Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s just gone four-thirty on a Friday and it’s the first time that Robby’s had a seat that wasn’t in front of a patient all day. The pleasure of sitting in a chair he can lean back in at last is euphoric. Enough for him to turn a momentary blind eye to what’s happening around fifteen feet away from his desk at Central: Santos, Javadi and Mohan are standing in a small circle chatting. Javadi has her phone out. 

Why Javadi has chosen to spend her twenty-first birthday working in the Pitt is a complete mystery to Robby. He’d have gotten her scheduled off if she asked. Hell, if he had known before this morning what day it was, he’d have given it to her without her even needing to even say anything. 

Maybe that’s why he’s been going a little easy on her today – kept her in triage for as long as he could to spare her from any of the potential birthday-ruining traumas that could roll in from the ambulance bay. He’s not got the bodies to send her home with Collins out for the day, but he can try and conduct damage control at least a little. There’s nothing that’ll help you remember when someone died under your care like it happening on your twenty-first birthday.

She shouldn’t have her phone out though, and nor should she be doing what she appears to be doing now with Santos and Mohan: excitedly discussing evening plans. The other girls should know better too. They’re fortunate that he’s too exhausted right now to jump on them. He’ll give them two minutes. If they don’t finish up and disperse by then, he’ll expend the effort to get pissy.

“Then after the bar I was thinking we could go to this other place,” Javadi says with the kind of enthusiasm that youth alone is capable of fostering, “It’s not that far and it’s new. It just opened last month.” She offers her phone to the girls to look at, her eyes flickering between their faces, searching for validation.

“I don’t see why that matters. Everywhere is new to you, crash.” Santos scoffs at Javadi who predictably purses her lips in offended annoyance.

“Well, yeah. Obviously.” She replies defensively, “But I want it to be, like, fun for everyone.”

Mohan now: “It does look fun. It’ll be great. I think Mateo was talking about wanting to check it out.” 

Javadi quickly retracts her phone and slips it back into her pocket, blinking quickly. Under where his hand scratches his beard Robby’s mouth curls up in a small smile. Kids. 

“Is Mateo coming?” Mohan asks with a cheerful lightness, the perfect disguise for the teasing that’s got Javadi thoroughly ruffled. Javadi keeps touching her hair at the second mention of his name.

“He said he would. Later. He’s with a few friends upstate today but said he’d be back around ten.”

Mateo’s childhood friend has just had a baby and he’s spending his day off visiting them somewhere upstate. Robby knows this but doesn’t know how. As gossip goes it’s too inane for Princess or Perlah to care so he figures it was probably Dana who mentioned it. She’s big on that sort of stuff. People being happy.

Robby is quite content to keep working at a safe respectable distance from the conversation, but something catches his attention. He looks up, glasses slipping an inch or so down his nose to see its Santos, sidling up next to him, leaning on the desk and craning her neck to enter his eyeline.

“Are you coming with us, Dr. Robby?” 

Robby’s eyes are back on his computer screen, though at this point in the day they’re so bleary that he can barely make out a word of text, “Whatever your plans are, I’m doing the three of you a favour by pretending I have no idea about them.”

“You should come!” Mohan chirps, “It’s for Javadi’s birthday.”

That does get him to look up. He fixes Mohan with a confused raise of one brow, “Mohan, you are the person I’d least expect to want me there spoiling your evening.”

She frowns and shrugs, as if considering the point, “I figure you have to loosen up and be okay sometime. You drink in the park with us.”

Robby glances over to Javadi, expecting her to look mortified at the other girls for inviting him but to his surprise, she doesn’t. Seems a little uncomfortable, sure, but she’s actually smiling a little. Shit, do they all expect him to be showing up to this thing? All three of them have a weird hopefulness in their eyes, like kids asking if daddy’s gonna show up to their little league game.

“You should go.” Great, now Dana’s weighing in, she’s leaning over from her desk to contribute and giving Robby a look, “It’ll get you out of here on time at least.”

“Dana, you should come too.” Javadi tells her. ‘Too’? Since when did he actually agree…

Dana smiles warmly at the offer, “Thanks, hon, you’re cute, but I got dinner with my daughters later. Fact that I’m actually gettin’ the three of us all in one room’s a miracle…”

Robby finds his excuse, “There’s a patient in bay two I gotta keep an eye on. No beds upstairs so I think they’re in for the long haul.”

Dana calls him out immediately, “And what? You don’t think night shift can handle it? You gonna tell Abbott that you skipped on Javadi’s birthday because you don’t trust him to take care of things?”

Robby sighs heavily, pushing his glasses up to rub at the top of his nose. Attacked from all sides in his own damn emergency room.

“As your attending, I don’t think it’s appropriate to–”

“If I could convince Huckleberry to come out, I can convince you.” Santos says, a determined glint in her eyes.

Then, finally, a reasonable voice joins the fray, 

“What?”

It’s Whitaker, brow raised as he halts where he’s walking over to one of the bays, bag of O neg clasped in one hand, at the mention of his unwanted nickname. His eyes dart around the small congregation that’s formed by now at Central. Robby feels it when they land on him.

Santos looks over her shoulder at him, “You agreed to come later for Javadi’s thing, right? I was just telling everyone.”

Whitaker's lips part for a second and he steps forward. Robby sure hopes whoever needs that blood doesn’t need it fast, “I didn’t exactly–” He begins.

“Dr. Robby’s coming too now.” She tells him and looks back at Robby, “He says he needs to let off some steam.”

This girl lies with too much ease. Robby would be impressed if he didn’t have to be her boss.

“Is that true?” Whitaker asks, taking another tentative step towards Central. He’s looking at Robby again, their eyes meeting for a second time, a quiet smile forming on his delicate looking lips. 

Since his first day, Whitaker has started looking healthier. Honestly, Robby was a little concerned when the kid first showed up – eyes bags dark enough to look like bruises, pale as a sheet – but it must have been first day nerves. He’s got some colour back, a rosyness in his cheeks and a brightness in his eyes. He’s still Whitaker of course, soft spoken, unassuming. Skittish even. But, unlike some, he doesn’t need the brash swagger. What at first looked like shyness has developed into a humble confidence. He surprises Robby, almost always in a good way.

He’s still looking at Robby with a kind of hopeful wonder. Like how Javadi can’t leave her hair alone when she’s anxious, Whitaker too has come to the Pitt with a sort of nervous tick. He puts his hand to his neck and feels at the soft looking skin around his clavicle with those clever fingers like he’s looking for something there; pawing at the hollow of his slender throat.

Robby quickly runs his tongue over his lips. Air’s dry in here. He tears his eyes away to cast them across the chorus of expectant faces. Who said peer pressure was just for teens?

“Fuck it, fine.” He says, voice slightly strained with reluctance, “If there’s no emergencies and if Abbott is comfortable with taking over the cases.”

Dana claps a hand on his shoulder, “That’s the spirit.”

“Okay, great!” Javadi says, no longer trying to hide her excitement at a growing guest list, “We’re leaving at seven-thir–”

Robby waves her off, not unkindly, “Yeah yeah, I heard your whole damn conversation. Now you” He nods at Javadi, “Put your phone away. You,” he nods at Whitaker, “go give that blood to whoever needs it, and you two,” He gestures to Santos and Mohan both, “Go find somewhere to make yourselves useful.”

Mission of dragging him out to some shitty bar complete, the team are happy to disperse. As the text on his monitor screen blurs into black squiggles before his eyes, Robby realises he’s a little surprised: he’s agreed to go to this thing, but the dread he expected to set in upon relenting isn’t coming. He gets up from the desk and stretches.

“Let’s go save some people!” He calls after them.

“Yessir!” Santos calls back.

***

Jack’s good with every case Robby gives him. Of course he is, he’s a great doctor. He’s also a traitorous piece of shit, or that's what Robby thinks anyway when he laughs loudly at the fact he’s spending the rest of the night at a twenty-first birthday party.

They’re on the roof, where has become their unofficial spot for handovers, though not since Pittfest have they had these conversations on the wrong side of the barrier. Robby figured if he was gonna give therapy a go he’d at least make the effort to stay alive long enough to find out if it works. It’s too early to say whether or not it does work but, hell, if all it does is give him a reason to try, Robby will keep paying the 120 dollars a week. Jake’s talking to him again. Not like he did before. It usually ends with Jake storming off or hanging up or whatever but he keeps coming back to talk again. It’s enough to cling to for now. ‘He knows that you did everything you could,’ Jake’s mom tells him over the phone, ‘but he still needs someone to blame. I’m sorry that’s you right now.’

So, for now at least, Robby will stay on this side of the barrier. He’ll go out tonight and he’ll actually try and not be an ass. What’s the worst that could happen? The worst already happened, and he’s still here.

“Since when did MS4s invite their attendings to their birthday?” Jack asks facetiously as Robby finishes warning him about the patient in bay four who’s only been here an hour and already made passes at Mel and at Mohan.

“I don’t know. Don’t start.” Robby groans, feeling his face go a little warm as Jack lays bare the absurdity of the whole thing.

“You sure they didn’t invite you out just to be polite? Or are you making your underlings kiss the ring by getting you drinks now?” Jack chuckles again and nudges Robby when he sees the other man cringe. “I’m just messing with you, brother. I don’t know how they convinced you to go, but I’m happy they did.”

Robby immediately thinks of the way Whitaker’s eyes seemed to focus when Santos told him he was coming. How he’d gone from looking around the room straight onto Robby. He doesn’t answer.

Jack leans back off the railing, “Alright party princess, you don’t wanna be late. Enjoy it, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Robby gives a quiet laugh as they head back inside, “I think I’d be better off avoiding anything you would do.”

“Hey, don’t be afraid of a good time, my man.”

***

Javadi pulled a decent crowd in the end. She, Santos, and Mohan all changed in the bathroom and how they managed to do all that with their hair and makeup in the fifteen minutes they had between finishing their shift and now is astounding. Mel made her excuses with her sister, but the speed at which she beelined out the door made it pretty clear to Robby at least that she thought the whole thing sounded like a living nightmare. McKay pleaded family commitments too, citing Harrison, but as she left she presented Javadi with a nice bottle of wine, “If you’re gonna start drinking, you can at least try the good stuff. Behave yourself.” Gives Javadi an affectionate wink before heading out too. 

Denny and Princess are representing the day shift nurses. Perlah doesn’t drink so she’s out, and Jesse’s too aloof to go out with coworkers. Whitaker has changed his bottoms out for a pair of jeans and keeps the white t-shirt he’s been wearing under his scrubs all day on top. Brave, Robby thinks, for someone so routinely splattered to be daring white. He’s totally underdressed himself – same old cargos, long sleeved t-shirt probably has a hole in it somewhere, same old hoodie. Eh, whatever, they’ll take him as they find him or let him out of this to go home.

Looking around at the faces lingering by the ER staff entrance Robby feels intensely aware of his age. It gets worse when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see Collins is busy and won’t be joining them. Robby has reason to suspect a date. She’s been seeing someone new. Another thing he doesn’t know how he learned but that he’s absorbed nonetheless. Robby scratches the back of his neck. He had been hoping at least for a senior resident to come along and bridge the gap between interns and students and their attending.

Fuck it, he’ll stay for one, make the kids happy and escape. At least he’ll give Jack another laugh in the morning when Robby relieves him and tells him he was at least two decades older than the other party-goers.

They walk to the bar, filing in a line on the sidewalk like school kids on a field trip. At least the mood is better than their usual post-work drinking sessions. Buoyant chatter and laughter has replaced what is usually a thousand-yard stare and jaws that are set tense to avoid trembling. It helps, of course, that their last couple hours didn’t have any shot children, dying parents of toddlers, or OD’ed college kids. A day without hysterical screaming in the Pitt is such a rarity that Robby had been starting to doubt it was possible. Javadi got lucky on her birthday.

Robby lingers to the back, watching the birthday girl herself engage Denny in a very animated conversation. Robby can’t make out what they’re saying but at one point Javadi opens her eyes wide and exclaims, “Exactly! Exactly!”

Whitaker falls back from the crowd too to fall in step with him.

“It’s good that you’re coming.” Whitaker says, his voice accompanied by a peal of laughter coming from one of the girls leading the charge out front.

Robby gives Whitaker a bashful smile. Before he even registers that he’s doing it, he slings his arm around the kid’s shoulders, hand finding something to squeeze lightly, “Nice of you, kid, but I’m way too fucking old for this.” 

It’s good to get that out in the open. He’s acknowledged it before anyone else can accuse him of it, even if it's just to Whitaker.

Robby doesn’t exactly know why he started grabbing Whitaker at every opportunity. He’s a tactile guy as it is, that’s true. Langdon got his fair share of it. But that always felt firmly bro-ey. It was a slap on the back with Langdon, at most a comforting grip on the arm. A shove, at the end. But Robby’s hands never lingered on Langdon like they do on Whitaker, never found their place so easily on so many different parts of his body. 

If he were to level a guess, Robby would say he does it to make sure Whitaker’s really there. His wide eyed, vaguely haunted look on their first day made him seem a little like a ghost, like Robby’s hand would go right through him. Touching and manoeuvring Whitaker seemed to remind Whitaker too that he was real. A grounding touch. 

But now that Whitaker’s settled in, now that he’s one of the best on the whole damn team and he’s not even graduated med school, the excuse that Robby’s just assisting – just guiding and grounding – is wearing a little thin. But he still can’t keep his hands to himself. Doesn’t help that the kid seems molded to fit his touch; slight frame and narrow features. Grabable.

“I don’t think you’re too old.” Whitaker says, pulling Robby out of these thoughts, “I think it’s pretty cool that you’re here.”

The gang is coming to a stop, bunching up to form a small crowd as the more baby faced among them start to root around in their purses and wallets for ID. They’ve stopped in front of a bar that looks humming with activity inside. It’s not somewhere Robby’s been to, but it’s one he’s vaguely aware of as that cowboy place downtown. Shit.

Still, he’s feeling good natured as he accompanies the group inside. It’s Friday night after all, and the place is buzzing, the chatter and the music and the low lighting all making a familiar scene of revelry. Luke Combs or someone of that ilk is playing loud over the speakers and various country and western themed items have dressed this place up like an old saloon.

Whitaker is still next to him.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Robby asks. He recalls the brutality of student loans and if every med student he’s ever encountered is to be believed, they’ve only gotten worse. If he’s going to the bar, it seems only right to ask.

Whitaker just shakes his head like he couldn’t possibly, “I’m fine! Santos said she’d cover me. I helped her friend out by moving a couch last night, so I figured she kind of owes me.” 

What Dr. Santos is doing having Whitaker running around moving furniture Robby doesn’t know, he just hopes they’re being sensible. He doesn’t feel like having an MS4 down with a pulled muscle. He orders himself a bourbon. 

“I’m really enjoying my ER rotation.” Whitaker tells him as Robby sips. 

Robby nods, always happy to offer advice of this kind, “It’s probably too early for you to pick a specialty, but I gotta say, you’re good in the Pitt. I’m not gonna try pushing anything on you, but emergency medicine isn’t something everyone can handle.”

“I’m doing OBGYN next. It sounds interesting and all, but kind of repetitive.”

If there is one thing that emergency medicine is not, it’s repetitive. Robby thinks this with a grimace. He’s about to offer this observation to his student but it’s then that Santos emerges from the crowd, hurrying over with a determined look in her eye.

“Holy shit. Dennis.” She says, barely able to contain her excitement and clamps both of her hands on his shoulders. She has to raise her voice over the pop-country they’ve got blasting on the speakers and the noise of people.

Whitaker raises her eyebrows at her. He doesn’t look like he’s got any idea what’s going to come out of her mouth.

She points, “That. Holy shit.”

Whitaker follows her gesture, Robby does too. 

Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a concussion waiting to happen. 

A mechanical bull. It’s fenced off from the rest of the bar with padding mats that look way too thin lining the floor. It isn’t operational at the moment but as the night picks up it won’t stay that way. There’s nothing drunk people love more than attempting physical feats that they’re ill-equipped to perform. Robby could write a list of patients longer than his arm to prove it.

The bull itself is crude, a vaguely cow shaped barrel of plastic with hide stapled to it and a saddle. Its model head looks like its seen better days, faded eyes and one foam horn on squint. The mechanism underneath it though looks pristine, well looked after and probably well used. There are two signs hanging by the operator panel ‘RIDE BIG BESSIE $5’ reads one. The other just gives a simplistic description of what riders might expect: ‘BUCK ‘n’ SPIN’ it says.

Whitaker laughs and sweeps a hand over his face, “Oh my God, Trinity.” He smiles but shakes his head, “No way.”

“Come on, country mouse! It’ll be like bein’ back on the range.” She affects a vaguely Midwestern accent for this last part. Whether she thinks that it’s endearing is a mystery.

“You ride it!”

“Huckleberry.” She says firmly, “I cannot express how badly I want to see the farm boy on the bull. Do it for me. And Javadi, you didn’t even get her a birthday present.”

“You didn’t get her a birthday present!”

Santos doesn’t get Robby involved in her petition. Probably wise on her part. The two back and forth this way before an eventual compromise is reached.

“Get me a drink,” Whitaker says, “And I’ll think about it.”

“Done.” Santos says and she disappears into the crowd.

They watch her go.

“What was that about?” Robby asks, mildly bemused by the whole thing.

Whitaker gives a quiet chuckle that’s only just audible over the noise and looks apologetic. “Grab a seat?” He asks and Robby thinks he must have not heard his question. He looks around and sees his team has dispersed around the venue. Whitaker is the only one that remains. If Robby doesn’t take Whitaker up on his offer he’ll be sat like a sad sack on his own, and he could really do without any further rumours in that regard.

He thinks again about Jack's comment and hopes Whitaker isn’t just being polite as he nods, “If we can find one, sure.”

There’s a couple of empty tables that Robby spots, “Here.” he says, hand finding somewhere between Whitaker’s shoulder blades to urge him through the crowd. It sinks a little lower as they walk. By the time Robby removes it it’s almost at the small of his back. Whitaker gives a small smile and nods as they sit. Big Bessie looms next to them like a bad omen a few meters away. 

“She’s got a weird obsession with me doing, like, farm and rodeo stuff.” Whitaker calls over the rising noise. It takes Robby a second to realise he’s answering the question he asked him, “I don’t know why. I think it’s after I killed that rat.”

The rat move was ballsy. It’s rare that something happens in the Pitt that’s memorable for a good reason. As Robby nods and takes a sip of bourbon. He notices that Whitaker’s hand is back up at his neck, fidgeting and stroking over his collar like he did when confronted with everyone at Central earlier. Is he nervous? Maybe he should be. It’s never easy to be the one landed with the boss at these sorts of things. Lines are always a little blurry when there’s booze and bars involved.

But then they start talking and it quickly becomes easy. They pick back up where they left off, Whitaker’s expectations for OBGYN, his experience with internal medicine. Santos finds them and gives a pointed look at Whitaker as she hands him a drink. After one sip Whitaker makes a face but then he laughs, “She got an extra shot of vodka in here.” He explains to Robby, shaking his head as if this kind of thing happens a lot.

They talk about the Pitt and they talk about themselves. Nothing too personal, all good natured. Whenever they veer somewhere that could get too heavy one of them manages to steer towards a lighter topic. When Whitaker sucks his straw and just gets the rattling of ice Robby offers to buy him a drink again. He insists. He gets Whitaker another vodka and Sprite, only one shot of vodka this time. 

Whitaker tells him how he’s finding Pittsburgh, how he’s rooming with Santos, how he likes her but is secretly a little afraid of her: “It’s not like she does anything wrong, guess we just don’t have many like her back in Broken Bow,” He explains. Robby asks about Whitaker’s family and hears a lot about one particularly favoured brother. When he asks what Whitaker’s parents think of him becoming a doctor he goes a little cagier. Robby’s about to drop it when Whitaker leans over the table, speaking over the chatter all around them and Blake Shelton crooning over the sound system to tell Robby that his parents would rather he was straight and unsuccessful than gay and a doctor, and that they make no secret of it. For the first time that night Robby doesn’t know quite how to respond. He awkwardly offers that he never told his grandmother about his bisexuality but wishes he had. Even if she hadn’t all the way accepted it, telling her would be honest. He tells Whitaker to stay honest, even when it’s difficult. He wonders if he should be revealing so much about himself.

When their conversation naturally lulls the two of them watch the bull. Some are trying their luck on it now, invariably getting thrown off within seconds. One young woman gets onto the saddle and Robby and Whitaker watch as she makes a good effort. Ultimately though, when the bull spins for a full rotation she can’t keep her grip. She comes down on the mat hard and Robby’s hackles rise as she stays down, curling up into the fetal position and facing away from him. He immediately starts to think of all the injuries a fall like that could inflict: concussion, joint dislocations, sprains, whiplash and other neck traumas. It melts away when the girl flops onto her back and Robby sees her convulsing with laughter. He realises he’s even smiling. Eventually the young woman’s friends enter the pen and pull her up by the arms, hauling her away. The smile remains. It occurs to Robby that he’s having a good time.

At a point in the evening, the noise hits a certain threshold and talking across the table becomes harder. Robby shifts his chair around, pulling in right beside Whitaker so they can still hear each other. At this point they’re just making observations on the bull riders, guessing how long each new brave soul climbs up into the saddle will last. Robby has his hand on the back of Whitaker’s chair and they’re sitting close enough that their knees bump together under the table. When someone shuffles past behind them, squeezing through the tight gaps between people and tables, Robby puts a protective hand on Whitaker’s shoulder.

They watch a man aged in his forties approach Big Bessie.

“Oh, he’s got this.” Robby says, confident he’s finally about to see someone competent have a crack at the whip.

Whitaker scoffs, “Are you kidding? No way.”

“He’s wearing cowboy boots!”

Beside him, Whitaker shakes his head, “Overpriced fake ones.”

He’s right, the man doesn’t even last ten seconds. Off after one measly buck. Whitaker smirks to himself as the guy lands like a pancake on the mats. 

Robby gets up to take a leak after that. When he returns he finds their table empty. A cursory scan of the bar reveals no sign of Whitaker and Robby frowns. Did he go home?

“Santos.” Robby calls when he finds her. She’s with Javadi and Denny, looking down at her phone. Robby has to clamour through the crowd to get to her, “Dr. Santos!” He calls again when he doesn’t manage to get her attention the first time

She smiles when she sees him. Not always a good sign with this one.

“Have you seen Whitaker?” 

“I have absolutely seen Whitaker.”

Definitely not a good sign. Robby sighs and suddenly feels compelled to rub his tired eyes, “What’d you do with him?”

“Lent him five bucks.” She says and looks down at her phone again, the bright white light illuminating her face. Robby notices there’s a text chat open with someone she has saved as Huckleberry Finn. No prizes for guessing who that could be. 

The most recent message catches Robby’s eye, it’s from Huckleberry Finn himself,

‘ok the operator says im on next’

God-fucking-damnit.

He leaves for two minutes to piss and the whole night turns to shit. Robby knocks a fist against his head in frustration. He catches Santos’s thumbs type out a reply,

‘Did you tell him that nebraska is the birthplace of rodeo?’

The text back is immediate,

‘who told you that lol’

Robby looks over the bar and finally sees him. Whitaker leaning against a wall by the operator of the mechanical bull, phone in hand.

He curses under his breath and says pointedly, “Dr. Santos, I’d have assumed as a medical professional you’d know how incredibly dangerous those machines are, especially to a bar of drunk people with no idea what they’re doing.”

Santos tears her eyes away from her phone to give him a nonplussed look. She nods over at where Whitaker is standing, “Does he look like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you?”

She has a point, Whitaker looks remarkably relaxed as he waits his turn. A little reluctant maybe, but not as much shitting his pants like he probably should be.

“Doesn’t matter. He's been drinking–”

“Chill, boss.” She interrupts in a way that would be totally unacceptable in any other setting. It toes the line of acceptability even in this one, “He said he’d try it so why don’t you go get on his dick instead of mine?”

Get on his… Robby’s going to have to pull her aside for a serious talk about respecting authority tomorrow.

The concern must be showing on his face because Santos puts her phone in her pocket and gives him a light pat on the arm, “He’s gonna be good. Just enjoy the show.”

He could probably put a stop to this by pulling rank but Robby knows he doesn’t really have any power here and he’s not so much of dick to act like he does. It’s gonna be a real kick in the nuts though if he’s down a student tomorrow. 

“Unbe-fucking-lieveable.” He says gruffly as he watches the woman who’s currently on the bull collapse off of it. 

The operator says something to Whitaker and Robby wonders if now would be the time to go out for a smoke. He couldn’t bring himself to though, he feels compelled to stay, as if his concerned and watchful gaze will make the difference between a bruised ass and a sprained ankle.

Whitaker slings one leg over the saddle and Robby’s already wincing. 

“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” Someone shouts and Whitaker gives a reserved smile. Yeesh, there’s an audience, not just Robby and Santos and the rest of the team, but at this point half the bar are watching the bullriders. 

Whitaker nods at the operator and fixes one hand on the front of the saddle as the bull starts to rock. He moves with it, swinging the arm that isn’t hanging onto the saddle, his body loose. The speed picks up and Whitaker goes briefly rigid as the bull spins, but his grip on the saddle and on the barrel between his legs stays put.

The bull spins again and Whitaker lets himself go a little slack with it this time, letting his body curve in an arc, wind catching in his hair for a second as he swings two full rotations before the thing tries to throw him with a few sharp bucks. With just one hand to steady himself, Whitaker rides them out, letting the barrel push up into him. 

His hips follow the jerking of the barrel, his top half remaining still as he elegantly shifts his weight counter to where the mechanical bull wants to throw him. He works back and forth, letting the bull pick the speed and working with it, thrusting and letting himself be taken up down and around again, not even looking like he’s in danger of falling.

He’s… he’s good at it.

He’s really fucking good at it. 

Suddenly, Robby’s laughing. Incredulous laughter as he sees his meekest MS4 roll his hips forwards, jutting his lower half out and arching his back. He’s given up bashfullness, his face as he rides that bull is of cocky determination, but it’s not for the crowd, Whitaker looks like he’s in his own world. Robby too feels like the bar has fallen away, everything has, he isn’t even sure he’s breathing because fuck. 

The bull rotates again, then again, it bows down and jerks up. The operator is pushing now, seeing how far this skinny, timid kid who came out of fucking nowhere can go. The bar is loving it, whooping and yelling and Robby feels something in his chest. Pride? He’s gone from barely being able to watch to not wanting to even blink. He can’t keep his eyes from darting down to where Whitaker’s thighs grip the saddle, how he slides forwards on it with every downward bow of the bull and back as it pushes up. Again and again and again, he rolls with the mechanical bull with a single circular fluid motion.

Robby’s vaguely aware of the dryness of his mouth as it crosses his mind that this might be one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. He doesn’t even try to unpack that thought, it doesn’t even feel like an opinion he can change. It’s just a fact. Whitaker on the mechanical bull is one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. The bar is going nuts for it.

Whitaker’s shirt rises above his navel as he leans back once more, exposing a generous section of skin. Robby finds his eyes on it before he can stop himself. He’s become more toned since he started working in the Pitt; the firmness of working muscle emerging and strengthening. Working in the ER will do that. It suits him.

The bull bows down again, but this time it doesn’t buck upwards. It says suspended like that and Whitaker gives an exhilarated laugh as he’s finally given a real challenge. He pushes his hips out and down, towards the head and arches, bringing the rest of him towards the back of the bull. The effect is a fucking work of art, the long flowing shape of his body, the light flush on his face, the expression of single-minded resolve. Robby swallows hard and his hands tingle as he thinks about his hands on that exposed slice of skin. Whitaker’s waist is narrower than it appears in the unflattering boxy fit of his scrubs.

Beside him, the rest of the Pitt team are cheering themselves hoarse. Santos is out of her mind laughing and Javadi films the sight with her phone, her alternate laughs and cheers shaking the camera a little. Robby wishes there was a world in which he could ask her for the footage.

Whitaker holds it, holds it, holds it. He’s shaking a little with the effort, keeping himself from sliding forward and right over the head of the bull. The angle it’s at is ridiculous, the angle Whitaker’s at is ridiculous. Even if he falls now, he’s got everyone here eating out the palm of his hand.

But then suddenly it’s swinging up and round again and half the damn bar it seems has erupted. Whitaker throws one arm back as he rolls with the movement and pumps a victorious fist into the air as the bull spins around a half turn. He brings the arm again to give the plastic cow a smack on its rear.

Next to Robby, Santos is filming too now “Huckleberry!!” She calls out, and Whitaker twists around to wave into her camera. Robby laughs again. Now that’s just showing off. 

The ride’s starting to wind down and Whitaker can tell. He’s having fun with it now, letting himself go limp and his movements become exaggerated. As the bull rocks through its final bucks he releases both hands from where he’s been gripping the front of the saddle and holds both arms aloft.

When the ride comes to a stop, Whitaker swings himself off the saddle. He’s the first one all night to land feet first off of the mechanical bull. 

He’s crowded by his friends the moment he steps out the pen. Whitaker humbly accepts pats on the back, a fresh drink from Santos, Mohan’s, “You were amazing,” Denny’s “That was fucking insane, man,” and Princess’s “You looked so hot up there”. Robby just chuckles and runs his hand through his beard as he stands a few feet away by the bar. 

When he catches Robby’s eye and comes over Robby doesn’t even pretend not to be impressed, “Take a goddamn bow, kid.”

Whitaker grins, Robby can’t think of any time he’s seen him beam like that before. Not after saving lives, not when he gets proven right over senior doctors. The most Whitaker does then is nod with his lips pressed together, already moving on to the next problem in need of solving. Now though he lights up, smile reaching right to his eyes, and goddamnit, Robby can’t ignore the exhilarated pounding in his own chest.

Whitaker does bow, but he stumbles forward when he does, laughing a little, Robby catches him and Whitaker braces on Robby’s forearms, hands clasping on bare skin.

“Sorry,” He sounds a little breathless, “I’m still a little dizzy.”

Robby laughs, “Yeah, I’ll bet. You ever done that before?” 

Raising his voice over the music like this is straining, even for Robby who’s pretty loud anyway. Whitaker has to really shout. He nods his head and says something. It’s lost to the noise.

“Say again?” Robby furrows his brow to focus on Whitaker’s voice. He pulls the kid a little closer too, arm going around his torso, just where his waist starts to taper. His t-shirt is a little damp from sweat.

“Couple times back home! My brother wanted to do rodeo for a while so we’d practice together at county fairs.” He takes a few breaths, still panting and the exhales are wet against Robby’s skin, “I think the drinks helped this time!” As if to prove his point, Whitaker looks at Robby as he takes another sip through his straw.

He never said a word about it, not a peep since they got into the bar. No wonder he’d always known how long someone was going to last, seemed to know when they’d fall before they did. 

“You know, you’re really full of surprises kid.” Robby says and shakes his head in disbelief. Then he says something he wouldn’t sober, “I’m glad I came out, it’s been fun spending time with you.”

Whitaker opens his mouth for a second and closes it again, clearly thinking something as he raises the back of his wrist to his brow and swipes away the faint sheen of perspiration there. He looks like he’s going to say something else then. He looks up at Robby with something on his lips. He touches that space on his neck again and Robby is certain he’s about to speak. He even pulls him a little closer, arm around him tightening so that they’re pressed against each other, and leans down a touch to let Whitaker talk into his ear again.

But nothing comes. Instead there’s a shout, “Huckleberry!” that comes over the heads between the bar and the bull. Whitaker pulls away, out of Robby’s grip to peer across to see Santos, beckoning him frantically.

“You gotta get over here, they wanna put your picture up on the wall!” She shouts. 

Sure enough, behind Santos, next to the mechanical bull, there’s a wall of photos of two dozen or so people, all making silly faces and wearing a big novelty cowboy hat. Above the gallery is a big garish sign that reads ‘I TAMED BIG BESSIE’.

Whitaker goes, weaving his way back over to claim his prize of being immortalised in this bar with sticky floors and an overpowering smell of sugary syrup emanating from the bar. Robby laughs in spite of himself. Just a few weeks ago he wouldn’t have believed that Whitaker would have it in him to tame anything. Now the very idea of doubting him seems ludicrous.

He watches as Whitaker gets handed the requisite hat. Santos crowds in next to him and tries to photobomb, but Whitaker reacts gracefully, pulling her in and positioning the cowboy hat over both of their heads. She points at him fingergun style, letting there be no mistake as to who achieved the feat and Whitaker throws a big thumbs up. Both are grinning wide.

Robby turns away as the camera flashes in their face and runs a hand over his forehead. Time for another drink.

***

The night doesn’t manage to peak at that level of excitement again, but Robby finds himself staying. He and Princess get into a very cathartic shit talking session about the nursing situation in the Pitt. The words ‘those fuckers upstairs’ were used at multiple junctures. Then Mateo shows up and they get to watch Javadi, drunker than she’s ever been in her life, creep over to him like he might explode if she moves too fast. He calls a cab for Mohan after she starts to cry and tell him he’s ‘like a father’. He slips forty bucks into her hand for the fare and forces some seriousness into his voice in order to tell her to hydrate, sleep it off and come in at nine tomorrow. 

He’s gonna regret this tomorrow, he thinks, when the warm low lights of the bar are replaced again with the harsh overheads of the Pitt and he has to reestablish authority. He likes to think they’ll all be professional, but it’s not generally recommended in the PTMC employee handbook to go partying with your team as their attending. Even worse if they’re generally about half your age. 

Speaking of employees that are too fucking young.

The bar shuts at eleven and the remainders file out. 

“Alright!” Santos calls to action, “There’s a club about a ten minute walk away and I know the guy at the door. Who’s skipping the line with me?”

Javadi cheers.

God help anyone who has a medical emergency in the vicinity of the Pitt tomorrow. Robby needs to intervene.

“Santos,” He says firmly, “I don’t usually do this, but I am begging you to come to work in a reasonable condition tomorrow.”

She cackles, but Robby doesn’t let her and her entourage of Javadi (who blessedly had the foresight to take tomorrow off), Mateo and Denny leave until she’s promised to be good. Or whatever qualifies as good in the world of Dr. Trinity Santos.

He sighs and pulls his hoodie tighter, looking to see who’s left. Mohan’s gone, Princess slipped out at some point. Robby is slightly surprised to see it’s just Whitaker now, hovering near the closed bar door. He gives Robby a mild smile when he’s noticed but he looks a little pained. It’s no wonder, what started as a warm evening has plummeted and Whitaker has one bare arm wrapped around himself to protect from the chill in just a t-shirt.

“Not going with them, cowboy?” Robby asks as he steps closer, trying to position himself to at least shield the poor kid from the wind.

Whitaker shakes his head, “I don’t really do clubs.”

“Good boy.” Robby tells him. This makes Whitaker’s eyes dart up, lips slightly parted again. 

For a moment Robby thinks he’s about to say whatever he didn’t say earlier in the bar, but as he raises his eyebrows expectantly at Whitaker, whatever it is evaporates again. 

Whitaker looks back down at his phone, “I’m just trying to see how I get home…”

Robby leans over. It’s an invasion of privacy, he knows, but fuck it, tonight’s been murky on boundaries from the start. He expects to see Uber open, with any luck telling the kid that salvation in the form of a Kia is on the way, but to Robby’s horror he sees the Google Maps public transit directions on Whitaker’s screen. It’s late enough now that they’re on night bus schedules, a downgrade from the already shitty city transit timetable, and the fastest route Whitaker’s being suggested apparently takes 1hr and 2mins. Ten minutes walking included. Then there’s the fact that the bus doesn’t even leave for another twenty-three minutes. Robby also doesn’t fail to notice that his student’s phone is on a risky 6%.

“Yeesh, Whitaker.” Robby says, not managing to keep the dismay out of his tone.

Whitaker notices Robby looking and jumps a little, suddenly hiding his phone like he’s embarrassed. It makes Robby feel a little bad for prying; worse that Whitaker is staring down the barrel of an hour-long commute in the cold. 

“Get a cab.” He insists, “Here, I’m about to call one for myself, I’ll get them to send two.”

Whitaker looks spooked, panicked even as he protests, “No, that’s– Um. Money’s a little tight right now.”

Robby watches the bob of Whitaker’s throat as he swallows, forehead creased as he blows on cold fingers. He looks freezing, muscles all tensed to stop the shivering. He looks a hundred miles away from that boy on the mechanical bull, rolling his hips with the movement and letting himself swing. Robby feels a sense of genuine injustice come over him as he realises that that’s the real Whitaker he saw up there, but that he’s knocked back by circumstance, by money (or lack thereof), or by shame into this wary looking slip of a thing cradling his phone and huddling over in the dark. Broken system, Robby thinks, you save lives and they thank you with this.

“I’ll lend you the cash. No interest, pay me back whenever you have the means.” Robby says, keeping his voice even. He doesn’t have any desire to make Whitaker feel pitied. He also has no wish to get the money back and will refuse it if Whitaker tries, but Robby’s learned to read people well enough to know when they won’t accept handouts. Not easily anyway.

Whitaker looks like he’s going to say no. Robby hopes that he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to make it an order.

Then a chilling wind cuts through them both. It makes Robby cold and he’s got his hoodie on at the very least. It’s cold enough to make Whitaker nod, stepping in closer with his fists balled.

“Alright. I’ll pay you back though, I swear.”

“Good boy.” Robby says off handedly again, pulling his wallet out. He’d glanced at the street name of Whitaker’s place on his phone and reckons a twenty should comfortably cover it. Ten should cover his fare from here. It’s not far. Though, it is in the opposite direction.

It’s only once he’s opening the wallet does he realise how he’s messed up. Robby stiffens as he relives the memory of shoving forty into Mohan’s fist, her watery ‘I don’t want you to hate me’ telling him that she really needed to go home. Robby cringes as he sees the single ten he’s left in there for himself. Not knowing where Mohan lives, Robby had thrown a bunch of cash at her, leaving only what he needed for his own egress. Shit.

“Are you okay, Dr. Robby?”

He doesn’t have Uber or any of the other ride apps and even if Whitaker does, Robby doesn’t have the cash to cover it for him, “I, ah…” He rubs at his forehead, his turn to be embarrassed it would seem, “I’m running a little short on bills.”

Whitaker’s eyes widen in realisation and he puts his palms up, speaking too quickly as he tries to assuage, “Oh! No problem! Thanks anyway, it was really, um, nice of you–”

“You’ve got GPS open, where’s the nearest ATM?” Robby cuts in, not in the mood for any more of Whitaker’s squeamishness. They’re both bitterly cold by now and if Whitaker thinks Robby’s going to call a car and just wave him off into the night alone then he’s not as smart as he thought.

For a split-second he looks like he’s about to protest further, but he thinks better of it. Whitaker’s hand goes back to his neck, nervously dragging his fingers over the delicate looking skin as he thumbs the search query into his phone.

“Seventeen minutes that way.” Whitaker points.

Seventeen minutes sounds like murder, but by the time they get cash and two cabs, Whitaker’s bus wouldn’t have even showed up, even if by some miracle it wasn’t running late. It’s a worthy sacrifice.

Robby nods grimly, “Alright. Lead the way.”

They last four minutes.

If it wasn’t suddenly fucking freezing, if Robby had the cash for two cabs, if Whitaker wasn’t insisting on the goddamn bus, if Robby hadn’t blown all his money on getting Mohan home, he’d never under any circumstances suggest this.

Even as he does suggest it Robby isn’t sure if he’s to blame a machination of circumstance or his own principles just not being as rigid as he thought.

“Okay, look,” Robby says, grabbing the kid’s arm to stop him, “Way I see it we can keep walking and both end up catching pneumonia or something, or we could both go to my place. I keep spare cash and I can call you another cab from there. Whaddaya say?”

***

They’re in a warm cab minutes later.

Whitaker’s agreement to this plan had been delayed but enthusiastic. At first he looked at Robby like he didn’t quite hear him right, and then like he had suggested jumping in the river and swimming to their respective homes. Just as Robby began to backtrack he changed his tune, nodding rapidly,

“I’d be okay with it! I mean, if you are. If you wanted to. I mean I’m sure you don’t, like, want to but I’m… I’m good with it. If you are.”

Robby had his phone out to call them a cab before Whitaker could finish his rambling acquiescence. 

Now, next to him, Whitaker looks like butter on hot toast with the way he’s spread out, long arms and legs taking up all of his seat and half of the middle one between them. He sighs contentedly. Robby watches with a bemused half smile, still thinking of how Whitaker’s arms looked as he held onto the front of that saddle.

“You good, kid?”

“Mm-hm.” Whitaker hums, nodding and straightens up a little, “Just feels good being warm again. It was kind of cold out there.” 

Robby smirks and shakes his head. No shit. This kid, seriously. He watches out the cab window, city lights rushing by.

“How much did you end up having back there?” Robby inquires. It’s a pertinent question. A sensible question that a responsible attending needs to know the answer to. Whitaker’s another he needs up and at it at seven tomorrow morning. He’s already given Mohan an extra few hours in bed. They'll need all hands on deck. 

Whitaker’s gentle voice comes from beside him, “Not that much… I don’t really drink often, so…”

“Great, both my non-drinking, barely-legal med students have been plied with alcohol all night. That’ll go well.” Robby deadpans, sort of meaning it. He’s been aware for a few hours now that something’s come unstuck. He’s not sure whether it’s something in him or just in the air. It’s like caution has been thrown to the wind and now he’s watching it blow away, sorely aware that he actually needs that caution but that it’s out of reach now. 

“I’m not barely-legal, I’m twenty-seven.” 

Robby laughs again, unable to stop himself from getting swept right back up into the carelessness of the present moment, “Oh!” He taunts, “My apologies, Mr. Whitaker, I didn’t realise you were of such an esteemed age.”

“Shut up…” Whitaker moans next to him,

“No, no, seriously. You thinking about retiring soon or...?”

Whitaker doesn’t say anything and for a second Robby thinks he’s pushed the kid’s buttons too much. He’s a bit of a sensitive soul. He works to hide it but Robby can tell he’s affected by things. Glancing over though, Whitaker is just looking ahead, watching the road and the city through the windshield. 

Then comes Whitaker’s considered reply. He speaks quietly, as if he’s just musing, “I do feel old sometimes. My back hurts a lot.”

That so? Robby looks back out the window again, “That’s called being an ER doctor, not being old. You’re not old, Whitaker, when I was finishing up med school, you weren’t even a twinkle in your dad’s eye.”

He means for that to put an end to these ridiculous ideas but as he says it Robby feels a wave come over him. Shit, not only does he feel really fucking old now, but suddenly Whitaker next to him seems really fucking young. God, he looked good on that bull though. Like something Robby would look at in a private browsing tab late at night to take the edge off.

Whitaker’s gone quiet again and this time Robby’s sure he’s freaked the kid out, made him too excruciatingly aware of the chasm of experience, not to mention power, between them. And goddamn it, it’s way too hot in this cab.

Robby has something ready to say, a line about work so they can drag this back to some semblance of something professional. He looks over again, fully expecting to see the boy all tensed up again, maybe clinging to the car door, waiting for them to stop at a red light so he can make a break for it. What he certainly does not expect is to see Whitaker looking right back at him with what can only be described as a kind of awe. In the darkness of the car Robby can’t see much else, but he does see the glint of light off of Whitaker’s eyes, and that hand again, pinching and rubbing at the skin of his neck.

The line Robby had prepared dies at the sight of it. He finds that nothing comes easily to replace it. He just awkwardly grasps the back of Whitaker’s free hand, like he’s giving a slap on the wrist for reminding Robby how ancient he feels half the time. 

“Now you really do look like a little kid.” He croaks, throat drier than it was ten seconds ago. He’s got a mind to tell the driver to turn down the heat. Sweat is starting to prickle at his back.

They both fall silent then, listening to the hum of the cab as it idles in traffic. Whitaker has stopped looking at him like that, probably a good thing, but still he fidgets with the space under his jaw relentlessly. So Robby asks something he wouldn’t if the residual effects of bourbon weren’t still circling in his bloodstream,

“What’s with that, Whitaker?” He nods at Whitaker’s neck when he catches the boy’s attention again.

Once attention has been called to it, Whitaker brings his hand down quickly into his lap. He holds onto his own wrist like he’s trying to stop it from immediately flying back up and finding a place to fidget, “Nothing.” He says quickly. Robby raises his eyebrows.

Fine. He thinks. Not gonna push it.

Whitaker starts to talk again: “I, uh, I used to wear the cross… Just a small one. I stopped wearing it when I started my rotation in the Pitt. Guess I was worried that it’d get in the way or that I wasn’t supposed to wear it when dealing with patients in case they thought I’d, like… Try and save their souls or whatever. Anyway, I used to touch the chain a lot, or play with it.” He shrugs, “Muscle memory, I guess.”

Seeing a way he can direct this conversation into slightly more acceptable (work related) territory, Robby explains, “Well, you are allowed to wear jewellery for religious or faith purposes. Dana has a cross, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I have this.”

Robby pulls his Star of David out from under his shirt, letting it catch the light of a streetlamp as they drive by. Whitaker leans slightly closer and looks at the pendant. He’s got an interested look on his face like he’s not seen it before. As if he didn’t see it first clamped in Robby’s hands on the floor of pedes. Robby knows the look is feigned, that Whitaker is well aware of the Star as well as the way Robby clung to it. He’s being kind. He’s allowing Robby to pretend it never happened. As Whitaker pulls away he glances up at Robby, their eyes meeting for just a second. Enough for Whitaker to silently say Don’t worry, I’m not about to bring up the fact that I already knew. I won’t remind you where I found you.

Shit, this cab is ridiculously hot. Robby shoves the Star back into his shirt and clears his throat, “Anyway, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your ability to carry out procedures, you can wear it all you like. Some patients who share your faith might find it comforting.”

“I’ll keep that in mind…” Whitaker says, “But my relationship with that kind of stuff is sorta complicated.”

This makes Robby bark out a laugh, “Jeeze, kid. When isn’t it complicated?”

***

“Alright,” Robby sighs as he gets his apartment door open and hits the hall lights, “Home sweet home.”

It isn’t quite home for Whitaker, and Robby is sharply cognizant of it. After he takes off his shoes he heads straight for the small study where he keeps some extra cash around. This poor kid has been dragged around for enough of the night – time to get him home safe.

Returning from the study he spots Whitaker still in the entryway. He’s looking around slowly, like he wants to commit every detail of the place to memory. Like he’s being tested on it later. Makes Robby glad he cleaned recently enough. He’s paused midway through kicking his shoes off to make this intense survey and, as has seemingly become his default position, his hand is tracing the invisible chain around his neck.

The sight brings Robby to a halt where the entryway opens up into the living room. He’s suddenly reminded of when Jake used to make him watch cat videos at work. He was campaigning for his mom to get him a cat or something and was trying to get Robby on side for the cause. He’d sit at Central and whenever Robby came by he’d show him another video with some annoying clickbait title, something like ‘this baby has NEVER BEEN LOVED – now he has a forever home’, in which a freshly cleaned little kitten would be standing in a corner, back arched and fur on end, carefully watching the humans who kept unhelpfully cooing at it from behind the camera.

‘That’s damn cute, man!’ Jake would passionately insist.

Robby vaguely recalls reacting with a non-committal grunt and getting back to work, eager not to get involved in the complexities of pet stuff, but as he looks over to Whitaker now, taking in his surroundings, poised and clearly thinking about something, all Robby can hear is Jake’s voice again, 

‘That’s damn cute, man!’

“You wanna come in?” Robby asks, his voice going up a semi-tone to coax the young man inside. Oh, fucking God, he’s the cooing human. 

Whitaker blinks out of whatever had captured his imagination and flashes a shy smile, finishing taking his shoes off and stepping into the living room.

“This is a really nice place.” He tells Robby, with a great deal of sincerity of his voice. Robby is barely listening though, Whitaker is still doing that thing with the phantom chain.

Before Robby can stop himself – because he should definitely stop himself; he’s clearly left his self-control somewhere in a tacky themed bar in central Pittsburgh because if he was in his right mind he’d definitely stop himself – his own hands are moving to the back of his neck, finding the clasp of his Star of David and removing the necklace. He’s going over to Whitaker as he says, “If you’re gonna keep fidgeting, you might as well have something to actually do it with.”

Whitaker’s eyes dance between Robby’s face and the chain in his hands, “Oh, no.” he emphasises, “I couldn’t–”

“It’s alright,” Robby nods at him, “Turn around.”

He does immediately, head bowing forward to allow Robby to put the Star on him, but he still objects all the while, “It’s way too precious. You shouldn’t.”

Kid’s right about one thing, he shouldn’t. This isn’t appropriate behaviour. Robby knows he wouldn’t do this for anyone else. Though, he isn’t really sure what this is. Robby feels sort of dazed. Something came over him as he watched the hypnotic movements of Whitaker's hips on that mechanical bull and it hasn’t yet cleared. The hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life.

Whitaker goes still as Robby fixes the clasp and sees the gold chain fall against the swanlike curve of Whitaker’s neck.

“This thing’s survived much worse than you. You’ll take care of it.” He says it no louder than he’d say something to himself,

He can’t stop himself from dragging his thumb over where metal and skin meet. There’s a faint flush creeping up Whitaker’s neck. Robby gets as far as Whitaker’s carotid when suddenly the kid jumps forward, out of Robby’s grip. He turns around and Robby sees he’s got his whole hand around the small pendant. Not pulling or anything that might damage the precious item, but grasping it as he probably did the cross when it was there. Maybe it's because he’s warming up, an effect of the earlier drinks or something else, but he’s got a warm looking redness over his cheeks and nose like he’s caught the sun. 

He opens his mouth to say something. He’s finally about to say what’s been living on his tongue since the bar with Robby’s arm coiled around him, but this time it’s Robby that balks, getting in there first with the inane suggestion, “Why don’t I call you that cab?”

Whitaker gulps it down again and nods. 

Robby fixes him a drink first (just water, at Whitaker’s own insistence) and lets the kid charge his phone with Robby’s charger. Predictably he’s all over the new chain around his neck as they move around the apartment, each briefly attending to their needs. Whitaker keeps glancing over at Robby too, like he thinks he’s being watched. Worse still is that he usually is. In the ER, the fact that Robby can’t keep his hands or eyes off of this boy is something that’s thankfully lost to the noise and the rush. It was the same in the bar. Too much going on for Whitaker to notice the way Robby’s eyes followed him on that bull. But in a quiet apartment with just the two of them it’s all become devastatingly obvious. After the third time Whitaker catches him, Robby forces himself to look somewhere else. Poor Whitaker must be thinking Robby’s brought him back here to dismember him.

The whole time he can’t seem to keep his hands away from his own throat. Pinching or tugging the chain, fingers dancing over himself, feeling each point of that little six point star.

Thankfully they’re on the couch before long and Robby is ready to put an end to this nonsense. The couch isn’t huge, designed for two but without that much space between the occupants. Whitaker has his legs tucked up to his chest and with the lack of distance Robby just has a hand on one of his knees, feeling the shape of the joint as he looks down at his phone.

“Alright,” Robby mutters to himself as he hits the call button and raises the phone to his ear, watching Whitaker watch him as he hears it ringing on the other end.

“Hi, good evening.” Robby tells the operator when someone picks up, “I’m looking for a car to come pick someone up, I’ll give you the add–”

He’s cut off by the operator. Whitaker frowns in curiosity as Robby begins to furrow his brows.

“What do you mean? Thirty…” The hand comes off of Whitaker’s knee to pinch at the top of his nose, “I’m calling because I need it now.”

He listens to what the operator tells him. It’s Friday night. It’s bar closing time. They don’t have any drivers who are willing to come this far outside of downtown. That they’ll take his number and ring back once someone’s available, probably in around thirty minutes.

“Fine.” He says tightly down the phone, “Thirty minutes.”

The operator confirms, “Thirty minutes.” She repeats, like it’s meant to be reassuring to him.

“I’m gonna hold you to it.” Robby replies.

When he’s hung up the phone Whitaker is offering a sheepish smile, “Sounds like thirty minutes.” 

“Thirty minutes.” Those two words are starting to lose meaning the more they’re said. He leans back into the couch, sweeping a hand down his face in that way he knows isn’t good for his skin. He rubs his eyes too, exhausted. 

“Sorry, kid,” He says, “Maybe this wasn’t the master plan I thought it was.” 

Whitaker gives a small laugh. He’s doing it again, pinching the chain and rolling it between his finger tips. Robby tightens his jaw for a second as it draws his gaze, forcing him to acknowledge that it’s his Star of David that’s being played with. It makes his own neck feel uncomfortably naked. If the kid hadn’t been revealing himself as somewhat of a chronic fidget all night, Robby might accuse him of doing it on purpose. 

“Thirty minutes isn’t so long.” Whitaker shrugs, but Robby couldn’t disagree more. 

He could turn on the TV, or even some music, anything, a distraction of some kind, some neutral ground. He doesn’t though, and they just sit on Robby’s couch in the quiet of the night.

“At least it’s warm here.” Whitaker says eventually, “Warmer than the bus anyway.”

Robby gives a heavy sigh and decides to let it go. He’s being too precious. He can cope with his MS4 here for half an hour. Whitaker’s a good kid, this doesn’t have to be weird. 

“It sure is that. Make yourself comfortable, gonna go fix myself a drink since we’re in for the wait.”

He gets up, grabs Whitaker’s empty water glass from the coffee table and goes to the kitchen to refill it and get himself a nightcap. As he measures and pours, Robby gives the kid a pop quiz on how to spot alcohol poisoning in a patient.

“Nausea. Dizziness. Irregular breathing. Loss of consciousness or seizure if it’s really bad. Pale skin.” Whitaker recites.

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do?” 

“IV fluids. Then check for any signs of liver failure, especially if this isn’t the first time. And make sure they stay warm but that’s probably not gonna be a problem since I always feel like I’m cooking in the Pitt.”

Robby nods as he sits back down, hand automatically finding Whitaker’s knee again, “Yeah we’re warm, but we’re moving around all day. You running hot is never an excuse to skip on something as basic as a temperature check on a patient.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course…”

Robby pats Whitaker’s knee, “That’s my good boy.”

Whitaker makes a noise like a laugh and a hum and shifts on the couch. There he goes again, twisting the chain around his finger. Robby can only stand to see it for another few seconds before he has to address it again,

“Seriously, what is with that?”

Just like the last time attention was brought to his habit Whitaker stops immediately, “Sorry.”

Then something occurs to Whitaker that makes him smile a little. He explains, “You know, when I used to wear my cross, sometimes I’d put it in my mouth without even thinking about it. My mom told me it was blasphemous. Least I’m not doing that, right?”

The image of Robby’s Star of David resting on Whitaker’s bottom lip enters Robby’s brain before he can stop it and his stomach lurches. He doesn’t laugh at Whitaker’s attempt at an amusing anecdote, he just swallows hard.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.” Whitaker says softly when he gets no response.

“You always fidget with it like that?” Robby asks, just to say something.

“Well, no… I mean, not exactly…” Whitaker starts. 

The way he says it makes it clear there’s more, but he doesn't say it. Probably for the best. Unfortunately for the both of them though, Robby doesn’t accept half answers, and all night Whitaker’s looked like he’s had something to say but won’t say it. 

“No?” Robby repeats.

Whitaker looks at him warily. 

“No… what?” 

Whitaker’s too obedient for his own good. He knows that what he has to say probably shouldn’t be said, but he does what he’s told. He doesn’t look at Robby when he speaks

“When I think about something I shouldn't, I always reach for it. It’s like… I’m apologising for what’s in my head. I don’t know how much I believe now. I don’t really go to church or anything anymore but still… If I know my mind’s going places it shouldn't, I still, y’know…” His voice is barely above a whisper, “I try to repent a little.”

Mind going places it shouldn’t.

Robby shouldn’t have asked. Definitely shouldn’t have pushed. 

Whitaker should have stayed off of that mechanical bull. Then Robby wouldn’t have stayed at the bar, wouldn’t have seen Whitaker trying to bus it home, wouldn’t have him here, wouldn’t have put his precious chain around the slender neck of a med student. 

If Whitaker just stayed off that bull, Robby’s mind wouldn’t be going places it shouldn’t too.

If I know my mind’s going places it shouldn’t…

“That’s when you go for it.” Robby finishes hollowly.

Whitaker nods, “To say sorry. Just in case there’s someone watching who cares.”

For all the words he’s expended, Whitaker’s not really said anything at all, just made allusions, none specific enough on their own to give Robby the roll of chill up his spine he gets now. Rather, it was the weight he gave each word, the way he kept looking upwards, maybe to God or just out of embarrassment, that told Robby all he needs to know.

They sit in stony silence. Not the comfortable kind that they’ve spent time together in all night, but the oppressive kind that makes time feel impossibly slow.

An observation has presented itself to Robby with such intensity that it feels like a physical grip. He doesn’t want to say it, but he feels he has to. It’s there, no where to go but out in the open. Robby takes a breath and finds it’s an uneasy one. He should have never come out tonight. 

Whitaker still doesn’t meet his eye. He stares at the darkened television screen opposite the couch.

“You’ve been reaching for it non-stop since you got into this apartment.” 

Whitaker brings his knees tighter to his chest and Robby feels his stomach fall directly into his ass as the boy whispers, “I know.”

Shit.

There goes any hope of this not being weird.

He’s only dealt with this once before, a med student developing a crush on him. Robby calls it a crush and not what they call it in HR speak – ‘developing feelings’ – because he knows, really, that calling it that would be giving it a legitimacy it doesn’t really have. Robby’s not that much of an ego, he knows it's mostly all confusion really – a student gets thrown into one of the most intense situations of their lives and it's him who guides them through it, steadies their trembles, reassures and instructs them not just on how to save a patient, but how to save themselves too from the madness and the trauma. ‘Crush’ is the perfect way to look at it: it’s a crushing, a compression of some of the most intense feelings the human body can produce, balled up so tightly that it can easily be mistaken for something else. It’s an addled mind playing tricks, nothing more. 

Maybe he’s only dealt with it once, but he knows the protocol. It isn’t to invite them home in the middle of the night. 

“Look, Whitaker…” Robby starts, his voice sounding far away in his ears and across from him Whitaker closes his eyes to brace himself, “I really shouldn’t have brought you back here.” His words are slow and careful, and he hopes that gives them a level of assertiveness because really he has no idea what to say next. This isn’t the place for this kind of conversation. They’re in his living room for fuck’s sake. This isn’t the place for any conversation with a student.

Carefully, straining to keep the shake out of his voice, he continues, “Whatever you’re thinking–”

“Do you touch Javadi as much as you touch me?” Whitaker suddenly asks. 

His eyes are open again, finding Robby’s. It’s not a real question. Or, rather, it is, but it’s one they both already know the answer to.

From the moment Robby was put into a position in which he was in charge of other people he had been drilled repeatedly that he never lay hands on any of the women in his team. He’d never touch Javadi like he does Whitaker. He’d never manhandle, squeeze, or linger like he does with Whitaker. Nor would he do that to McKay, Santos, Mel, Mohan, not even Collins, not even with their history. Nothing more than a high five or a very brief pat on the back, not unless they or their patient was in danger. Only then would a guiding hand over theirs to manipulate a scalpel or thread a stitch be permissible. That’s not something he had to be told; it’s always been one of those rules that he’s accepted for so long it feels like he was born knowing it. 

But Robby can’t make that comeback. If touching someone like that could be innocent then he’d do it to Javadi too, he’d do it to every med student who walked through the doors. He doesn’t do it because it isn’t innocent. Just because he can get away with it on Whitaker doesn’t make it innocent.

All that’s left to respond to Whitaker’s question with is the truth: “No.”

Whitaker nods. He’s stilted in his movements, barely holding it together either. Robby expects further interrogation, exhibits B, C, and D as to how he crosses lines with Whitaker. What he gets instead is an earnest question: 

“Do you think I’m just a stupid kid?”

Robby shakes his head appalled that Whitaker would even think that, “You’re not stupid. If I’ve ever given you reason to think that then we need to have a serious talk.”

A pause.

“But…” Robby sighs as he breaks it, “You are a kid.” He tries to sound gentle as he says, “You’re too young for this, Whitaker.”

The question ‘too young for what?’ hangs heavy in the air. It’s apparent to both men that this rejection appears to hinge on age. That it suggests that if such a factor were removed…

“I’m not too young.” Whitaker replies.

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Then why do you keep touching me?”

Robby just looks at him. Whitaker resolutely meets his gaze at first, hanging in there in the silence for an admirable five seconds or so before he turns away, his lower lip catching between his teeth. He’s given up, his brief shot of bravery to seize upon the strangeness that’s been developing between them spent. Robby sees him sit forward, shoulders sagging just a little. The line of his back curves. Down at the base of his spine, his shirt has ridden up to expose skin again. It’s within arm’s length this time. Robby likes Whitaker best within reach.

He wishes he could say that he moved before he realised the impulse was there, before he could stop himself; that what he does next is a mistake, but it’d be impossible to convince himself of such a thing. He’s deliberate as he reaches out and finds a place over the dip of his student’s spine. This back rolling and moving with the movements of the bull, Whitaker’s thighs clamping around it as he let it buck up into him. Fuck.

Robby’s hand drifts down until he touches the skin just above the waistband of Whitaker’s jeans.

A hand closes around where Robby’s Star of David dangles.

“Tell me.” Robby whispers, “Don’t apologise to anyone, just tell me.”

Whitaker speaks quickly and furtively, like he’s confessing something, “I like it when you put your hands on me. When you put your arm around me at the bar, I wanted to stay there forever. I don’t want you to stop.”

Fuck. Fuck. Robby’s totally fucked. He screws his face up tight.

“You can’t tell anyone about this.” He’s begging. He’s been reduced to begging when all he really needs to do is just stop touching.

“I know.”

God-fucking-damnit.

“I’m so sorry I’m even saying that, I know how bad it sounds– how bad it is–” 

“I can keep a secret, Dr. Robby.”

Robby feels like he’s been punched, he can barely catch his breath, “Shit, I know you can.” The words are an effort that’s almost painful.

Whitaker moves, his body comes closer to Robby’s and he’s got one leg up on the couch so that he can face him. Robby’s hand comes away from his back but it seamlessly finds somewhere else as Whitaker shifts position. 

He’s cupping Whitaker’s jaw. Big imploring eyes find his own again and Robby feels a curl of heat pulse downward, powerful enough for him to feel the arousal in the tops of his thighs. He’s seen this look before, an expression not just of trust but of someone clinging onto him because he’s the only one that can tell them if they’re safe. He sees it on almost every face that finds itself in the Pitt, doctors, students and patients alike. It only ever warrants one response.

“I got you.” Robby murmurs as he uses his thumb to smooth over the soft hair at Whitaker’s temple. Whitaker is gripping the bend of his elbow, fingers curling around the thick fleece of his hoodie.

Then he’s on the move again, getting closer still. He shifts a leg and Robby spots its trajectory – Whitaker is swinging over him, knees landing either side of his attending.

“Easy, cowboy.” Robby says. 

It’s an off colour joke for the tenseness of the situation. Maybe it isn’t even a joke. He didn’t say it to be funny. It’s just what came up Robby’s throat when he realised how entirely fucked he was. Both in the head and situationally speaking.

Or, then again, maybe it was the perfect remark to make. Robby wouldn’t be able to believe what’s happening if not for that glimpse in the bar of a young man totally in his element: gorgeous, smiling and fucking good at riding that bull.

Whitaker’s hips lower and the firm curve of his ass finds rest in Robby’s lap, where under cargos his cock is starting to pulse to attention, “We don’t have to.” Whitaker reminds as he sees the distraught look on his attending’s face, “If you want, I can stop.”

A desperate half laugh, “That’s my line.” It’s not an answer to Whitaker’s implied question, but the way Robby’s hands find purchase on the narrowest part of Whitaker’s waist is.

For a moment the boy looks acutely anxious, it passes over him for just a second, jaw visibly tightening. Robby doesn’t mention it. Sure enough, it resolves as suddenly as it appeared as Whitaker finds his courage and dares to meet his gaze again.

“I think you should kiss me first.” Whitaker tells him.

Robby raises his brows. We shouldn’t kiss at all is what self-preservation tells him. 

Instead, he asks, “Why’s that?”

“Because I really want you to.”

Robby reaches one hand to blindly locate his own Star of David around Whitaker’s neck. It hangs slightly lower on him than it does Robby. As he finds it, he wonders if Whitaker’s strategy works, if now, with his grip around the totem, he might be able to send up apologies to whatever higher power there might be. Just to hedge his bets, he tries it. He puts in a hundred sorrys for what he’s about to do as he pulls the chain, and with it, the soft, ripe looking lips of his favourite med student.

Whitaker makes the loveliest, wettest little whine as they collide, mouths already open. His hands find a place on Robby’s chest. Robby’s go to the back of Whitaker’s skull, holding his head just right so that he can hungrily push his tongue deep into the heat of Whitaker’s kiss. His other hand grips down on the inside of Whitaker’s thigh.

There’s no point holding onto what’s right and what’s wrong now. Robby lets the flood of desire wash away his final resistances. He lets the strongly held sense of resolve that he’d never ever do something as stupid or as selfish as this transform into a need so carnal that he thinks he might die if he doesn’t get his cock inside his student.

When they part for air Robby is already holding Whitaker’s face. His grip is firm enough that he can feel molars under the padding of Whitaker’s cheeks. Whitaker just gasps into it, obediently permitting Robby’s thumb into his mouth, his soft tongue slipping around the intrusion, making it slick. 

The phone rings. The sound is almost lost to the chorus of heavy breathing but the sudden rumble of vibrations makes them both jump, heads swiveling to where Robby’s phone buzzes insistently on the arm of the couch beside them

Robby can see the number on screen. He throws his head back against the couch cushions when he realises he recognises it. The fucking cab company. To take Whitaker home.

“There’s your ride, kiddo.” He says mirthlessly as the phone keeps ringing.

Whitaker looks stricken, “I’m not–” He tries, “You still want me to–”

Robby lets a smirk come over him and a wicked feeling unfurl in his chest. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to resist a half-delirious laugh, “You’re not going anywhere.” 

The phone rings out, missed call notification popping up on the lockscreen.

That was a lie. They are going somewhere. Whitaker wraps his arms tight and firm around his attending’s neck as Robby stands, his legs following suit around his torso. Carrying Whitaker to the bedroom is no real challenge. He’s light which probably means he needs to eat more. Though, when Robby drops his lovely young man on the bed, he can’t help but think that, in fact, Dennis Whitaker is perfect as he is. Long limbs splay out as he lands back on the mattress, and his chest rises and falls like he’s just run a mile. Nervous, but still wanting. And shit, with everything else stripped away, Robby can admit that that does something for him.

Shit, the guilt’s gonna hurt in the morning. If he even lives that long.

That knowledge doesn’t stop Robby from crawling onto the bed, into the wide gap between Whitaker’s thighs and over him. Whitaker makes another pleased little moan when Robby’s mouth latches onto his neck, not biting but nipping enough to remind the kid that his teeth are there. It feels like it’d take nothing at all to take a chunk out of him, like biting into a soft, juicy peach. As Robby thinks this he realises he’s had such a thought before, that he’s wanted to devour this boy since he arrived, that the need was always there, thrumming between them without either of them working up the nerve to name what it was. 

As Whitaker pushes his body upwards with a needy gasp, straining for contact, it becomes obvious how he’s wanted it too.

Robby’s voice is rough as he leans over Whitaker, tearing roughly at the zip of his ratty hoodie to cast it aside, “You gonna let me take advantage of you, kid?”

Whitaker makes a noise that’s just fucking sinful, both arms going around Robby’s neck as it bursts out of him. He liked that. He really liked it.

“Gonna be the death of me.” Robby mutters, mostly to himself.

“Please kiss me again, please, please–” Whitaker’s desperate chant is cut off as their mouths meet again. Whitaker tastes of the sweetness and sour of what he was drinking at the bar, a saccharineness dulled by the lingering bitterness of bourbon in his own mouth as they exchange spit. 

His hand starts to glide up, under Whitaker’s shirt, over the smooth plane of the stomach that he had caught a tantalising glimpse of earlier at the bar. By now, Robby must have touched every inch of the skin Whitaker has exposed at work. It’s exciting to finally have new territory to explore, to feel the stiff nubs of Whitaker’s nipples under his fingers. Whitaker’s tongue dances over his lips as he looks down to where he lets his attending’s hand stakes claim and swallows between heady pants. Robby can feel Whitaker’s heart flutter like a caged bird behind his ribs.

Robby pushes a thigh between Whitaker’s legs just to watch what he does. What Whitaker does is push himself up onto his elbows to give himself the leverage to bear down on it, to grind and fuck up into the friction, mouth hanging open.

“You got any idea how you look like that?” Robby asks, “How you look at me half the time? Any idea how crazy you make me?”

Whitaker rolls against Robby’s thigh, hard in his jeans, “How do you think I feel? You keep touching me– ah–!” He ruts greedily against Robby, “Sometimes I swear I feel you on me when you’re not even– oh– fuck– ”

Whitaker falls back to the bed, whole body trembling, sheets a mess where he’s gripped them. Robby wastes no time in drawing back. He rises, getting to his feet to pull his shirt over his head and dump it. Whitaker takes his off too. The Star of David falls neatly into the hollow of his throat as he lies back and fumbles with his jeans. 

His hands are shaking so much he struggles with the button.

“Take a breath.” Robby tells him with the same calm authority he’d use if he noticed someone on his team’s hands quivering before making a cut. He watches Whitaker go still for a second to do so, sounding shaky as he takes a full and deep inhale. 

“Good boy.” Robby tells him for the fourth time that night. He’s pulling his belt open but his hands freeze when he notices how tears spring to Whitaker’s eyes.

“You alright?” Robby asks, a sudden chill coming over him as Whitaker takes another deep breath.

Whitaker nods quickly, “Sorry.”

“Not an answer to my question.”

Whitaker glances up at him, he’s obviously trying to blink away the tears but it isn’t working. 

He immediately regrets the coarseness of his response. He sounded combative. Too harsh. Like someone freaked out of their mind about what happens if Whitaker starts regretting this. He starts saying something to backtrack but Whitaker gets there before it can turn apologetic or reassuring, 

“I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The relief that pours over him is so potent that Robby can taste it. Blood starts moving through his veins again. Combined with the almost painful levels of arousal it’s so euphoric that Robby feels out of his mind.

“Oh, kid…” He laughs breathlessly, wondering if he’s gonna end up crying too.

Whitaker has managed with the jeans. As Robby comes back down from his rush he sees him kicking them off. Then he comes forward onto his knees and shuffles over to where he can take Robby’s half opened belt and finish the job. 

His own hands are drawn, as if magnetically to the slope of Whitaker's bare shoulders. Robby’s eyelids flutter as he thinks about how every time he touches Whitaker over his scrubs now he’ll know the body that exists under them. He doesn't know how he’s gonna be able to live with that knowledge, if he’s gonna be able to resist slipping under fabric next time he needs to make Whitaker walk with him between the bays.

“I’ve just wanted this…” Whitaker continues as he drags the belt out of the loops on Robby’s cargos and lets it fall to the floor, “And it’s even better than I thought it would be.” He gives the most adorable laugh as he drags the back of his hand across where one tear escaped, “I might actually be dreaming.”

“Been thinking about me, huh?” Robby challenges. He’s not immune to flattery.

Whitaker nods as he pops the button of the older man’s fly, “I don’t even know how I still concentrate on anything else anymore, I…” He trails off as he tugs the zipper down and Robby sighs in relief, his cock tenting in his briefs. He puts a hand in the kid’s hair as if in thanks but Whitaker immediately dislodges it as he tilts his head up to look at him, “Oh my God, you’re really big.”

That stopped being such a compliment around the time Robby hit forty. It was around then when he realised that the amount of trouble it’s caused him – men and women alike not able to take him, the pain he’s accidentally inflicted because of it – outweighed the social status. A sign of him finally maturing, he guesses.

Then he remembers Whitaker won’t be forty for over a decade yet, and he swears he gets double-vision for a second.

Robby combs his fingers through Whitaker’s sandy hair, “You think you’ll manage it, sweetheart?”

The answer Whitaker gives him is pleasingly sincere, “I don’t know…” He leans in and mouths at Robby’s thick shaft through the fabric, “I wanna try.” His hand comes up and cups Robby’s balls through his underwear, massaging gently. Robby feels a gush of warmth in his gut and between his thighs. 

He watches as his waistband is pulled forward and down. He bucks his hips forward a little as the head of his cock catches on it and Whitaker inadvertently makes his dick spring up and hit the padding of his stomach with a soft smack.

“Jeeze Louise…” Whitaker says, looking at it like a casual mountaineer might look at Everest, “This thing could probably get me pregnant.”

That makes Robby laugh. He thought he had gotten every reaction in the book, but that one’s new. Whitaker smiles up at him as Robby shakes his head and gives him a light smack on the shoulder. Weird kid. Always full of surprises. 

When he stops laughing Whitaker is still looking at him, watching his attending’s face as he takes him in hand. He’s careful with it and Robby can’t help but wonder if Whitaker knows how to handle a circumcised dick from experience, if it’s something he’s looked up at home,  or if he’s just intuiting from his own medical knowledge of the male form. He breaks eye contact with Robby as he goes in and drags his tongue from the underside of the base up to the ridge at the top of the shaft. His lips open to take the ruddy head and at first he just suckles at it, flickering and probing experimentally. Once he works up a little bravery, he pauses to get his lips nice and wet, and then he starts to push down.

“Ohh…” Robby’s balls feel like they’re pulsing, “Good boy, take it nice and slow.”

Whitaker takes direction well, but Robby already knew that. He slows the motion of his head and tightens the ring of his lips. He bobs back and forth as he attempts to get further down. He listens and responds to Robby’s every word, every “slower” and “do that again” when teeth just very lightly graze against him.

He’s never gonna manage to take it all, but he gets pretty fucking close to the root of Robby’s cock. As Whitaker’s nose nestles against the brush of Robby’s pubic hair he wishes he’d had a chance to shower, but Whitaker doesn’t seem to mind – he’s inhaling deeply, one hand gripping the sheets under him so hard his knuckles are white. 

Then he starts moving in earnest, up and down the length and Robby doesn’t think he’s ever been harder in his life.

“That’s it…” Robby whispers, abs cramping with the effort of not grabbing two fistsfuls of Whitaker’s hair and fucking that perfect face, “Oh, fuck, that’s it, baby.”

Whitaker draws back and lets Robby watch how the thickness of his cockhead balances in his open mouth. Whitaker’s chin is soaked with spit and pre but he keeps worshiping Robby’s dick, his face flushed as he swallows down and starts tongue fucking the leaking slit, teasing and lapping up whatever it gives him. The sight of this alone…

Fuck, Robby gasps, almost doubling over as his knees give out for a second and he shoves Whitaker away roughly. The need to come is violent and for a second Robby thinks he’s about to tip over the edge. It recedes and Robby grits his teeth, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his lower back. At his age he’s not sure he’s got more than one in him, and after seeing Whitaker’s ass sliding back and forth in that saddle and then feeling it in his lap, he needs to see if the boy can take him.

Seeming to sense where this is going, Whitaker yanks at his boxers, sliding them down his long legs exposing his own hardness to his attending. Whips out his dick for his fucking attending. It makes Robby feel insane.

“Please fuck me, Dr. Robby.” 

Fuck, that makes the wrongness pang in his stomach, but it also makes praise drip from his tongue, “C’mere, baby,” He climbs back onto the bed and pulls Whitaker back onto his lap again, “You’re so good to me, letting me touch all this. Letting me fuck my favourite student.”

He’s gonna wring himself dry to this memory for months. He will not feel good about it.

Whitaker makes a pleased noise and buries his face in Robby’s shoulder, inhaling him again. He’s needy, hips rocking in Robby’s lap, too frenzied to find a rhythm. 

Who is Michael Robinavitch if not someone who gives people what they need?

Whitaker barely reacts as Robby leans over to the dresser, tilting both of their bodies with the reach. He pulls out the lube in the top drawer and feels around until he hears the tell-tale crinkle of a condom wrapper. It’s been long enough that he actually has to check the expiry date on it. They’re in the clear, but only by a few months.

Whitaker is looking down now at where their cocks rub up against each other. He’s still bucking and rocking and looking at how Robby’s is shiny with his spit. Robby gets a little lube on his hands. He’s not fingering Whitaker open yet, though he will. First he just wants to introduce him to how Robby’s touch feels when he’s all slippery like this. Whitaker seems experienced enough, sure knows his way around sucking a cock at least, but it’s impossible to shake the sense that he’s guiding Whitaker, coaxing forward and keeping him safe. Robby’s job is to mentor him. Which is why all of this is so fucking twisted.

As Robby’s slicked up palm closes around both of their shafts, Whitaker stops his frantic movements. Robby can feel the kid’s thighs close tightly on either side of him and sees how he bites his rosy lower lip. Between them, The Star of David swings hypnotically in time with the motions of Robby’s wrist. 

“Fuck me, you’re beautiful.” Robby tells him as they face each other. The way he says it makes it sound like he’s only just noticed, but it was something that occurred to Robby the moment Whitaker walked into the Pitt, eyebags and all. It didn’t matter then though. So what if the new boy’s pretty? He had thought. None of Robby’s business. Now though, he feels it. It’s like the difference between knowing it’s raining outside and actually getting soaked.

They kiss like that. Robby starts it, holding Whitaker’s chin. When they part to catch another gasp of oxygen it's only for a second and only just an inch or so apart, sharing breath, and then they’re back, burying themselves in each other until Robby can’t even tell which mouth is his anymore.

“Wanna ride you.” Whitaker whispers when they stop for long enough for him to say it. 

Robby wonders if there’s a material difference between letting your med student choke on your cock and letting him sit on it. As far as the medical board is concerned, almost certainly not. Morally speaking? Maybe. But the idea of stopping now before Robby can get rode like that stupid fucking bull doesn’t even feel like a remote possibility. 

He can’t resist. That’s what he tells himself. It’s easier than facing the idea that he just doesn’t want to resist. He doesn’t want to resist.

Robby responds with one strained word as he releases their twin erections: “Prep.”

Whitaker nods.

He rises to his knees, leaning over Robby’s shoulder, ass raised and exposed. Robby’s broad enough that Whitaker can get purchase, but just to keep him where he wants him, brings one arm up and loops it around the boy, like he’s hauling a big bag of flour. He hears Whitaker yelp as he feels the bristle of facial hair against the sensitive skin over his ribs.

Robby is jostling him a little as he grabs the lube again and generously coats his fingers. He breathes on them a little but he’s too impatient. Whitaker’s flinch at the cold flutters down the length of him but he practically purrs when Robby puts some pressure on the tight pucker of his hole, rubs over it with the pad of his middle finger. Whitaker moves a little lower as he spreads his thighs a little further, opens himself more.

There’s a shaky exhale from both of them when Robby pushes the digit inside, God, he’s tight. Whitaker gives a deeply satisfied moan that’s frankly pornographic.

He presses his lips against Whitaker’s side for a moment and smiles, “Yeah? you like that, huh?” He says, half muffled by the other body.

“Mm-hm. Been, ah– thinking about it. Your fingers.” Robby feels Whitaker arch back into the penetration as he reaches the bottom knuckle, his body shifting to get Robby’s fingers to drag over the parts of his insides he wants most to be to be touched, “Always your fingers.” 

Robby thinks of the laser-focus his student gives to his hands as he watches Robby work. He can’t help but wonder what other behaviours he’s mistaken for purely professional interest.

Whitaker might be tight but he’s keen, nodding and giving a “yes, yes, please,” when Robby asks if he can take another finger. More filthy sounds come out of him as Robby gives it to him, slipping inside and letting Whitaker fuck himself on them. Robby barely even needs to move and it’s a very enticing preview of how the boy can grind down and grip what’s inside him. 

The third finger is a little harder, the sting of stretch making itself known. But Whitaker does well, pushes through and lets Robby rock his wrist until he feels Whitaker slacken around him, rewards that with a curl of his digits. Robby enjoys the shout that he gets in response as he pushes his fingers against that precious bundle of nerves.

He strokes and stimulates until Whitaker starts protesting, telling Robby, “I’m gonna– oh my God– please, you’re gonna make me– oh–!” It gets him so worked up that he doesn’t even seem to notice when a fourth finger goes in. 

Robby stops probing against the kid’s prostate when he really is on the brink. Whitaker’s erection keeps pushing up against chest and making wet blots. Robby doesn’t mind. It’s hard to feel anything outside a fondness that Robby didn’t even know he was capable of and a white hot animalistic need. The two tangle inside of him as he gives poor Whitaker a break for a moment to tear the condom wrapper open and sheath himself with it. The desire to have Whitaker take him raw is there, but there are a great deal of reasons why this isn’t the time for that. A few of those reasons will likely turn up in his waiting room tomorrow.

He taps Whitaker and signals for him to come down. Lines up under him, blunt tip finding its target. Whitaker’s getting nervous again, breath getting all out of time and eyelids fluttering. When Robby plants wet opened mouthed kisses over his carotid he feels it race under his lips. 

He’s got his arms tight around Robby’s shoulders, hot bare skin on hot bare skin, fingernails tearing up the skin of his upper back. It hurts like hell. Robby’s skin has been toughened with age – leather is what he calls it when he’s feeling particularly self-depreciating – but though Whitaker’s nails are short, they’re deceptively sharp. He’s gonna leave red lines in his wake; ones that Robby won’t be able to see but that he’ll know are there, that’ll throb when he takes hot showers, making their presence known until they eventually fade.

“You wanna take another breath for me, baby?”

Whitaker gulps air and moves his head but it doesn’t look either like a nod or a shake. It’s some confused amalgamation of the two.

“Please–” Is all he manages to get past his lips but is he asking for more or less? To stop or go? Not even he seems to know.

Robby’s cock is teasing at the stretched hole. He holds it to rub his head over the opening and feels Whitaker’s slicked up entrance flex in anticipation as he gives a reedy, whiny hum.

“That’s it, I got you.” Robby whispers, barely keeping it together as Whitaker sinks down onto him, perching on the girth as his eyes shut tightly and mouth falls open. Robby shudders, his hands on the younger man’s thighs grasping hard as he’s consumed by the sensation of tight heat clutching, taking him deeper. He’s aware that curses are punching their way out of him but what he’s actually saying or how loudly is beyond Robby as Whitaker eases his way onto his cock, hips rolling with that same gorgeous smoothness that he saw at the bar.

Then he’s finally bottomed out, their bodies flush. Robby has to look up to the ceiling, the sight too much again as Whitaker uses him to lean back, his tongue paused mid sweep on his lower lip giving the impression of something between desire and concentration, and watches the movement of his own legs as he grinds down. 

Oh my fucking God, it all makes Robby think to himself, half-mad with it, I’m balls deep in the fucking med student.

“Can I move, Dr. Robby?” Whitaker asks. He’s probably asked that exact question before as Robby’s watched him make an incision or carefully negotiate a laryngoscope between cords. He’ll stay poised, wait for instructions, so still it's unnatural until he’s been given the go ahead from his attending. He’ll ask it again, maybe tomorrow or maybe in a week. He’ll ask it under the glare of the lights, amongst the chaos of the Pitt and Robby will be expected to answer and not immediately fall apart thinking of this, the miles of skin exposed to him, Whitaker’s dick between them making both of their stomachs slippery, the way that his insides grip Robby’s cock. 

“Fuck, kid,” Robby replies rushed and hoarse, “I think I’m gonna fucking expire if you don’t.”

Whitaker rides him like a fucking champion, making Robby ask himself where the hell did he learn to do that? for what must be the hundredth in one night. The sounds are obscene, both the ones coming out of both of their mouths – panting, gasping, whining and moaning – and the ones that they make with their bodies – the slap and squelch of Whitaker’s frenzied bouncing and the wet smacking when their mouths come together. What they do can’t even really be called kissing anymore, just shoving each other’s tongues into the wet heat of each other. 

The hot tight clutch of Whitaker’s body is almost overbearing, especially combined with how the room has gotten so hot around them. It smells like sex and so much like Whitaker, air humid enough that it feels more like drowning the harder he breathes. Sweetness has infiltrated Robby’s palette, and his lips feel raw from how he’s been peppering the side of Whitaker’s face with kisses, eventually finding his ear and rasping into it, “Feels so fucking good, baby. I wanna see your pretty face when you come. You gonna let me see that? Gonna let me see you come, sweetheart?”

Whitaker pulls away with a whimper like he can’t take it. His eyes are wet, his lashes clinging to each other as tears flow without any attempt to stop them. He’s been so brave all night, but now, fuck-drunk and with the voice of his attending so close to his ear he’s lost it. Wetness smeared all over his face and what a sight it makes.

The up and down of Whitaker’s hips is starting to stutter and Robby knows he needs to give this sweet boy his release. Whitaker’s head falls back, exposing the attractive line of his pale throat as Robby takes him in hand, pre dribbles out over his fingers as he tugs Whitaker’s cock in the way he knows he likes, just a little tightness, a firmer pinch where the shaft becomes the head. 

Robby is eye level with his Star of David. He watches it, feeling like he’s reciting prayer as he talks Whitaker through his climax.

“Made me feel so good, baby, doing so fucking well. Let me see you come. Come on, sweetheart.” Robby feels Whitaker spasm up into him as he sweeps his thumb over the tip of his cock, “I know you’re close. I know you’ve tried so hard. Let Dr. Robby see you come.”

This kid’s gonna ruin his life. This occurs to Robby not as a warning, but as a fact. He’ll let this kid ruin his life. He’ll deny it in the morning but right now it’s crystal clear.

When Whitaker chokes out another broken whimper and starts to spurt hot ribbons onto his own stomach he’s still got his head hanging back. Robby is rough in his movements as he grabs a fistful of soft blond hair at the back of Whitaker’s head and forces him forward so he can watch his face. His other hand doesn’t even pause, he just lets cum aid him in working his fist up and down Whitaker’s dick as it pulsates against his palm.

Whitaker’s filthy mouth is still giving a chorus of ‘oh oh oh’s, but his eyes are shut tight.

“Look at me.” Is Robby’s instruction as he grips Whitaker’s jaw, eyes boring down on the other man like he’s trying to burn the image into his retinas.

“Cant.” Whitaker sobs as the spurts out of his dick finally start to subside. 

If Robby were a better or perhaps a kinder man he’d let it go. But he’s not a better man. The way he’s about to empty his balls into a med student less than half his age, whose feelings for him are likely just a twisted need for validation and safety has proven that already.

So Robby pushes, “Look at me, Whitaker.”

Whitaker trembles as the aftershocks of his orgasm tear through him. He doesn’t want to. Can’t take it.

“You gonna make me ask again?” Mean he chastises himself, you’re getting mean. 

But it works, Whitaker prises his eyes open, forehead lined with the effort of it and shows Robby how his eyes are still brimming. God, he looks entirely ruined.

“That’s my good boy.” Robby tells him. He’s pushing up into the soft pliant ass that his cock’s still buried in, spearing up into Whitaker as he’s unable to go any longer without pushing in and out of him again.

It makes Whitaker crumple completely, collapsing into sobs and falling forward into his mentor’s arms.

“I got you. You know I got you, baby,” Robby says, letting Whitaker cling to him like he’s the only thing that’s stable, “You gonna let me finish in you? Think you can take a little more?”

Whitaker nods. Not for the first time, Robby wonders if he should believe him. It’s his job to be able to tell when someone’s at their limit and Whitaker sure looks like he’s unravelling. But, even now that he’s spent, Whitaker is tightening the hold of his thighs around Robby. He doesn’t want to let go, or to be let go.

“Okay.” Robby drags a hand down Whitaker’s back in a way he means to be comforting, “Okay, hang on.”

It would just be cruel to make Whitaker keep riding him now. Robby might be mean, but he’s not cruel. The bull ride is over. Instead, Robby is briefly grateful for his experience in maneuvering bodies because it means he doesn’t even need to pull out to turn them over.

He lays Whitaker down on the bed and grips one of his thighs to fuck the boy into the mattress. Robby’s Star of David sticks to Whitaker’s flushed skin and the sight of it burns his eyes, every line he’s crossed is embodied in that precious pendant around his student’s neck. 

He’s going hard, sweat pouring off him with the effort and still Whitaker fucking takes it with the most grateful look on his face, pupils blown wide. He rolls up into it, walls clamping down around Robby even as his own dick goes limp in the puddle on his stomach. God, he’ll take anything, anything Robby gives him, even if it’ll destroy them both. 

When he comes it’s so hard that he feels like his soul is being sucked out of him through his cock. In the crash and the rush of ecstasy Robby wonders if he’ll ever get it back. He doesn’t think he deserves to have it back.

“Fuck, baby…” Robby growls, “You feel that? Me blowing my load in you? Feel how you’re making me come?”

Whitaker just whines and nods, craning his head to look down at where Robby is driving right into the core of him. There’s nothing to see, just a messy collision of bodies but they both feel it, Robby pulsing against his walls, Whitaker greedily clenching down. Robby snaps his hips roughly a couple more times as he rides the high and Whitaker falls back, exposing his throat again. Robby drags his teeth over the smooth unblemished skin.

The next sound Whitaker makes is when Robby’s pulling out. He withdraws slowly, both of them shuddering with overstimulation and Whitaker yelps as he goes from being stretched full to empty. Robby just collapses into the sheets next to him bone-tired and grateful for it: too exhausted for the guilt and the horror over what he’s done to seize him immediately. He closes his eyes for a second and thinks he could probably just pass out like that.

Whitaker sits up first, head swiveling around the room like he’s looking for something.

“Where’s the bathroom?” He asks.

Robby responds automatically, “First on your right.” 

Whitaker starts to get to his feet, “I’m just gonna go clean up.”

That makes Robby sit up with a start. No matter how messed up the entanglement, he doesn’t treat his partners this way, “Hey, no, sit down. I got it.”

Whitaker obediently falls back onto the bed as he watches Robby get up. It’s hard to ignore those eyes lingering on him as he crosses the room, pulling the condom from his softening dick.

In the bathroom he chucks the rubber and finds a washcloth. It’s when he’s got the water running, fingers under it and waiting for it to warm up, that he catches himself in the mirror.

Robby rubs a hand over his forehead as he meets his own eyes. Tired and way too old for this shit; that’s what he sees. If he was being sensible he’d have gone to sleep around two hours ago. If he’d gone to bed on time he’d also not have done any of this. More evidence that he doesn’t know what’s good for him.

It seems impossible that this old face is the one Whitaker looked at with those wide wanting eyes. He had looked at Robby like he was everything.

The cloth gets doused in warm water and then rung out so it’s not dripping. When he takes it back through to the bedroom, Whitaker extends his hand to take it but Robby ignores him, sitting on the edge of the bed and gently wiping down the soft skin for him. He gets himself after, but with none of the carefulness, just scrubbing so cum doesn’t dry in his body hair. Both of them are drenched in sweat. Whitaker's hair is sticking to his forehead and Robby saw his own red glow in the mirror. They need showers, both of them. A problem for the morning. 

“I like you,” Whitaker blurts out as Robby’s about to stand again. 

Robby stops and looks at him. He’s leaning back on the pillows and looks like he wants to hide behind them.

He continues, “I mean, okay, that’s probably pretty obvious now, but I actually like you. It’s not like you think.”

Robby rubs his tired eyes. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not tonight. He picks through his clothes and pulls his briefs back on as Whitaker continues, 

“This isn’t some… I’m not confused. You keep calling me a kid but I’m not one, I know what I like. I’d like you even if you weren’t my boss.”

Wouldn’t it just be so easy to believe him? To decide that it was all alright to renounce any wrongdoing? How convenient would it be to just take Whitaker's word for it and use it to remedy the guilt that’ll creep in when he looks back on this evening in the cold light of day.

The threat of removal from his position and major disciplinary action, probably a transfer if he’d even still be allowed to practice, though, reveals that all to be a fantasy. There’s a reason why they tell you not to fuck your students. That they came on to you or that they said they wanted it afterwards doesn't fly as an excuse. There’s a reason for that too.

Discouraged by the silence Whitaker finishes, “So it’s not about that… I know how to handle myself… This isn’t about that.”

If the Pitt hadn’t become all that his life was, Robby wonders if he might be able to believe him.

“You wanna stay for the night?” Robby asks. The bedside alarm clock is flashing the time but Robby doesn’t dare look. He’s gonna feel like shit tomorrow, no sense in knowing how shit until he has to.

Whitaker perks up, “You don’t want me to get a cab?”

Of course Whitaker should get in a cab and go home, obviously he should. Robby should not be inviting one of his students to sleep with him. But what’s the use? Robby figures they’ve already committed the worst crime, so he might as well take some more liberties.

He lends Whitaker a spare toothbrush. Whitaker tells him not to bother but Robby can still taste the sugar of the Sprite the kid was drinking earlier in his own mouth and doesn’t want him to wake up with a mouth full of cavities. They take it in turns in the bathroom. Whitaker goes first.

Lying down next to him, Robby is greeted with an odd feeling of awkwardness in his gut. Even after everything, a voice in his head tells him to keep distance, face away. Wouldn’t want to make the med student in his bed feel that he was overstepping, after all. Intimacy with students is strictly prohibited. He wouldn’t want to get them both in any sort of trouble.

If he doesn’t laugh, he’ll cry.

But Robby’s always been a notorious cuddler. Another warm body in the bed and he’s helpless. More so that it’s Whitaker. Strange, never quite readable Whitaker, who he’s never managed to keep his hands off of anyway.

There are no words exchanged, just a rustle of sheets as Robby turns over and presses his body against Whitaker’s back. When there’s no flinch or tensing up, he stays. He puts an arm around him, over one shoulder and across his bare narrow chest, pulling close. A small smile forms over the younger man’s lips.

Robby doesn’t ask before he turns out the light. It feels easier under darkness to tenderly kiss the side of Whitaker’s head. With the lights out, no one can see how tightly Robby holds him.

***

  °˖✧ The PITT GIRLS gc ✧˖°

— Friday May 17 2025 —

19:17 Heather C:   Girls! So sorry I can’t make it tonight. Make it up to you next time, ladies.

22:34 Samira M:    guys i’m in a cab

— Saturday May 18 2025 —

01:03 crash:          omg that was actually so fun!! ty for the shots @Samira M ;p

01:20 Trinity S:      hbd

01:24 Trinity S:      huckleberry is gone

01:24 Trinity S:      like he’s GONE gone

05:42 Samira M:     @Trinity S did you find him?

05:43 Samira M:     guys i think i might have said some really weird stuff to robby last night :( 

05:52 Trinity S:       nope. Do you guys think I can lose my medical license if he got mugged and murdered because I didn’t go home with him? lol

06:05 Mel K:            I don’t think they take medical licenses away for that. That is quite concerning though. Maybe you should call him and see if he’s safe?

06:36 Trinity S:       FOUND HIM

06:48 Trinity S:       he was in the fkn parking lot my actual lost child lmao btw he definitely got laid last night 

06:51 Samira M:      ??? someone from the bar?

07:00 Trinity S:       yh wait wtf??

07:00 Trinity S:       he left with us and dr robby at closing and said he was going home

07:01 Trinity S:       huh.

09:18 crash:            omfg i just woke up and i feel awful

— ‘crash’ changed their nickname to Victoria J —

09:21 Victoria J:       like wth is this my mom thinks we were just at dinner last night idk what im gonna tell her

09:21 Victoria J:       i’m never drinking again.