was even further from home. He had to walk an hour to his bus stop every morning before the sun was up. He rode alone in the very back, head against the cool window, letting it bruise his forehead.
Nobody talked to him. Nobody came up to him at lunch, held his hand down the hallways, or asked him what was wrong.
Every day, he looked up at the solemn cross looming over the steeple and wondered, Why did You make me like this, if it’s so sinful?
When he finally left Broken Bow for university, Dennis allowed himself to admit a few things. First, having sex isn’t a sin. Second, it’s okay to not be Christian. Third, and most importantly: being gay isn’t wrong.
So, Dennis Whitaker, age twenty-six, is now functional. He can have sex and not hate himself afterward. He knows the Grindr icon on his homescreen isn't the Devil’s temptation. His best friend knows that he’s gay, and his parents can’t keep him from seeing her.
He hasn’t talked to his parents in seven years.
Despite his tentative acceptance of himself, it’s still uncomfortable to think about loving a man. He refuses to admit that it’s possible. That’s why the whole “wanting to fuck his boss” situation is concerning.
Dr. Robby is hot, sure. He’s the pinnacle of Dennis’ type: old enough to be his father (which he refuses to think about too hard), half a head taller than him, and confident. But that attraction gets deeper and scarier with each passing day.
Robby is kind to him, even when he’s furious. He’s smart, witty, and sure of himself. Sometimes, Dennis daydreams of waking up to those experienced hands making breakfast for two in a cozy kitchen, tugging him over for a “good morning” kiss. Mortifying.
Inappropriate sexual fantasies are no big deal to Dennis at his age. But if it's more than that…
You can’t date your attending. Dennis can’t date anyone, for his sake and theirs.
But it’s not like Robby would want that, either. Dennis’ fifty-year-old, heterosexual attending is not interested in a boyfailure (he learned that term from Trinity, who insists on it even though he’s not a boy, he’s a grown-ass man) half his age.
He walks into the ER at 6:50 A.M. with Trinity at his side, throwing fewer barbs than usual. She can be nice when she wants to, and he likes to think he’s worked himself into her good graces over the last few months enough for her to want to.
“Morning, Whitaker, Santos,” Dana tosses at them right away, phone held between her shoulder and ear. “We’re busy as all hell, so I hope you’re well-rested. And Whitaker, get a set of sheets for central 13, would you? Elderly gentleman, on and off seizing, urine soaked through the bed. Mel is pumping him full of benzodiazepines.”
“Always stuck with the piss cases, huh?” Trinity sighs, faking commiseration. She shoves him forward, sending him stumbling ahead. “Just try to keep it out of your mouth this time.”
Dennis frowns back at her. “Don’t jinx it,” he sighs as he rushes off to the linen closet.
It’s in a distant, solitary corner of the ER, isolated by a tall wooden door. As he dwells in the silence, he pushes the door open with an echoing creak.
He slides inside, breathing in dry, thin air. It’s pitch black; the overhead light’s been blown since he started working here, and no one’s found time to replace it. He slides a footstool in the crack of the door, propping it open to invite a sliver of light inside.
Four aged, plastic shelves stacked with tubs of sheets, blankets, and pillows line the walls. As he pops a lid from the bottom shelf open and bends over to sort through the pile of white fabric, a warm hand suddenly lands on his nape.
He jolts, turning with bated breath to meet a dark, tired gaze. “Morning, Whitaker,” Robby says. “Got stuck with the bedwetting?”
His thumb sweeps up to Dennis’ hairline, tickling the baby curls. A shiver of electricity shoots up his spine as he tightens his grip on the bin.
“Yeah, hah, I guess. How’s your morning going, Dr. Robby?” It’s an awkward, abrupt question. He winces, stuck between moving away from the thrilling touch or leaning into it.
“No worse than usual,” Robby shrugs. His hand glides down to Dennis’ waist, nudging him aside and reaching for the top shelf. “You should take the ones up here first; they’re the oldest. Need to get rid of them before they get too musty.”
As his arm passes over Dennis’ head, a subtle scent of warm cinnamon and cedarwood hits his nose. Dennis is pressed against the wall, not sure where to look.
His face is under Robby’s jaw, and their legs are almost entwined. The air has turned even thinner, and Dennis’ mouth is bone dry.
Unperturbed, Robby takes the lid off the bin on the top shelf and rifles around. It makes his body nudge even closer to Dennis’.
Surely, at this point, it’s inappropriate. Where’s HR? Dennis should call them.
Robby passes him a folded square of sheets and finally steps back. Wind rushes back into Dennis’ lungs. “Thanks, Dr. Robby,” he says, clutching them to his chest as a shield.
“Of course, kid.” Robby’s free hand lands on the other side of his waist, gently caging him in. Dennis imagines those rough fingers touching around his back, thumbs teasing his stomach over his scrubs, and he feels dizzy. “On your toes today. This close to July, we get a lot of drunk college kids losing eyes to stray firecrackers.”
“Will do,” he chokes out. When Robby finally lets go, he hurries away, nearly banging his shoulder on the doorframe. He barely remembers to grab a contaminant bag from the wall on his way out.
This is the most confusing part: Robby keeps touching him. Every day is this bad. They always end up alone together, too. Closets, hallways, even the bathroom; wherever Dennis goes, his senior attending appears.
Dennis has been the subject of older men’s manhandling and attention for years. Apparently, he has a mourning, deer-in-headlights look about him that invokes paternal instinct. In every job he’s had, there’s been a middle-aged manager or coworker coddling him. A hand on his back, a kind voice calling him “kid,” a caring eye on him— nothing too crazy.
But Robby takes it further than any man outside of Grindr ever has. He practically gropes him, and whenever they’re attending a patient together, he doesn’t let him get an inch away from his side.
Dennis is probably well within his rights to report it to Kiara at this point, but he doesn’t. He never will, because unfortunately, he really likes it.
“Dennis.” Mel gives him a quick smile as he pulls back the curtain with a swish. She turns back to the IV with fierce focus. “Good morning.”
“Good mornin’, Dennis,” echoes the old man connected to the tube. He’s sagging into his wheelchair, voice low and slurred. “My grandpa’s name. That’s an old man’s name, yessir. Your parents must… been damn insane, not a name for a kid. No, sir.”
Dennis laughs awkwardly, dropping the clean sheets and bag on the prep table. He wrangles a pair of latex gloves over his hands and begins to strip the bed. “Good morning. How are you feeling, Mister, uh,” he cuts himself off, eyes flicking to Mel.
“Miller,” she provides.
“Mister Miller.” Dennis peels the last corner of the wet sheet away from the bed, rolling them up and loosening the drawstring on the contaminant bag. Luckily, it hasn’t soaked through to the mattress.
“Feelin’ damn good,” Mr. Miller murmurs. His head lolls to the side, but his chest rises and falls steadily. “How are you, Denny?”
“Not too bad,” he laughs, shoving the urine-soaked sheets in the bag and beginning to wrap the clean ones around the bed. “Just here to get you some new blankets, keep you comfortable.”
“You’re a nice kid,” Mr. Miller nods, his lopsided teeth flashing in a grin. “Parents should be proud. Now tell ‘em to give you a better name. That’s my pappy’s name, y’know, and he smoked himself to death. Don’t smoke, kid.”
“Thank you, Mr. Miller,” Dennis smiles as he finally manages to finagle the clean sheet around the edges of the mattress. He sets out the blanket and pillow, pats them down, then straightens up. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He goes to Mr. Miller’s side and carefully transfers him from the wheelchair to the bed, nodding along with his drugged ramblings. When his head rests flat on the pillow, he starts to doze off, and Dennis steps away with a sigh of relief.
“Have you talked to Dr. Robby?” Mel asks from the corner. Dennis squints at her, confused. “He’s seemed worried about you for a while. The other day, he asked me if I’ve noticed anything off.”
“What?” He blinks at her. “I’m totally fine, why would he think that?”
“You have looked tired lately,” she pats his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “And you’re his favorite. He just worries about you more than the rest of us, I think.”
“No, that’s not true,” he frowns. The weight of Mel’s grip on him feels like judgment. “Dr. Robby doesn’t play favorites. He pays attention to everyone, he’d never treat you guys like that.”
The thought of it alone is nauseating. On one hand, it’d mean Robby cares about him, which is amazing. On the other hand, it means Dennis is a nepo doctor. He doesn’t want to be here because he’s pitiful; he wants to be here because he’s skilled.
Mel’s neck stiffens, her lips pursing unsurely. “I didn’t mean it like that—” her careful apology is cut off by the curtain opening, swish, yet again.
“Whitaker, good, come here.” Robby storms inside, grabbing Dennis by the scruff. “Incoming trauma, possible TBI. You’re with me.”
“Yes, sir,” Dennis says, like he has any other choice. He’s feeling pretty pathetic, but self-consciousness is best left outside the ER. He shakes it off, along with Robby’s hold.
They fly through the hall like a hurricane, Robby’s presence as sure and overwhelming as ever. Dennis feels like a fly on the wall next to him, staggering to match his long strides.
They finally reach a room on the opposite wall, intruding into a familiar pandemonium.
“Do you know where you are?” Trinity is saying, bent over the bed, penlight in hand. Mateo and Samira stand on either side of her, an empty gurney next to them, their shoulders heaving from transferring the body to the bed.
“Home,” a broken voice groans. “I’m… at home. I fell.”
“Not quite.” Robby snaps on his gloves and makes his way across the room. “Second chance: what’s your name?”
As always, Dennis follows after him. He pulls a new pair of gloves from his pocket and tosses the old ones, flitting over to check vitals. Heart rate, body temp, respiration, all in the clear. Reassured, he sidles past Mateo and Samira, emerging by the bedside.
He’s so focused on the blood gushing from the wide wound on the guy's forehead, the faltering breathing, that he doesn’t register his face.
“Come on, name,” Robby commands, pushing the patient’s hair out of the way.
Those foggy, trembling pupils swirl around the room before leveling straight ahead. He blinks once, twice, a loud swallow shaking his throat.
“Dennis?” That hoarse voice calling his name shatters Dennis' concentration. Wide, brown eyes stare at him through a haze of confusion. A slim nose, thin lips, freckles across his cheeks—
“Trevor,” the name is pulled from Dennis’s throat like a revelation.