Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bus stop was washed in that washed-out yellow glow streetlights always had this late at night. Too dim to be useful, too bright to feel comfortable.
Dennis sat on the narrow metal bench anyway, elbows on his knees, backpack at his feet, head hung between his shoulders. The bus had driven past a while ago—the driver had offered him a seat—but he was just waiting for something. Maybe a sign from the universe that his years in medical school weren’t for nothing. Today had been specifically taxing. It kept dragging on and on; by the end of it, he was rethinking his major. The tired streetlight flickered above him in a rhythm that made everything feel a little more lonely than it actually was.

His backpack rested by his feet, one strap dangling off the bench. His breath was heavy in his chest, the lack of signs from the universe making his leg bounce with anxiety.

Then, footsteps. Fast ones.

He lifted his head just in time to see a man sprinting down the sidewalk toward him, jacket flaring behind him, breath dragging in sharp, uneven pulls. The guy stumbled into the shelter, practically crashing to a stop against the metal post. The man braced himself, one hand gripping the pole, the other pressed flat against his thigh as he fought to catch his breath.

Dennis blinked. “...Are you okay?”

The strange man didn’t answer right away. He let out a thin gasp of air, trying to steady himself.
“Yeah, just—give me a second,” he managed.

He dropped onto the bench next to Dennis without hesitation, exhaustion overriding any need for personal space. Dennis shifted slightly, making just enough room without sliding too far. The man leaned forward, rubbing his palms against his knees, breathing slowly, evening out.

Dennis tried again, quieter. “You good?”

This time, the man let out a small, tired laugh, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a way that made his sharp features look a little softer. “I have had a long day.” He punctuated each word with a short huff of breath. The cold crystallised into short puffs of white air coming from his mouth. There was something about the honesty in his voice that made Dennis’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Yeah, I get that.” He nodded, unsure of what to say to someone who looked how you felt—tired, worn down, unfiltered.

A car rolled by in the distance, its headlights sweeping over the pavement and then disappearing again, leaving them in the muted yellow light. The man finally looked up, eyes flicking toward the street.
“Did the bus… already pass?”

“Uh—yeah,” Dennis said. “Like twenty minutes ago.”

The man closed his eyes for a second, defeated. “Figures.” He leaned back, exhaling hard. Despite the fatigue, he didn’t seem embarrassed—more resigned, like missing the bus was just the final item on a long list of today’s failures. Dennis glanced at him, taking in the details: the unzipped hoodie, the exhaustion etched underneath his eyes, the way one hand still shook faintly from the run.

“You look tired.”
Dennis instantly realised how rude that sounded and quickly sat up, suddenly more alert. His face flushed red, and before he could open his mouth and spew out a big apology and ramblings about what he meant, the other man smiled. A soft, warm smile. Almost as if he could see the panic in Dennis’s eyes.

The man didn’t seem offended whatsoever. His smile didn't falter as he spoke again. “Don’t worry, kid, I am.” Then he added, a little softer, “Doesn’t look like I’m the only one tired.”

Dennis just nodded, flexing his neck to the side in a feeble attempt to fix the strain in his shoulders. A quiet moment passed—gentle, slightly awkward, but still as peaceful as two strangers could be.

The man straightened slightly, as if remembering something. “Sorry,” he said, and held out his hand. “I run in here like a maniac and don’t even introduce myself. How rude of me. I’m Michael.”

Dennis looked at the offered hand for a split second before taking it. Michael’s hand enveloped his own; his palm was warm and kind of sweaty. But he was steady, stable, despite the lingering adrenaline.

Michael’s eyes lingered on Dennis’s for a second; it took a moment for Dennis to realise the older man was waiting for him to introduce himself.
“Ah—sorry. Dennis. Whitiker.”

“Nice to meet you, Whitiker.” The genuine tone made Dennis pause. Their hands parted, but not before a brief, surprising moment where neither of them seemed in a hurry to pull away.

He was only able to squeak out a small “You too” before turning and focusing on the general store across the road, which suddenly seemed more interesting than the very handsome older man sitting next to him.

Michael stayed quiet for a bit, breathing more evenly now. Dennis kept his gaze forward, though he was very much aware of Michael’s presence beside him—the warmth, the faint scent of something chemical clinging to his unzipped hoodie, the quiet way he was settling down from whatever day he’d had. A moment passed before Michael shifted, his eyes dropping toward the ground. Dennis noticed it, but said nothing. Something on Dennis’s bag must’ve caught his attention, because his brows pulled together slightly.

He nodded toward it. “That your ID?”

Dennis followed his gaze. His student ID badge hung off the side pocket, angled just enough for the name and photo to show in the streetlight.

“Oh, shit—yeah, thanks,” Dennis said, straightening the strap a little. “Sorry, should’ve tucked it away.”

“Why?”
The question was small, but it stopped Dennis in his tracks.

“Well, you know.” Dennis shrugged. The man’s blank face and lack of epiphany forced him to continue. “People stare sometimes. Or ask what specialty I’m going into—just things I haven’t thought enough about, so I don’t really feel like answering.” Then, catching himself rambling, he added quickly, “It’s just a student badge anyway.”

Michael shook his head slightly. “Still. It’s something you earned.”
The words weren’t dramatic, but they landed heavier than Dennis expected.

He blinked once, then twice. “Yeah… I guess so.” He huffed, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Michael’s eyes stayed on the badge a moment longer, thoughtful, before lifting back to Dennis’s face. “So, you’re in med school?”

“Yeah,” Dennis said, trying to keep his voice steady, casual. “Um—fourth year. I start a new rotation next week.”

A faint trace of a smile tugged at the man’s mouth, something almost knowing about it. But he didn’t comment, just let Dennis continue to ramble and embarrass himself.

Dennis exhaled softly, leaning back against the glass. “It’s weird. You think you’re ready, you know? You study forever, you do the labs, the exams, the simulations. Then they actually tell you, ‘Okay, go work with real people now,’ and suddenly it’s like—”

“Like everything you memorised fell out of your head,” Michael finished quietly.

Dennis turned toward him, surprised. “Yeah, exactly.”

“What rotation are you up to?” he asked.

“Emergency,” Dennis answered.

The older man huffed a quiet laugh under his breath but said nothing else. Dennis studied him—not obviously, but enough to catch the subtle reaction, the way he looked down at his hands as if choosing his next words carefully.

“You’ve been to an ER before?” Dennis asked. The question was weird, but Dennis had never personally been to an ER either, so it didn’t feel too strange.

Michael gave a small shrug, eyes still lowered. “You could say that.”

There was something behind the way he said it. Something tired, layered, carefully controlled. Dennis didn’t push. Something told him the man in front of him wasn’t the kind of person who handed out his story easily.

“I’m nervous.” Dennis didn’t know why he was spilling his emotions to this stranger, but he felt as if he had known him for ages. Like an old friend. His voice dropped. “I’m excited too. But this is the first rotation where I’m supposed to actually handle stuff. Real stuff.”
He swallowed. “I just don’t wanna screw this up.” His eyes darted down, embarrassed that he’d just spilled his guts in front of this kind stranger who looked like he’d gone through his own battles today.

Michael looked at him again, his expression somehow even softer this time. “You’re supposed to be nervous. Means you’ll pay attention. People who walk in overconfident are the ones you should worry about.”

Dennis let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “That really helps, thank you.”

Michael didn’t take credit. He just gave a faint nod, leaning back against the bench again. The street around them stayed quiet—just the wind, the occasional distant car, the soft hum of the streetlight overhead.

“You’ll do fine,” the man said after a moment, voice low but certain. “Sounds like you actually care. That’s more than half the job.”

Dennis turned his head, studying him again. The man looked exhausted, worn down by a day he didn’t seem to want to talk about. But he still found the effort to reassure someone he didn’t even know. Someone he’d only just met on a bus bench outside of an old, run-down gas station.

“Thanks.”

“Tell me more about this rotation.”

Chapter Text

He doesn’t hate med students. But he isn't delighted to have them around either.
Robby stood at the front of the cramped workstation area, waiting for his residents to settle. He’d been up for barely an hour and already felt the all too familiar tug behind his eyes. A warning that today would be another too–long day in a month filled with too–long days. Still, his voice was steady, authoritative.

“Alright, folks, listen up.”

McKay arrived with the cluster of med students and the new intern in tow, trailing behind her like anxious shadows. Robby clocked them immediately. Three sets of fresh eyes, varying levels of fear and excitement.

He moved on with the introductions.

“As you can see, we have some new faces this morning. Starting with our second-year resident, Doctor Melissa King, fresh from the V.A.”

Mel smiled, doing the standard, ‘happy to be here’ bit. Robby barely registered it. His mind was already starting to mentally triage the number of patients they were about to inherit.

His eyes landed on the group, heavy and waiting.
The small cluster froze. Classic.
He waited, still nothing. It took Trinity Santos stepping forward to break the silence.

“Trinity Santos, intern.”

Then Javadi introduced herself. Young. Bright-eyed. The kind that usually got eaten alive by week two.
And then…

“Dennis Whitaker, M.S. Four.”

Robby felt it hit him before he could stop it. A flicker of recognition–sharp, immediate. The bus stop. The quiet night. Those nervous hands wrapped around the strap of a worn bag. The soft smile that didn’t quite hide the kind of day he had. Robby kept his face professionally neutral, but his pulse jumped–just once, just enough to annoy him. He hadn’t expected to see him again. He definitely hadn’t expected him to walk into his ER.

Dennis stood there looking painfully earnest and just as tired as Robby remembered. Maybe even more. He wasn’t looking at Robby, though. He was staring straight ahead, shoulders pulled tight, trying to shrink himself among the crowd of scrubs.
Robby wondered if Dennis recognised him. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted him to.
He pushed the thought down and continued.

“Welcome to the Pitt.” Before he could say anything else, Dana butted in with an incoming patient.
He kept talking, hitting all the standard beats about boarders and overcrowding, but part of his attention kept snagging on Dennis in the periphery–on the way he shifted his weight, the slight crease between his brows, the faint flush in his ears like he was already overwhelmed but refusing to show it. Robby had seen that look a thousand times. Usually in first years. Sometimes in residents who weren’t cut out for the pitt. But something about it on Dennis bothered him more than it should. They all headed toward the woman with the degloved foot. Some lingering, some following Robby past her towards the good Samaritan.
Dana pushed the workstation forward whilst Robby moved to lead the group even further away from the work area. But just before he turned, Dennis lifted his head.

Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Like a quiet click in Robby’s chest.

Dennis blinked, startled. Recognition. Then he quickly looked away, face turning a shade pinker, jaw tightening as if he didn’t trust himself to react. Robby didn’t say anything. Professionally, he couldn’t. Personally, he didn’t know what he would’ve said even if he could. But the moment lingered.

And Robby didn’t miss the way his own throat tightened before he forced himself to look forward again.

The chaos had rolled on for hours. Vomit, chest pains, lost teenagers, cracked ribs, a drunk guy who tried to fist fight a vending machine. Standard, miserable, endless pit day. Robby should’ve been too busy to notice anything outside patient flow. Too tired to care about anything except who was bleeding and who needed a bed.

But every time he turned around, somehow, there was Whitaker. Not in an intentional way. Not hovering, not needy. Just… there. In his orbit.

Dennis was helping Santos with vitals. Scribbling notes, pushing a workstation, following McKay with a look not far off from a lost puppy. He was always moving, always trying. Frowning in concentration, worrying his lower lip when he thought no one was looking.

But Robby was looking, he was always looking.
It was starting to piss him off.

At first, it was just a harmless glance. Then, it was a second one. Then a third that lingered too long. By four, it was a problem. Robby stood at the medication station, typing orders, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to the med student two bays down. But he could hear Dennis’s voice. Quiet and earnest, asking Dr McKay a question that sounded rehearsed.

There was something weird, magnetic. Something warm, something that he should not be feeling.

Robby exhaled sharply through his nose, more irritated than anything. Get a grip, Robinavitch.

“You alright, Robby?” Dana’s soft voice caught him off guard; the question lingered for a second. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. Instead, he just unconvincingly nodded and continued on. A failed assurance died in his throat as he paced himself away from the nurse station. Perla and Princess’s eyes glued to the back of his head.

He found himself in the bathroom, body hunched over the sink. He was surprised the word ‘whore’ wasn’t painted on the mirror in bright pink lipstick, the way he was arguing with himself in his mind.

Why him? Why now. He’s a med student, not a–

He cut the thought off before it finished forming. This wasn’t him. He didn’t get flustered over people. He didn’t get attached. He didn’t even like when he had to teach med students. So why—

Why did he want to keep touching him?
Guide his hand on a suture tray? Rest a palm on the small of his back to steer him through the hallway chaos? Every instinct felt stupidly physical, immediate, and unnerving. Robby rubbed his tight jaw, annoyed at himself. No reason. No explanation. Just the sudden sharp gravity pulling him toward a kid he barely knew.

The word kid replayed in his mind. He technically wasn’t a kid. But Robby was old enough to be his father. The thought should have unnerved him, but what unnerved him was how much he kind of enjoyed being older than Dennis.

“Fuck. That’s so wrong, on so many levels.” He whispered to himself, slapping his face softly with cold water before hastily leaving the bathroom. Almost bumping directly into Santos, but he couldn’t pull his attention off of Dennis passing by. Covered in something. Something medical, something dangerously like…

Robby stopped the thought entirely.

Dammit.

Whatever this was, it was a strong force that needed to be squashed before he became an HR violation.

The shit show continues for a couple hours. When Dennis loses his first patient, Robby wants to say something comforting, something like—’It gets easier. Or, It will be okay.’ –But the truth was, it never got easier.

And when he watches Whitaker’s eyes get a little redder with unshed tears, his stomach swoops in a sick way he doesn’t have time to dissect right now. All he could do was offer his support and a hopefully grounding hand on his shoulder.

Robby earnestly hated how he found himself entranced by this fourth-year med student. Especially since they only met a day ago. But no matter what, he couldn’t deny this one thing.

He was finding it harder and harder to keep his hands to himself.

Chapter Text

The alarms had already been silenced. The room was too quiet now. Painfully quiet. Dennis stood there with his gloves still on, staring at the stillness of the man he couldn’t save.

The nurses moved quietly around him, lowering monitors, disconnecting IV lines. Their faces were soft, practised. It was something they had come to terms with.
The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, the only sound left in the room besides the subtle shuffle of shoes on linoleum. Someone pulled the curtain halfway, giving the body a semblance of privacy. It made the room feel even smaller, like the air itself was holding its breath. The smell of antiseptic lingered, sharp and clean, contrasting cruelly with the heaviness in Dennis’s chest.

But Dennis was just talking to him, checking him. He found the problem, and he fixed it. So why was Mr Milton now dead? He swallowed hard. The taste of adrenaline was still metallic on his tongue. His hands were trembling. Not obvious enough for anyone to comment, but enough that he noticed.
He kept replaying every second in his head: Should I have caught the drop in BP earlier? Was there something, anything I missed? Why do I always fail?..
Someone touched his arm, gently. As if trying to calm a spooked cat.

“Dennis? You can head out, we’ve got this.”
He blinked, not fully hearing the words the first time. The hand on his arm was warm, grounding, but it also felt like being led away from a wreck he caused. All he could do was give a stiff, heavy nod. His body felt as tight as his chest did in that moment; he was sure whatever he said would come out with a sob. He didn’t trust his body in that moment, each step feeling like a stranger guiding his body to the break room.

The hallway was colder than usual, or maybe it was just him. Every fluorescent light felt too bright, every passing voice too distant. The hospital’s steady rhythm carried on—phones ringing, carts rolling, laughter from a distant nurses’ station—life, indifferent and unstoppable.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, and he was left in the solace of the empty break room, Dennis’s chest tightened like a fist was inside his chest, squeezing his heart mercilessly. He didn't cry—not fully—but his eyes burned.
Dennis hated that they burned.

He set both hands on the table and leaned forward, head down, trying to breathe normally, trying not to think about Mr Milton's face. So peaceful and tranquil, the cruel juxtaposition to how Dennis felt in that moment. The pain that pitted in the depth of his belly, the pain that was sure to weigh him down for the rest of the day. The pain that reminded him he failed, a man died, he took a life by not saving it.

The break room hum of the refrigerator became deafening. The overhead lights flickered slightly, a reminder that even the building was more stable than he felt. His scrubs clung uncomfortably to his back, damp with sweat, and the chemical smell of hand sanitiser stung his nostrils.

Every reason to keep going seemed useless now. He used to know why he got into medical school. To prove to his parents that it took more than a prayer to save someone, but now, as he sat alone in that cold break room, he began to pray that he would be saved, that the large cosmic joke the universe was playing on him would end.

That he would be freed from the pain that came with leaving his life in Nebraska behind. Dennis wasn’t sure if he believed in God, but he knew if the day came that he faced repentance, he wouldn’t beg or cry; instead, he would let himself sink through the floor and let the flames burn him whole. All his issues blurred in his eyes as they fell in tears, soft, silent. Barely there.

Bennet Milton, his mother, and his job. That sickness that pulled in his stomach whenever he had unholy thoughts. After a good three minutes of silent weeping, he picked himself off the floor.
Patients needed him. He needed the patients.

Dennis always thought that if he could heal others, then maybe, one day, he would be able to heal himself. Rid of the sin that lived deep in his brain.
The day went on as normal. One thing he was blatantly aware of was the soft but rough hand that kept finding its way to his own body. Whether it was his back, his shoulder. Every time a hand pressed firmly on his body, it filled the hole he had been trying to hide for twenty years. Robby grounded him, calmed him.
It felt wrong.

With each touch, he felt the belt on his hands, the pastor's silky voice schooling him for his misdeed. But like a moth to an electrical light, he was attracted to the sensations. He let himself fly towards the light; he also let himself be burned by the electrical current of shocks that flew up and down his spine, straight into his heart with each stolen nudge.

The day kept rushing past him in a dizzy whirlwind of self-pity and grievance.
And yet each time Robby’s hand brushed him, he found himself leaning—almost imperceptibly—into the contact. A quiet betrayal of everything he’d ever been taught. He felt heat prickling beneath his skin, a warmth he had no name for, a warmth that frightened him more than death itself. It wasn’t supposed to feel safe. It wasn’t supposed to feel good.
He’s only really pulled out of it when Dr Mohan basically forces him into a new patient. Only after they have finished with the charting does Samira let him feel it for a second.

“It’s hard, the first time it happens.” Dennis only half-listens, his brain still processing the last four hours. Her hand pats his arm softly. Maybe it was just a boss thing. All the touching.

“How do you get over it?” His voice is suddenly very unsteady, his body using all his power to stay upright.

“You don't.” Her answer wasn’t as much comforting as it was horrifying. But her smile was soft, genuine. Almost as if what she was saying was a consolation instead of
a deeply horrifying fact. And before he can admit his fears, he’s left alone again.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room filled with the soft hum of the computer and the thick, intrusive weight of silence. Dennis stared at the chart in his hands long after she was gone, trying to steady the shaking that seemed to have worked its way into his bones. The world outside kept moving—voices, footsteps, life continuing—but the echo of her words lodged itself in his chest, cold and unyielding.
He wondered, briefly, terrifyingly, if this was what becoming a doctor truly meant: learning to live with ghosts.

Dennis forced himself to straighten, the chart still clutched in his hand like an anchor. His legs felt stiff, as if the floor had hardened around his shoes. When he finally pushed himself to move, the hallway outside seemed impossibly bright. Every sound felt amplified—the chatter at the nurses' station, the distant ring of a call bell, the beep of an IV pump resetting. Life went on with cruel indifference.

He kept his head down as he walked, the fluorescent lights striping the floor in long, harsh bands. The weight of the hospital air pressed against him, sterile and cold. His throat felt raw, like he had swallowed glass, but he willed his breathing to remain steady. One foot in front of the other. A quiet, robotic march back into duty.
The nurse station came into view, the usual controlled chaos unfolding—clipboards, rolling stools, printers spitting out orders. Perlah and Princess glanced up as he approached, their eyes soft, understanding in the silent way that only medical workers share when loss lingers too close. None of them said anything, but their gazes felt like gentle hands bracing a wound.

He didn’t trust his voice enough to greet anyone. He simply set the chart down at the desk and reached for a pen, pretending for a moment that writing something, anything, might ground him.

“Hey.”
Robby’s voice was low, almost too gentle for the noise around them. Dennis didn’t look up right away, afraid of what his face might give away. But Robby stepped closer, close enough that Dennis could feel the warmth radiating off him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Close enough for those sick thoughts to flood his brain in a tsunami of religious guilt that followed soon after.

“You holding up?” Robby asked.

Dennis’s throat tightened.

He swallowed. “Yeah,” he managed, though the word cracked down the middle. “I’m— I’m fine.”

Robby didn’t buy it. Dennis didn’t expect him to. A hand landed on his back—steady, warm, firm enough to break through the numbness coiled around his spine. The same hand that had touched him all day. The same touch he kept craving against every moral instinct drilled into him.

Robby lowered his voice, leaning in just enough that only Dennis could hear him. “You don’t have to be fine.”
The words hit harder than any reprimand Dennis had endured as a child, harder than any lecture from the pastor, harder than the moment Mr Milton’s pulse slipped away beneath his fingers. He felt his breath hitch, his hands going still on the pen.

For a moment, just a brief, flickering moment—he wanted to lean into that touch. To let himself be held up by someone else instead of holding the world on trembling legs.
But guilt rose like bile. He shifted just enough to break the contact, though his skin felt cold instantly.

“I should… check on my next patient,” Dennis whispered.

“Okay. But seriously. Please come find me if it gets to be too much. Don’t disappear into your head.”

Dennis nodded, though he wasn’t sure he could promise that. Nodding felt easier than speaking. Safer.
As he walked away, he felt the phantom warmth of Robby’s hand lingering between his shoulder blades—comforting and damning all at once. The hallway stretched out in front of him, long and bright and merciless, but Dennis forced his feet forward anyway.
Because patients needed him.

And even more terrifyingly— he needed them, if only to distract himself from the pain that still weighed him into the ground.

A body too heavy for him.

Chapter Text

Michael Robinavitch did not believe in omens.

He didn’t believe in luck, or fate, or whatever mystical nonsense half the nurses on the day shift liked to whisper about at the nurses’ station in the middle of a busy day. He believed in vitals. In lab values. In triage scales. In protocols.

The closest thing he believed to divine intervention was whenever Dana pulled him out of a mess. But she no longer worked there. So he was fucked.

But still—when he saw Dennis Whittaker walking toward him in the ED corridor that morning, dressed in fresh scrubs, coffee in hand, hair still damp like he’d showered right before coming in, the first thought that flickered through poor Robby’s mind was: God, please let this shift be normal.

Last week had been…rough. For the entire team, but especially for Whittaker. Robby had seen the way he folded in on himself. The way he’d kept his face neutral, like he was trying to carve emotion out of marble. The way he sat in the break room afterwards, silent, still. But he also saw the way he pulled himself out of the puddle he had melted into on the floor, and continued through the day. Even being a valuable resource during the mass casualty.

Most interns cried after their first patient death. Many cried during. Dennis didn’t cry.

That scared Robby more than tears would’ve.

He gave off vibes of someone who didn’t know how to break in small ways, someone who would keep it all inside until it burst out catastrophically. But this morning, Dennis looked…better. Not good, but better. A subtle difference, more colour in his face. Less tension in his jaw. Robby watched as Santos jumped up from behind Dennis, her hands basically pushing him toward Robby. He stood with his arms folded on his chest in a sort of power stance.

“Morning,” Robby said, falling into step beside the two.

“Morning.”
“Sup.”

The two replied almost simultaneously. Santos was looking in her bag, rushing for her ID card to get into her locker, and Dennis tapped his fingers against his coffee cup in a rhythm that didn’t match his footsteps. A small tell.

He looked tired, or so Robby thought in his mind. “You sleep?”

Dennis lifted his head softly, his boyish smile creeping its way to his face. “Four hours or so.”

“That’s not enough, I need my students to be fully rested and alert for their shifts.”

Santos shifted beside them, her glare heavy as she watched the interaction with a confused, bordering-on-bewildered look. Dennis just nodded, his smile falling. Robby felt his chest stop for a second, a mix of guilt and self-disappointment weighing in his chest. Before he decided to apologise, he walked forward, back into the rushing landscape of the emergency room.

Perlah intercepted them before they even reached the main desk.

“Robby, Whittaker. Trauma Bay 3. Aortic stenosis patient—syncope on exertion, hypertension, irregular rhythm. ETA five minutes.”

Robby rolled his neck until it cracked. “Fantastic. Nothing says ‘welcome back’ like cardiology chaos.” He sighed, then went to Trauma Bay 3, ordering the nurses and Javadi, who surprisingly hadn’t quit after Pittfest, to prepare the room. Nurses prepared IV kits, a respiratory therapist set up the BiPAP machine, ‘just in case,’ and the portable ultrasound sat on its wheeled stand like a silent sentinel.

EMTs burst in, pushing a gurney fast and straight.

“Sixty-eight-year-old male,” the lead EMT rattled off. “History of severe aortic stenosis, hypertension, and hyperlipidemia. Syncopal episode while carrying groceries. Found with a systolic of seventy-eight. Sinus rhythm but irregular ectopy. GCS fifteen. Complaints of dizziness and chest pressure.”

“Thank you,” Robby said. “On my count—one, two, three.” They transferred the patient to the trauma bed.

Whittaker immediately applied the EKG leads. The monitor blinked awake.

“Okay, Whittaker, Javadi. What labs do you think we need ordered?”

Javadi was the first to answer. “Uh—full cardiac panel. CBC, CMP…” Her voice trailed off while placing the nasal cannula, her actions stuttering for a second.

“PT/INR, lactate, magnesium. We need a type and screen rolling, in case we need to push fluid or prepare for transfer.” Dennis finished her thought for her.

“Good.” Robby nodded, keeping his eyes on the unconscious patient. “Sir, sir, can you hear me? What’s your name?” The sternum rub had no response.

“Patient does not respond to pain.”

Jessie’s voice cut through the chatter. “Blood pressure’s eighty-four over fifty.”

“Okay, start a 500 mL bolus of normal saline, slow. Let’s not overload him.”

Everyone worked in sync. Every so often, Robby would look up and see Dennis’s worried face. But he had no time to worry about him. He just hoped Whittaker would keep it together until after they saved the patient. Robby grabbed the ultrasound probe, squeezed gel on it, and placed it below the man’s sternum. 

“No pericardial effusion. Good news.”

“Labs drawn,” another nurse reported.

“Send them stat.”

Dennis read the screen. “Heart rate’s up—one thirty-two and irregular. I think we should hold.”

Robby didn’t look at him right away. His focus stayed on the patient’s chest, the shallow rise and fall, the grey creeping into his skin. “Hold what exactly?” His voice came out gritted through his clenched teeth.

“Magnesium,” Dennis said. “If we blunt the rate now and he crashes—”

Robby turned then. Fully. “If we don’t address the rhythm, he will crash.”

Dennis swallowed. “I just think we should reassess before intervening.”

That word—reassess—hit wrong. Like, Whittaker was losing faith in Robby, in the patient. He was too scared, Robby could see it in the short panic in his eyes. The patient groaned, fingers twitching weakly against the sheet. His blood pressure cuff cycled again.

Robby felt irritation flare hot and fast. Not because Whittaker was speaking, but because he was hesitating. Because he was stalling. Because Robby could see it now, plain as day.

This wasn’t clinical reasoning. This was fear.

“Whittaker,” Robby said sharply, “this isn’t a theoretical exercise. He’s symptomatic, hypotensive, and his rhythm is deteriorating.”

“I know,” Dennis replied quickly, shaking his head. “I just, last week—what if—”

There it was.

Robby cut him off. “Step back.”

Dennis froze for a second before backing off, arms at his side in defeat. “I’m just trying to be careful.”

Robby felt the dry chuckle leave his laugh, devoid of humour. “Right now, your careful looks like indecision.” His voice stayed level, but it carried a stern weight that rooted Dennis in place. “That kills people.” 

Whittaker’s fingers curled into his palms, leaving crescent marks. Again, Robby noticed. He always noticed when it came to the sad-looking boy. 

The room had gone quiet, too quiet.

Robby turned toward the door. “Javadi!”

Victoria was by his side in an instant. “Here.”

“You’re with me. Whittaker—out. Chart and re-group.” Dennis didn’t argue, just opened his mouth and closed it for a few seconds, disagreement dying in his throat when he was shot a deep and dark glare from Robby.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled quietly. He stepped back, then out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him in a final click. Robby felt the tension linger like static in the air. But he pushed it aside, no room for feelings. Not while a patient lay on the gurney unresponsive and unconscious. 

For a second, his own heartbeat felt a little louder in his ears. Like he regretted being so harsh. But it was needed, wasn’t it?

“Alright,” Robby heard himself say, turning back to the patient. “Magnesium. Two grams IV. Let’s stabilise him before he spirals any further.”

Javadi moved efficiently, with no hesitation. The medication pushed. The monitor flickered. The heart rate slowly fell to a normal rhythm. His blood pressure steadied and evened out. The patient exhaled, colour slowly returning to his face.

“Good,” he muttered. “That’s better. Good job, Javadi.”

He roughly pulled off his gloves and threw them into the biohazard bin next to the door with unneeded aggression.

“Are you okay?” Javadi questioned, her voice kind but shaky in the way it always was.

“Peachy.” The tension in his jaw gave it away to everyone in the room as he stormed out.

Their shift moved on. Patients rotated through beds and chairs. Controlled chaos, as always.

But Robby didn’t forget. He watched Dennis from across the department. How he charted meticulously, how he avoided eye contact, how his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was bracing for impact every five seconds.

Near the end of the shift, Robby gestured toward the small, empty conference room off the main hall. “Whittaker, with me, please.” He added the please as a kind gesture, but what he really meant was—get your ass in there and have this awkward conversation with me right now.

Dennis followed without a word, head hung low like a child being scolded. The door shut softly behind them.

The room smelled like old coffee and dry-erase markers. A single table, two chairs. Robby didn’t sit. Just stood, head down, letting the tension linger for a second.

Dennis sat on the edge of the chair, his hands fidgeting with his scrub shirt, head still down in that annoying way that Robby hated. He felt mean having this conversation. But Dennis needed to hear it.

Robby sighed, a hand pulling down his face.

“I’m sorry,” Dennis said immediately. “I shouldn’t have questioned you in the middle of—”

Robby held up a hand, a silent gesture that said, shut the fuck up.

“No.”

Dennis stopped his rambling short.

Robby exhaled slowly, collecting his thoughts. He didn’t want anger. Didn’t want distance. He wanted clarity.

“I understand that you’re scared. But you can not let fear drive your judgment. You questioned me in front of a patient, you tried to take the safe way out when it did not exist.” His voice was a low, quiet, controlled annoyance. Whittaker was new; he understood. But he should have trusted Robby. Dennis just sat there, hands stilling. Just sitting. Listening, looking just that bit more curled up on himself. Robby noticed it, of course, he noticed it.

It was annoying. He didn’t want his med students or any of his staff scared of him. He inhaled a sharp, deep breath, forcing his body to relax.

“Look at me, Whittaker.” Dennis looked up so fast that Robby worried he might have gotten whiplash. And, if he was completely honest with himself, he kind of liked how Whittaker always followed his ‘commands.’

How eager he was to please, how stubborn he also was in contrast, how pretty he looked when he cried.

No—no, do not go there, Robby. That is uncharted territory. He is your student, he is almost half your age, and he is also so very pretty.

Robby looked away for a second, attempting to think of more appropriate thoughts to balance out the amount of sinful ones he was imagining. He sighed and sat on the chair next to Dennis.

“Look, I get it. You make a mistake, you try to be more careful. You’re scared.” Dennis seemed to open his mouth, ready to disagree or lie.

Robby’s hand shot up again, silencing him before he could spew some bullshit about being fine. “You. Are. Scared. That’s okay, I get it. But not when it may cost a patient. I need you to completely trust me, okay?”

Dennis nodded, looking away shamefully. 

“I need you to use your words, please,” Robby added, head tilted softly, trying to find Whittaker’s earnest blue eyes.

“I trust you, Dr Robby.” Whittaker stared directly in Robby’s eyes, so intensely he worried that the man might be able to read his thoughts. Even the ones that would make a nun blush. Robby suddenly became very aware of how close they were, how their knees brushed against one another slightly. 

Robby cleared his throat, slapping his hands on his thighs before standing. “Well, we’re off the clock.”

He opened the door and waited for Dennis to catch on, which, to his credit, he did fairly quickly. They left, walking in the same direction. But neither is talking. Robby continued past the lockers, toward the nurses’ station.

He was mid-way through charting when Doctor Jack Abbot walked through the door.

“I can’t tell if you’re angry, or just tired," he paused, calculating eyes searching Robby's face. "Or hungry."

Robby cut him off with a sharp look, which instantly melted when he saw the all too knowing look from Abbot. “Tired.” He chuckled softly at the ridiculousness of the short conversation.

Normal was never an option when it came to being around Dennis Whittaker. The man drove him crazy. Even when he did royally piss him off. It actually made Robby's chest throb with more need. 

He is utterly and entirely fucked if he doesn’t get this little workplace crush in order.