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In preparation for their first night shift in the ER, Dennis and Santos agreed they had to turn the day around. So they decided to stay up all night on their day off, to be able to sleep the morning through. A pretty tall order, seeing as they have just come off a long shift. But Santos bought them coffee from Starbucks with two extra shots of espresso and started yet another binge watch of Grey’s Anatomy. Santos likes to skip around the seasons, but Dennis doesn’t mind - it’s not like he’s actually following along with all the characters or plot anyways. This time, she puts on season five which she declares to be ‘Peak Stupid’.
It is also a season that Dennis fears might kill him by means of second hand embarrassment. It features a romance with a rather eyebrow raising age gap. It doesn’t start off that bad - just pining looks and the sort of drama one expects.
But then. Oh, then.
“So, teach me,” Lexie Grey says breathlessly on screen, taking off her shoes.
“What are you doing? Don’t do that, stop,” Mark Sloan growls out in a way that in no way seems urgent enough. He really ought to put some emphasis behind it.
“Teach me.”
“Stop.”
“Teach me.” And someone should tell Lexie that continuing to strip while someone is telling you not to is considered a felony in a lot of places.
“We can’t do this, you’re little Grey and I promised and I’m your teacher.”
Oh, God. This is worse than the damn pilot episode.
“So, teach me.” Lexie peels off her shirt and Dennis sinks very low in his seat, cheeks red. “Come on, am I really so bad?” she breathes out into the frankly a little too loud background music.
“No,” Mark whispers, and after a dramatic pause goes on, “I am.”
Dennis cringes as the two embrace desperately on screen, sharing a kiss that is - he isn’t sure if it is appropriate for daytime TV. How do actors even do that without completely melting from embarrassment? Kissing in front of an audience, no matter how professional - Dennis just can’t fathom it.
Then, he realises Santos is staring at him from the other side of the couch.
“What?”
Santos nods to the TV. “Is that how it played out?”
“Is…that how what played out?” Dennis asks with some trepidation.
“You convincing Robby to sleep with you?” she waggles her brows exaggeratedly at him.
Dennis stares at her in horror. “Trinity.”
“No, like - I can see some McSteamy in him. And you’re for sure a Lexie.”
“We are not having this conversation,” Dennis says firmly - well, sort of firmly. It more comes out like a rushed squeak, if he’s being completely honest.
“Oh, little Whitaker,” Santos growls in a startlingly good impression of their attending, “did you get something on your scrubs again? Let me help you with that.”
“Oh God, don’t-!”
The sound of funk through tinny speakers thankfully cuts off Santos’ teasing. Dennis tugs his phone out from under the blankets. His heart shoots up to his throat, and for a fraught few seconds all he can do is stare at the screen.
“You gonna get that?” Santos quirks a brow at him.
“Uh, yeah, I just - yeah, hold on.” Dennis awkwardly clambers off of the couch and wanders out of the living room - he feels Santos’ incredulous stare at his back as he retreats to the entryway. She probably thinks it’s a booty call from Robby or something. God, he wishes.
Dennis takes a deep breath, then finally picks up the call. “Hey, ma.”
“Hi, duck.” His mother’s voice washes over him and he feels an embarrassing heat rushing up the back of his eyeballs. He hasn’t heard her voice in months. Hadn’t realised how badly he had missed it. Dennis has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he can speak.
“Hi. I- is something wrong?”
“No - well,” she trails off, then goes on, hesitant. “Susan Bradshaw told me there was a shooting in Pittsburgh?”
Dennis’ heart clenches and drops into his stomach.
It’s not like his parents religiously follow the news - the PittFest shooting only made headlines for a few days on national news. It’s fine. Of course they couldn’t have known. It still stings. He tries not to sound put out when he answers, “Yeah. Three weeks ago.”
“Lord. You’re alright?”
“I mean, yeah,” Dennis mumbles. Quickly dispels the thought that - if he hadn’t been, how long would it have taken for her to know to worry? “I wasn’t like. Where it happened. Well, sort of, I guess I was. The hospital I’m at got most of the victims. I’m on rotation in the emergency department, so I - I had to see a lot of them.”
It’s harder to dispel the sounds of soles squeaking against blood stained floors, of the whir of IO-drills, of holding a woman’s terribly bleeding thigh and trying to reassure her she’d be alright and trying to keep the mood light by telling her he liked coconut. An elderly man groaning, ‘what happened to peace and love, man’ while clutching at a scalp wound. But Dennis manages, sort of. Enough to focus on the conversation as it goes on, at least.
“Oh, that’s just awful.”
“Yeah, it…wasn’t great.” There is a bit of awkward silence. Dennis worries the nail bed on his thumb with his forefinger. “So, um. How’re things at home? How’s dad?”
“Oh, you know. Working himself to the bone.” His mother sighs. “It’s a real good thing the other boys are here to help.”
Unlike you, Dennis hears in the spaces between. Guilt twinges up his spine. “Yeah,” he gets out through a rapidly tightening throat. Winces softly when his nailbed actually starts to bleed from a too sharp dig.
“Any chance we’ll have you here soon, too, you think?” There’s a soft hopefulness in her tone.
“No, ma, I - I’m doing my rotations. I can’t just go,” Dennis reminds her faintly, “and, uh, I…I can’t really afford to go right now anyways.” As she knows. As they ALL know - family, friends, literally everyone in Broken Bow. Something sour tasting and angry rises up the back of his throat. He goes on, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I’m guessing dad’s offer to pay for a ticket only covers one way still?”
“Denny.” She sounds sad, but Dennis can’t allow himself to soften for it. If he does, he might burst into tears and - and he just can’t. “Your dad is - you know how he gets. Stubborn as the cattle he raises, I’ve always told you.”
“Right.” Dennis slumps against the wall, sliding down to sit on his butt in the entrance hallway. “Well, no worries. I ain’t gonna ask him for nothing. I’m doing what he said. Working it out on my own.”
‘Big strong man, out in the world, doing whatever the fuck he wants. You’ll just have to work it out.’ Cold words droned right at his ear through the phone, hand shaking clenched into a letter from the church declaring his tuition would end that semester. The memory features heavily in his stress nightmares.
His mother’s voice is softer, but with an edge of resignation. “Well, it was a sudden change, duck. You can’t blame him for taking it hard.”
“Sure, yeah. Let’s all just blame me instead. Like always.”
“Dennis, don’t you start-”
“I didn’t start this,” Dennis says, sharper than he meant to. Clenches his eyes shut when he hears his mother’s wounded gasp. “He gave up on me first. You all did.”
Because no one had understood - understood that when he sat alone in that dorm room during lockdown and watched report after report on the way the medical field was overwhelmed, people dying, he had been filled with an urge to help that far surpassed any he’d ever felt while studying to become a pastor. And after hours of research, of checking his school merits, he’d realised he could actually enter med-school and make a difference. That he could help people, save lives and do something he’s actually interested in. He remembers feeling so proud, excited for a career that seemed like everything he’d ever wanted. Where he could do some good.
And then it all fell apart. He remembers it all so well. Clear as day, any time he has a quiet moment.
The deluge of calls, expressing disappointment, anger, scathing distaste for his lack of respect for those who stuck out their necks for him.
Reverend Burke’s gentle but disappointed acquiescence. His brothers sneering. His mother crying. His father raging. Reminders of how hard they had all worked for him to throw that kindness back in their faces.
Losing his scholarship. Losing his housing. Receiving nothing - being told he deserved nothing if he was going to bite the hand that fed. Offered prayers when he tried to ask for at least the rest of his things from back home.
No one fought for him. They all bet against him - gave up on him. And now here he is, miles away from home, shown kindness by the least likely person and shown compassion by people who don’t claim Jesus as their savior. Given grace from everyone but the people he so desperately seeks it from. It’s a rare emotion for him, but Dennis feels a terrible surge of anger up the back of his neck.
“My studies are going great, by the way,” Dennis says into the silence from the other side of the line. “Not that I think anyone cares back home, but - I’m doing great. I’ll be graduating in May.” It’s not that sure a thing, of course, but he’s not about to let her know that.
“Baby-”
Dennis cuts her off. “You know, a patient asked me if my parents were proud to have a doctor for a son? I didn’t know what to tell him.”
“Of course we’re proud, Dennis.”
“I don’t believe that.” Dennis doesn’t know where he’s getting the nerve from. Where he comes off thinking he can talk back to his parents like this. It’s not what he wants to do. It’s creating this awful, dark pit in his belly, but he can’t stop now that he’s started. He just pours out the bitterness, like pulling pus from a wound. “None of you ever said, when it mattered. I’m - I’ve heard nothing from you about being proud. I’ve never known, not - not ever. All you guys ever tell me is how I’m a disappointment, how I’ve failed, how I’m not the way you want me to be.” Dennis’ eyes are burning and he wipes angrily at them. His throat hurts as he goes on. “Sometimes - Sometimes I think that you’d rather have me mucking stables than becoming a doctor. But just so you know, I am proud of myself. When Mr. Milton asked me, I felt that - that you should be proud of me. And still, I’ve never known.”
“Duck.” His mother’s voice is so faint now, breathless - it hurts, so Dennis cuts her off once more to speak, voice sharp and a tiny bit too high;
“Anyway, he’s dead now. So I guess I don’t really have to know what to tell him, do I?” Dennis pauses, heart up in his throat suddenly and he feels sick. “Nevermind, I - fuck, that was messed up, I am sorry. Just - I’ve got to go, ma.”
“Dennis Jeremy Whitaker, don’t you hang up on me-”
“Sorry,” Dennis forces out and then quickly hits the button to end the call. Shudders as he ducks his head down to rest against his knees. Mutes the phone with a heavy thumb on the volume button when it starts to ring again. It buzzes and buzzes, then finally stops.
“You okay?” Santos has wandered into the hallway sometime during the last few minutes. Stands awkwardly over him.
“Yeah. Super,” Dennis tells his knees.
“Hey, deflecting with sarcasm is my thing.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I can share tonight.”
There’s a shuffle and hiss of fabric dragging against the wall as Santos sits down next to him. A moment later, a heavy head drops on his shoulder. Dennis clenches his eyes shut and focuses on the warmth of her silent kindness.
“...family stuff is hard,” Dennis mumbles after a few moments.
“Yeah. Do you want to talk about it?”
Dennis shakes his head.
“...you wanna make brownies and keep watching Grey’s Anatomy?”
After some hesitation, Dennis nods.
An hour later, they are back on the couch - a huge batch of gooey, still warm brownies split on two plates in their laps. Santos is making an uncomfortable amount of noise while she eats them. He thinks she might be exaggerating to cheer him up - it is working, a little bit.
There’s another buzz of phone against his hip. Reluctantly, Dennis tugs it out of his pocket to check.
Five missed calls from his mom. A text that reads ‘praying for you, please call soon’.
And a text from Michael.
Heart in his throat in a completely different way, Dennis presses the notification. It’s short, to the point and still has Dennis’ heart pounding in his chest.
‘Good luck tomorrow.’
“That had better be a sext to have you grinning like that.” Santos says around a mouthful of brownie.
-
At eight PM on a Wednesday, Dennis starts his first ever night shift. It feels a little odd - doing rounds with Abbot, as well as some residents he has never met properly before. There’s Doctor Ellis that they worked briefly with during Pittfest, a tired looking senior resident named Wilson - she stares blankly at Dennis when he quips ‘oh, like in House!’ - and finally Doctor Kowalski that Santos is immediately convinced is a vampire.
“It’s his eyes,” she hisses after Dennis stares at her in confusion for the suggestion, “no soul, dead inside. If you ever see him smile, check for fangs.”
There is a different vibe to all of them - something sharp around the edges wrapped in a dark sense of humor that makes Dennis’ head spin. He and Javadi seem to be of the same mind, sharing nervous glances after Abbot deadpans something about no one taking a dive off of the roof before he does because he wants a hard landing.
“He was joking, right?” Javadi whispers as they follow the nighttime attending towards their final room of rounds.
“Yeah, for sure,” Dennis says, not feeling even half as sure as he tries to project.
Santos fits in seamlessly. She makes instant friends with Doctor Ellis and the night shift nurses who seem, somehow, both surlier and cheerier than the daytime ones. It is trickier for Dennis - not just with bonding with his new coworkers.
Abbot has a very different teaching style than Robby. He sounds either short and impatient or way too relaxed. Not to say he isn’t brilliant and awe inspiring to watch work, it’s just that Dennis can’t make sense of him. It’s impossible to tell if he’s doing a good job or not in the older man’s eyes. Dennis hardly has any time to think about whether or not he is, though. The place is a nightmare from the start of the shift to about midnight where things finally seem to simmer down.
Just in time for, as Santos had once predicted, the weird sex injuries to come in.
“I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum,” Santos says as she wanders over to Dennis by central, vigorously rubbing hand sanitizer into her palms, “but who the fuck tries to put a piece of ginger up their ass?”
“It’s called figging, baby,” Myrna rasps out lasciviously as she’s wheeled past them by a very fed up looking nurse. “You wouldn’t believe the way it tickles.”
Santos and Dennis share a very long stare and silently agree to never speak of that revelation ever.
-
At four AM, the place suddenly quiets down. The pace goes from a hundred to grave-pace in what feels like the span of five minutes. It should be a relief, but really it just reminds Dennis of the fact that it is four AM and no human being has any business being awake at that time. It’s odd - he has never had any issues sleeping, or getting up early. But turning the day around like this - it is leaving him in this odd, constantly fuzzy state of mind. Not enough to affect his work or anything, but enough that it is noticeable and grating. Especially in these slow moments.
Dennis sighs, rolls his neck a couple of times and tries to not let the letters on the screen dance out of view again. And then he is suddenly not alone.
“How’re you holding up, Whitaker?” Abbot asks, settling down in a chair by the console Dennis is working out of.
“Okay, I think. It’s a really different pace than the day shift,” Dennis sighs, finishing up with his latest workup. Stretches his arms over his head and groans for the soft pop in his shoulders. “No offense, but I think I preferred those.”
“Hah. Not a worry, it’s not for everyone,” Abbot snorts, leaning down to adjust something at his ankle. The prosthetic one, Dennis realises after a moment and quickly diverts his gaze. It feels rude to stare, even if there is plenty of professional curiosity in him that wants to know how that thing works. Then, Abbot goes on, voice a playful, husky whisper. “Besides. Not like I thought I could steal you away from Robby.”
Dennis’ cheeks warm. He glances back hesitantly to where the attending is smoothing his trouser leg against his boot. Abbot straightens and winks. It’s - a little embarrassing. But also kind of - nice. Dennis feels himself relaxing a little. “So he told you? That we’re, um…?”
“Yeah. Well, not in so many words. He mentioned a big life change. The rest was easy enough to figure out, looking at you two.”
Looking at them? Just what can people tell, Dennis wonders nervously. Surely it can’t be that obvious, or someone would have called HR.
“For the record?” Abbot says, lowering his voice a little, far more somber, “I think you’ll be good for him. Probably better than he thinks he deserves. Be careful with that. He likes to be too hard on himself.”
“I’ve noticed.” Dennis clenches his hands into his thighs, feeling all kinds of off balance for a second. Because - that is a lot of responsibility to be given. But at the same time as it’s daunting, it’s…nice. Makes his chest feel warm that he can be considered trustworthy enough for something so massive. So he goes on, softer, “I will. Be careful, I mean.”
“Careful with what?” Doctor Ellis asks, coming up behind them. Dennis almost swallows his tongue, back straightening as he turns to stare up at her with slightly too wide eyes. The way her brow quirks, he must look very much like he believes he is in trouble.
“Crike,” Abbot says before Dennis can make a bigger fool of himself than he already has. “He’s assisting me on the next one.”
“Way to speak a fucking trauma into existance, Abbot,” Ellis groans and pushes away from the desk.
She’s barely got the words out before the charge nurse calls out behind them, “We’ve got a bike versus car coming in two minutes!”
Ellis stabs a finger accusingly towards Abbot. He lifts both hands in surrender and gets back to his feet, “My bad. Come on, Whitaker, let’s get it.”
The emergency is gnarly. A Door Dasher got hit by a car on his bike. Both him and the wheel of his bike are rushed into the ED as his leg is so tightly entangled with the spokes the paramedics didn’t dare separate them. Dennis has never seen a limb so badly twisted before in his life, foot over knee, a mess of bone and exposed muscle.
Abbot instructs Dennis on where to snip the metal wires off with pliers, while the patient is knocked out with ROC and midazolam after screaming himself hoarse and nearly becoming violent in his state of pain and shock. It’s nervewracking, he’s got sweat soaking him through from the back of his neck to the small of his back for the gruesomeness of the injury.
“You think the food in the bag is still good?” Wilson asks from the doorway, completely non-plussed. “The EMTs left it here.”
“Put it in the staff lounge, see if someone eats it,” the nurse on Dennis’ left quips, earning a couple of laughs. Wilson salutes and walks off.
Dennis will never understand the night shift.
Once the man’s been wheeled off to ortho for emergency surgery and Dennis has washed his hands, Abbot claps him hard on the shoulder. “Nerves of fucking steel, rook. Great job,” is all he says before wandering off to whatever next case is on his mind.
Dennis rides the high of that compliment all the way until dawn.
-
It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but Robby misses Dennis way sooner than he thought he might.
It’s been all of three days without him and the other med students on shift. He couldn’t even make it half a week without that distinct, vague ache in his chest. It doesn’t bode well for how he’ll do once the kid actually moves on to his next rotation. Which…he isn’t sure which one it’ll be. He’ll have to ask.
More disconcertingly, he very distinctly feels like he has no idea what to do with his hands. He’s always been the type to fiddle, though he has gotten better at hiding it - shoving his hands into pockets, spending extra time adjusting his glasses or gloves. A few weeks of manhandling a med-student seems to have kicked the bad habit into overdrive, though.
“We should get you a stress ball,” Dana comments when she catches him ruining yet another pair of gloves by means of pulling them to their breaking point and past it for the third time that day.
“I’d rather have another senior resident and a vacation,” Robby sighs.
“Or Whitaker?” Dana asks slyly.
It is a close thing, but Robby does manage not to choke on his tongue. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, excuse you?” Collins’ voice comes loud and baffled from his left and Goddamnit that is exactly what this day needed, Robby thinks bitterly. The sharpest woman he’s ever known getting a whiff of his current dirty laundry.
“Oh, I’m just teasing,” Dana laughs, clapping Robby on the shoulder before wandering over to a very perturbed looking Collins staring at them both from across the counter. “Robby’s playing favorites as usual.”
“I do not play favorites,” Robby denies, latching on to the life line. Ever since Dennis pointed out that he likes to touch him, it has put the last few weeks into perspective. Still, it doesn’t warrant the long looks the nurses share from where they think he can’t see - or perhaps they don’t care if he sees or not. That seems more likely. “I don’t!”
“Completely lacking in self-awareness,” Princess mutters to Perlah.
“Like all doctors, yeah?” Perlah replies with a roll of eyes.
“Uh-huh,” Dana waves him off as she picks up her phone. Frowns for what she sees, then speaks up in a far more serious tone, “We’ve got a mother in distress coming in. Possible breech situation, ETA five minutes.”
Still a tiny bit miffed by the conversation, Robby turns his professional face on and nods, pushing away from the desk, “We’ll take them to Trauma 1, it’s closest to the elevator in case we can get them up to Pedes before the point of no return.”
“Let’s go,” Collins gets up and follows him.
-
Minutes after arriving, it becomes clear the mother-to-be will need an emergency C-section and she is immediately hauled upstairs by a frazzled looking OBGYN-attending. It leaves Robby with left-over adrenaline with nowhere to go.
He gets no less antsy when Collins halts him from leaving the emptied, blood splattered trauma room. She’s frowning up at him. “What was that about Whitaker?”
Of course she wouldn’t let it go that easily.
Robby shrugs, tossing his gloves in the nearest receptacle. “Nothing. Just Dana being Dana.”
“Really? Because I’ve been hearing a lot of whispers lately, Michael.”
Well, shit. “People love to talk around here, you know that,” he deflects. He pushes his hands into his pockets, resisting the nervous urge to rock back on his heels - rather plants his feet firmly, shoulder width apart, seeking balance.
Collins’ eyes narrow and fuck, it has been a while since he was put under the full weight of her glare. There’s a nostalgic clench in his chest - their relationship is over and done, has been for a long time and still. The body remembers longer than the mind.
“Better hope it’s all talk or Gloria is gonna have your ass.”
“She couldn’t handle it,” Robby winks and Collins rolls her eyes and for a moment he gets to pretend that everything is completely fine. Then, Collins' expression softens. And Robby feels a shiver of odd foreboding down his back.
“Just. Let the kid down easy, Robby. Yeah?” she sighs, shaking her head. “Not that I think Whitaker is the type for tearful confessions, but. Just in case.”
Not fine. Not in the slightest. It seems Collins has the exactly wrong and yet exactly right idea of what is going on. Seeing unrequited, onesided pining from a fresh-faced med-student over their unattainable attending, not the fact that said pining is mutual. Probably because she couldn’t imagine he’d ever go for a kid half his age and in his care.
Fucking shit. He’s not looking forward to the storm he’s got coming in the future when things come to light.
“Yeah,” Robby says, clenching his hands in his pockets - the lie falls from his lips far more casually than it should. He bows his head, nods slowly. “For sure.”
-
“Cavalry has arrived,” Abbot announces as he wanders into the ED and up to where Robby was pulling on a sweater.
“Good to see you, General Custer.” Robby swallows down a yawn, sharing a quick half hug and back pat as Abbot moves past him to put down his bag.
“Got any plans for your day off?”
“It’s looking a lot like laying face down in bed and chopping lumber.”
“Can’t say I’m not jealous,” Abbot chuckles.
The hand off is quick - they have a surprisingly small amount of boarders tonight. Robby wouldn’t be stupid enough to call it a slow shift and anger Fate with her great big scale, but…it has been less hellish than usual and he will stick to that.
Heading out, he almost barrels into Whitaker and Santos on their way in.
Whitaker’s eyes widen and he comes to a rather awkward stop in the middle of the hallway. His eyes flicker between him and Santos until she rolls her eyes and sidesteps them. “I’mma just head in. Don’t be late, Huckleberry,” she drawls, gives Robby a lazy salute and hurries past.
That leaves the two of them alone in the hallway. The stairway behind them is empty, too. The tension loosens in their shoulders at the same time.
“Hey,” Michael murmurs.
“Hi,” Dennis replies, the tiniest bit breathless. Cheeks pinkening, he gestures awkwardly, “I, um. Good work today. I mean, I bet. Has it been good?”
“It’s been fine.” After a careful glance around to make very sure they really are alone, Michael steps a tiny bit closer to speak quieter, “How long’s your shift today?”
“Ten hours.”
Which means he gets off at six or thereabouts. It’s not as if he won’t wake up early anyways. So Michael goes on, “Would you like to have breakfast with me after? I’ve got the day off.”
Dennis looks very sweetly torn. “Oh, I…I would love to. But I don’t know if I can stay very long, I’ve got to head home and go to bed pretty soon after I get off. And I’m gonna be pretty poor company.”
“I'm not expecting you to solve any philosophical questions, Dennis. I just…want to see you.” It’s a little daunting to be so honest about it, but the way Dennis’ face brightens makes the effort worth it. “And, if it helps, you could sleep at mine and head back in from there. It’s closer to the hospital anyway.”
The hesitation evaporates immediately. Though there is a shyer kind of trepidation in those pretty blue eyes now. “Would that be okay?” Like he’s imposing, like Michael hasn’t ached to have him back in his space the whole week, Jesus fucking Christ.
“Very.” Michael smiles. The exhaustion of his own long shift is trickling off of his spine rapidly.
-
Michael sets his alarm for five thirty and wakes at five. Unsurprising - having an early shift for decades will do that to you. And the older he gets, the more immune to sleeping in he seems to get.
He’s not a great chef, but even he can scramble some eggs, fry up some bacon - sending an apology skywards to his dearly departed bubbe, he doesn’t keep as kosher as he should - and flip a couple of pancakes. He even manages to throw some blueberries into the sizzling batter, just to show off. Spends some time setting the kitchen island with glasses of orange juice, plates and a jug of maple syrup he has to check the expiration date on before setting it down.
At six thirty, there’s a quiet knock on the door. Michael downs the last of his coffee, leaves the still warm food covered on the counter under some tea towels, then wanders out to the foyer to open.
And there is Dennis. Looking slightly dead on his feet on the top of the stairs, hair tousled and very much like his feet hurt. Still, his smile is earnest and sweet as he steps over the threshold. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” Michael pulls him in by the waist, pushes the door shut and kisses him. He smells like hospital, tastes a tiny bit stale and of grainy coffee. Somehow, he still wants to eat him fucking alive. That’ll have to wait, though, considering just how heavy and docile he’s feeling in his arms. As well as the fact that he breaks away from the kiss to let out a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Sorry. Busy night,” he mumbles sleepily, taking off his shoes. Michael puts a hand under his elbow to steady him when he struggles with his balance.
“Don’t sweat it. You want a shower before you eat?”
Dennis shakes his head, lets Michael lead him further into the house by the small of his back. “Food first. I think I might fall asleep and drown in there if I go right now.”
“Can’t have that.”
Soon enough, they are sitting together by the kitchen island with their plates. Michael notes with some satisfaction that his hard work hasn’t been in vain - there’s this absolutely gorgeous sparkle to Dennis’ eyes when he sees the set table, watching in awe as Michael fills their plates with a heaping serving each and brings it over. He briefly touches his forehead to Michael’s shoulder, like saying silent grace, then digs in.
They chat quietly over the food - nothing too deep or serious. Mostly, Michael asks him about work and Dennis runs through a few stand out cases. Trails off mid-sentence talking about a kid with a badly bruised rib, then moves on in a way that…Michael doesn’t quite care for. But he realises it’s not the time to push and lets him tell a disjointed story about one of the night nurses losing a patient’s watch somewhere.
Dennis tries to gather up the plates once they’re done - Michael very firmly takes them from him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Go shower and get ready for bed. There’s extra toothbrushes under the sink.”
“The one who cooked shouldn’t do the dishes.” Dennis tries, but doesn’t really seem too eager to fight him for the chore. Not with the way he’s rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes and swallowing down another devastating yawn.
“Neither should the walking dead.” Michael jerks his head towards the doorway. “Shower. Go.”
Dennis goes without any further complaint. About fifteen minutes later, when Michael has finished with the plates and putting away the leftovers and has gone to enjoy a refill of his coffee on the couch, there’s a soft clack of a door opening and a tentative call of, “Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“I…I didn’t bring anything to change into. Or to - sleep in.”
Ah. Well, he did spring it on him, the invitation. Of course he wouldn’t pack an overnight bag.
“Gimme a sec, I’ll find you something.” Michael heads for his bedroom. Tries not to think too much about what the idea of Dennis wearing his clothes is doing to him. Not the time. He finds a pair of old pyjama pants and a t-shirt, throws in a hoodie in case the kid gets cold and brings it to the still slightly cracked door, handing them through it.
If the idea of Dennis wearing his clothes was a turn on, the actual sight forces Michael to clamp down on the urge to throw him down on the nearest flat surface and do all manner of ungodly things to him. In ways of literally clenching his hand into the armrest of the couch. The clothes fit okay in the shoulders, but pool everywhere else. He’s got the pyjama pants rolled up at the ankles to not step on them.
Dennis also looks about ready to fall asleep standing, hugging his dirty clothes to his chest and swaying lightly in the doorway to the living room. So Michael puts away his filthy ideations for now and gets to his feet. “I’ll throw your clothes in the wash if you want,” Michael offers, walking over and holding out his arms for the bundle.
Instead, he gets an armful of Dennis - which, honestly, is far better.
“Sounds good,” Dennis mumbles sleepily. He makes no effort to hand anything over, though. Just stays where he is, face pressed into the crook of Michael’s neck, leaning heavily against him. “Y’smell nice,” he opines muffledly a few moments later. “Like…so nice.”
“Okay, Lord Byron.” Snorting, Michael extricates himself from the embrace and makes Dennis dump his clothes on the floor before grasping him by the shoulders, turning him bodily around to start walking him towards the bedroom. “Let’s get you to bed before I have to carry you.”
“You could,” Dennis yawns softly, dutifully waddling forward under his guiding touch.
“Let’s not risk me throwing out my back when you’re one step away from unconsciousness.”
Dennis flops face first onto the bed - stretches with a quiet groan, then slumps again. Already, his breaths are evening out and slowing. Shaking his head with some mild insomniac envy, Michael grabs the covers and tugs them over the half-conked out form. Smoothes a hand over his still damp hair - smiles when Dennis utters a tiny contented noise into the pillows. “Sleep tight.”
-
Michael spends the next few hours working - answering e-mails and other such things that he’s supposed to do during office hours. But realistically, fuck Gloria - when is he supposed to do administrative shit during a shift? When he barely has two minutes to take a piss every six hours?
He finishes up around lunch, heats up some leftover take-out and guilts himself into going for a run afterwards. Normally, he’d text Jake to play some hoops at the local YMCA for his cardio but…well. He quickly dispels the thought - not quickly enough to keep his chest and throat from tightening for the length of time it takes him to change into workout gear. He considers leaving a note for Dennis, but he doubts he will wake up during the measly hour he’ll be out.
One quick peek into the dark bedroom after returning sweaty and out of breath from the run proves him correct.
After a shower, Michael goes to lounge on the couch for a bit - TV turned down low to a game of golf. Usually he’d get a bit antsy on a day off, so unaccustomed to quiet moments to himself. But…there is something very calming about knowing there is another person in the house with him. Even if they are out of sight.
As most night shift workers he knows, Dennis sleeps like the dead through the entirety of the day. At five, he still hasn’t made an appearance and Michael knows he’ll have to start getting him up and moving. His next shift starts at eight and he needs to get some food into his system before then.
So Michael cracks the bedroom door open and pokes his head in. The Dennis-shaped lump in the bed is exactly where he left it some eight hours ago. “Dennis?”
Nothing.
He wanders over, sits down on the bed behind him. Strokes a hand up along his back through the covers, all the way up to the barely visible top of his neck. Then runs his fingers against the sleep warm skin, up into his hair, scritching gently. “Baby?”
Dennis gives a quiet, inquisitive little hum.
“It’s time to wake up.”
A much less pleased noise follows sullenly from the pillows.
Chuckling, Michael lifts the covers and gets in under them - presses his front to Dennis’ back, wrapping a firm arm around his waist, the other snaking in underneath him to hold him properly to himself. He kisses the back of his neck softly, nuzzling his nose in at the nape of it - breathes in the scent of fields, mountains and his own body wash. Dennis sighs warmly and presses back against him.
They lay like that for a few, blissful minutes. Dennis’ hands run leaden and uncoordinated over Michael’s forearms. He’s still got his face turned into the pillows. Feeling him slowly go still and heavy again, Michael hooks his chin over his shoulder and presses a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Squeezes his arms around his waist.
“Don’t go back to sleep.”
“Mnngh,” Dennis replies articulately and nuzzles into the pillows.
“Run that by me again?”
“‘m comfy,” he clarifies, voice hoarse and sleep-drunk. “‘s the best bed.”
“Yeah?” Michael kisses his jaw again, then lower just at the top of his neck.
“Mm. Smells good. ‘s perfect. Wanna stay here forever,” Dennis nods, arching against him - a lazy half-stretch that really only serves to press their bodies tighter together. Down low, Michael’s cock twitches with interest. How could it not, having this beautiful, warm, loose limbed creature squirming against him? Hearing him say something so utterly heart clenching, off handed and casual as if it doesn’t leave Michael feeling like his chest is five sizes too small?
“No rush. But you do have another shift in a few hours,” Michael reminds him, dragging bearded jaw along the line of Dennis’ shoulder. Delights in the elicited goosebumps and shiver he earns in response.
“Oh,” Dennis moans and - Michael isn’t proud of how his blood throbs down south for it. Suddenly, he is in absolutely no rush to get them out of bed. Dennis echoes his thoughts, complaining in a sulky tone, “that does not make me wanna wake up at all.”
“No?” As Dennis shakes his head petulantly, Michael lowers his voice the tiniest bit, presses his hips forward as he goes on. “Maybe I could find a better incentive for you?” Slowly, he slides one hand down low, brushing his fingers against the waistband of the pajamas. Lingers there in a silent request for permission. Idly, Michael wonders if one can call it morning sex at five PM. Is it rather an afternoon delight? Well, it doesn’t really matter in the end.
There’s a delectable shiver running down Dennis’ spine - a quiver of anticipation Michael feels all the way down along his front where their bodies are connected. “I don’t know. Got to be pretty a pretty good one,” he mumbles, voice raspy and attempting aloofness - Michael can hear the smile underneath, even half hidden against his pillows.
Slowly, like they have all the time in the world, Michael slips his hand under the waistband into near stifling heat - drags his fingertips through the light, soft hairs beneath Dennis’ bellybutton, lower to where they thicken and grow coarse, to his cock. It’s already hard and leaking. Michael can’t help but groan for the find. “Oh, sweetheart. Were you having a nice dream?”
“I…ah…woke up to something nice,” Dennis corrects him, shivering as Michael starts to stroke him languidly inside the flannel. His hand clenches into his forearm, the other snaking back to grab at his hip, holding on as Michael starts to grind against him from behind. “Keep…keep going.”
“Yeah?” His other hand moves up Dennis’ shirt, drags his palm up along the firm line of him to the slight swell of his chest, pushing the fabric up to bunch at his armpits. Starts drawing circles around his nipple with featherlight fingertips, earning himself a whimper bitten off between Dennis’ lips. “Like that?”
“Yes, ah,” Dennis’ cock jumps in his grip and Michael squeezes soothingly at the head, flicks his wrist and it twitches sharply again. “God, I… I missed your hands on me.”
Fuck, if the kid doesn’t know just what to say to drive him mad.
“Just my hands?” Michael teases the edges of Dennis’ ear with his teeth. Smiles when Dennis shakes his head and shudders. “What else?”
“Everything,” he moans.
“Specifics, Dennis. What else did you miss?”
“You know what-”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Dennis whimpers. Turns to peer up at him over his shoulder - he already looks a mess, cheeks flushed, hair tousled, lips wet where he’s been continuously dragging his tongue over them. Silently begging for mercy, eyelashes fluttering over arousal dazed eyes.
Michael offers no such clemency. He squeezes his cock, once, then drags his hand out of his pants. A treacle slow roil of arousal burns in his loins when Dennis all but keens for the loss. “Come on, baby. Tell me,” he coaxes, working the sweat-and precum sticky pyjamas down Dennis’ legs, down to his knees.
Dennis moans weakly when Michael teases his fingers up along his thigh, his groin, avoiding where he is hard and needy, ”Your…your hands, your mouth, y…your cock, everything, Michael-” His eager little rant gets cut off by a whisper soft noise when Michael wordlessly starts tugging his own pants down behind him. “Please…”
Michael wastes no time - he drags Dennis backwards against himself, presses his cock to his ass, grinds into the crease with a low grunt muffled into the back of his neck. Let’s Dennis feel him twitch and harden, swelling for the welcoming heat of him. It’s teeth-achingly good, bare skin against bare skin - the back of Dennis’ thighs against his front, the plush of his ass against his crotch.
“Oh man, ‘s so hot…” Dennis breathes out, hands fisting in the sheets as he pushes back against him, arches his back to get it firmer. Michael allows it for a few moments, then plants a heavy hand on Dennis’ hip to hold him still - as well as giving him leverage to lean over him and reach for the nightstand. He can feel the tension of the younger man’s body vibrating against his palm and fuck, if that isn’t a turn on. As is the way Dennis fumbles himself out of his sleep shirt in the time he’s spending rummaging for supplies - understandable, he’s hot enough under his palm that it feels like he’s running a fever. There’s sweat dewing all over his skin. Fuck, Michael wants to lap it up - but that’s a thought for another day. He has other, far more pressing matters to attend to.
Once he has what he needs, Michael settles back behind him again. Fumbles for a moment with the lube, accidentally dribbles some of the cool liquid on Dennis’ hip before getting it on his hand. Then, he reaches down between them for his cock, giving it a couple of strokes before pressing it firmly to Dennis’s body, the slick head briefly catching on his rim as he grinds in between his cheeks. Dennis tenses for a second.
“U-Um, I - I’m not - I don’t think I can- ” Dennis’ voice comes halting, nervous, but he quiets down when Michael slips his still lube-covered hand in between his thighs. Gasps faintly when the hand is quickly replaced with his cock, fucking into the hot, slick space between them. “Oh.”
“Cross your ankles,” Michael instructs into his shoulder, then groans when he does - the way his thighs flex around his cock, tightening around it is fucking addictive. He gives a languid roll of hips, then another. The warm, wet friction is fantastic, sends twinges of pleasure up into his loins and lower stomach. “Fuck, that’s nice.”
Dennis moans faintly, then again, louder when the head of Michael’s cock brushes against the soft underside of his balls on the next thrust. He hunches forward a tiny bit - Michael feels his breath hitch and just knows he must be looking at what’s going on between his legs. Seeing the peek of his cockhead emerging and withdrawing, again and again with each roll of his hips.
Michael curls around him, presses their bodies tighter together. Curls the arm he has under Dennis across his chest to take a hold of his shoulder in an embrace. The other hand, sticky with lube, clenches into his hip and holds on for leverage as he continues to fuck into the slick space between his thighs. Feels it grow slicker still with his own precum. Gets lost in the moment, the sensations.
Then, there is a shift. A squirm - an impatient tug at his hip. One of Dennis’ hands takes a hold of the one on his hip, tries to guide it down to his cock. Michael resists, lets it hover half-way there - hums when Dennis tugs harder with a needy noise. “What do you want?”
“Touch me,” Dennis moans, pushing back against him and interrupting the leisure rhythm he’d set up. In response, Michael simply stops. There’s a thrill of hungry heat up his spine when Dennis keeps rocking against him, causing delicious sparks of friction all along his cock.
“I am touching you.”
“Yeah, but. I want…more...”
“More what?”
“Want more, please…want you to touch me, want you to fuck me, please,” he turns his head to mouth at the hand on his shoulder. Seemingly very latched on to that idea as he goes on, voice shaking, “Get inside me, I need it, you have to-”
“Have to? That’s awfully presumptuous. Who says I want to fuck you?” Michael chuckles quietly against his ear, dragging his fingers down to collar the base of his throat. “Maybe I just want to do this? Fuck your thighs until I make a mess of you and leave you like that, needy and hot for me?”
“Come on,” Dennis squirms, head tilting back against his shoulder, “don’t mess around-”
“‘Mess around’?” Michael interrupts, slowing his pace. “Oh, no, baby. I warned you, didn’t I? Our first time. About riling me up?”
“Huh?” He has the nerve to sound confused.
“That last shift. You knew what you were doing, playing up that good boy routine, so smug about it,” Michael accuses, drags his short nails in slow, light circles over Dennis’ lower stomach and pulls him harder against himself with each thrust. Goes on in an amused rumble, “And you grew up on a farm, right? You should know all about reaping what you sow.”
“Oh my God,” Dennis laughs breathlessly, thighs tensing with it around his cock, “not…not that kinda farm-”
“Not the point,” Michael flexes his fingers against his throat- a possessive squeeze that immediately has Dennis’ laughter choking off into a moan. “The point is; teases don’t get what they want. Not in my bed.” He drops his voice. “Only good boys get fucked in my bed.”
The response is immediate. Dennis arches against him, lips falling open, entire body shuddering for three solid seconds.
“So. Are you going to be good for me?” The question is punctuated by another roll of hips - Michael pushes his cock up high, the head skidding over the taut skin of his perineum, firmly against the underside of his balls. Pushes forward until his hips are flush with Dennis’ backside, letting him feel the coarse texture of pubic hair against his smooth skin.
There’s another delectable shiver. Michael feels Dennis swallow hard against his palm, Adam's apple jumping. His breath hitches. Then, on a shaky exhale, he whispers, sweet as anything,
“Yes, sir.”
Motherfucker.
The noise that rips from Michael’s throat is more a snarl than anything else. Patience snapped, arousal flaring in his gut, he manhandles Dennis onto his belly. Plants his hand firmly between his shoulderblades when he tries to push himself up, the other in the pillows by his face for leverage to lift himself over him, poised large and hungry over his back.
“Oh-hoh, baby,” he drags the vowels out on the word, shifts so he can grind his slicked up cock between his cheeks, hot and heavy. “Keep talking smart. See what happens.”
“Show me,” Dennis moans, lifting his hips as much as he can from this angle - not much at all, once Michael leans his weight on him properly. He does manage to get a damn fine arch to the small of his back, though, making his ass look fucking mouth watering. “Come on, Michael, show me what happens.”
“I really should leave you like this,” Michael growls - but it doesn’t really carry any bite when he’s already reaching for the lube, sitting back and covering his fingers with a fresh coating of slick, “shouldn’t reward this bratty behavior. But I can teach you a lesson while fucking your brains out, too, just you wait.”
“Yes, teach me,” Dennis breathes out and - suddenly lets out a choked off little noise. It doesn’t sound hurt or concerning, but it does give Michael pause and he quirks a brow.
“...you okay?”
“Yep,” Dennis muffles into the pillows, shoulders quivering, “just…nevermind, fuck, definately nevermind, keep going.”
Michael is endlessly confused, but then Dennis is pushing back against him again and fuck the way the muscles framing his spine dance with it, the way his shoulders broaden when he flattens them needily against the sheets - any other considerations fly straight out the window. Are replaced with the urge to crush him into the bed and never let him back up.
It’s been a while since he fucked him, so Michael starts him on one finger. Turns out that’s wasted consideration. It slips in with ease in one smooth push and Dennis whines so needily for it he immediately has to add a second to appease him. He scissors him open in smooth, firm motions, takes his time - bites back impatience, ignores how his cock is aching to bury itself in that heedy warmth.
Speaking of impatience.
As the minutes drag on, Dennis seems to be absolutely lost in the sensations. He’s shuddering like he’s cold despite being flushed pink all over and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. His back ripples as he pushes back into his hand - muscles going taut and lines deepening for each rock of his body. Gnawing at his lower lip, shoulders hitching each time Michael gets knuckle deep and curls his fingers into his prostate - moaning like there’s no space for air inside of him, loud and increasingly frantic.
Dennis suddenly reaches back to paw blindly at him - hip, groin, reaching for his cock. Michael snorts and simply shifts out of reach, watching with something dark and greedy curling in his gut as the inquisitive hand retreats to rather tangle with Dennis’ hair. Clenching to ground himself. Michael fucks his fingers in a little harder as a reward and adds a third soon after with an additional heaping helping of lube. The dark creature in his chest purrs with delight when Dennis’ breath hitches and grows short and stuttery with each thrust and twist of his wrist.
“I’m going to put you through this fucking bed,” Michael groans - it was meant as a playful threat, but it comes out as an inevitability. A fucking revelation.
“Michael,” the name leaves Dennis’ lips in a breathy plea and fuck, as much as he’d love to drag this out and drive him mad with need, Michael’s only a man. A man with a blindingly hard cock and famously short patience. So he pulls his fingers free and moves on to what they’ve both been aching for this entire time.
Cursing under his breath, Michael wrestles with the wrapper of the condom with lube-slippery fingers - gives up and finally tears it open with his teeth. Rolls the latex on with jerky, short movements and then mounts without a second wasted, He kneels between Dennis’ legs, keeping him pinned flat to the bed with his hips hitched up only enough to get a good angle of entry. He groans, loud and open mouthed when the thick head of his cock pushes in, holding Dennis open with both hands on his cheeks. Spreads them wide to watch hungrily as inch after inch of his cock sinks into that silken heat.
Under him, Dennis lets out these breathless noises - tiny little ‘ah, ah, ah’s and a keen of, “yes” when he bottoms out. He’s got his face turned sideways to breathe, giving Michael a perfect view of his profile - cheek flushed, eye shut, lips lightly parted and brows pinched as he focuses on accepting the heft of his cock inside.
Michael gives him a thrust. Dennis’ brows fly up and his mouth falls open for a loud moan. Uninhibited and fucking gorgeous.
“Is that better, baby?” Michael asks throatily, giving him another. And another, unable to do anything else when each time he moves, Dennis’ insides clamp down and pulse. He gets a hand under his hip, takes a gentle hold of his dick and gives it a few loose strokes. “Finally getting what you needed? Yeah? All filled up with cock, face down in my bed?”
“Oh God,” Dennis gasps and then he suddenly tenses up, back bent in a bow. His hands shoot out in front of himself, clamp onto the sheets and he flinches and-
Dennis’ insides clench down hard, rhythmic and out of control. Michael sees stars, has to grunt and bear into it - has to stop and grind his hips to Dennis’ tense backside to ride out the sudden tightness. The younger man has both hands clenched into the pillows in front of him, knuckles white, whimpering mindlessly and shuddering in time with each contraction around his cock. After several seconds Dennis finally slumps, desperately gasping for air and shivering from head to toe.
Michael stares down at his flushed red profile.
“...did you just…?” he trails off. It’s an unnecessary question, considering the wetness on his hand as he slowly pulls it back. Wet, sticky pearls of ejaculate cooling on his fingers. Dennis clearly did just.
The blush intensifies. Dennis turns his face to hide it in the sheets, slumping. “It was really hot,” is the only explanation he’s got for himself, muffled and faint against the cotton.
“Fuck me,” Michael mutters under his breath - cock flexing inside where the muscles are still gently spasming in the aftershocks. This is doing absolutely nothing good for his ego. He’ll have to ask Dana to ream him out with all her power to get his head out of the clouds after this.
“‘m sorry,” Dennis apologizes of all things, shyly turning his face away from its hiding place to peer back at him. Eyes half lidded and sweet, expression sheepish. As if he just ruined something and didn’t just make every drop of his blood run five degrees hotter. Immediately, all thoughts of Dana or anyone the fuck else make a hasty retreat. They are replaced with much more wicked thoughts - specifically of the lesson he promised.
“Don’t be sorry.” He leans down to kiss the back of his neck, trailing his lips to his shoulder. Smirks, lets his voice go silky and deceptively gentle, “You just missed me, right?”
“Yeah,” Dennis sighs, so earnest it makes his damn chest hurt. Melts into the bed and arches like a cat beneath him. “Yeah, that’s…I missed…missed you so bad.” This sweet boy. Michael almost feels bad for what he's got planned.
Only almost, though.
“So don’t be sorry. It's all good,” Michael murmurs - then briefly nips his teeth against a soft patch of pale skin. It reddens instantly - the way he can paint his touches into this man, fuck. “If anything, I should be the one to apologize.”
“Huh?” His voice is adorably confused. Poor thing. “About what?”
Michael straightens behind him. Slowly, he trails his large hands up Dennis’ supplicant spine, back down along his sides - then, he sinks his fingers into the slight curve of his waist and yanks him back on his cock. The sound that erupts from Dennis’ throat is squeaky, frantic and desperate. Immediately, he’s scrambling for purchase in the sheets, spine concaving.
“Well,” he lets his voice pitch up slightly into a pitying coo, “you’re going to have to hang on until I’m done with you now. And I am nowhere near done, baby.”
There’s a few seconds of silence until the realisation sinks in. Dennis sucks in a few wet sounding breaths. Then,
“Holy shit,” Dennis’ voice comes out hitchy and full of stomach clenching dread. If Michael didn’t know intimately how much he enjoyed this type of treatment, he’d have been given serious pause. Even so, he gives it a moment. Clenches his hands and waits. Not until there is a slight push back against him and Dennis presses his scarlet cheek to the sheets and takes another steadying breath does he keep going.
The first few thrusts, he gives it to him slow and sweet. A full drag out until he’s got only the head of his cock notched inside of him. A glacial, heavy push until he’s buried to the hilt - stays there a second or two, gritting his teeth against how tightly Dennis’ hole clamps down on the root of his cock. Repeated once, twice, three times - each time, Dennis’ shoulders twitch and he whines. It is clearly still a lot, but his voice is already losing the desperate too-much edge. He’s getting better at handling the overstimulation.
“That’s it. Good boy,” Michael praises quietly - smiles when Dennis turns his face to muffle a reedy little whimper into his arm. Then, he hitches Dennis’ hips a little higher. He slips his forearm in under his hips for leverage, leaning back a bit for purchase. Presses one hand to the back of his head and grabs a proper handful of his hair - clenches briefly in warning.
And then he fucks into him hard. Again, and again. Quick, short strokes that soon have his thighs and lower stomach burning with exertion.
It’s absolutely worth it for the animal-like keen that crawls its way out of Dennis’ throat - stuttery and climbing higher and higher in pitch with each ram of his hips. Both his hands wring into the sheets, pull hard enough he is pretty sure he actually tears them but he’s not about to stop to check.
“Oh- God- Michael - fuck, fuck,” Dennis sobs out in single syllable bursts each time he pulls him back on his cock, “more, right - ah - there, please, yes-!”
It’s Michael’s turn to shudder. His hips stutter for a second in their steady pace - then he picks it back up, a little bit harder, a whole lot meaner. Each time he bottoms out, Dennis’ thighs flex and his ass tightens and there’s this beautiful flutter of his insides - clenching down on his cock, surging from the tip to the base in time with Dennis’ frantic heartbeat.
When Dennis’ words start to leave him for mere wordless bursts of vowels, Michael stops. Dennis whines in wounded confusion, body still rocking beneath him. Michael clenches his hand into his hair and hip, holds the tension a smidgeon too tight until Dennis catches the hint and stills.
“You close?” he asks, as if he doesn’t fucking know he's got him on the ropes. Waits patiently while Dennis tries to gather his fucked out mind enough to answer in actual words. Combs his fingers through his hair gently when it takes a few moments longer than he anticipated.
“Yeah, yes, ‘m… so close, please, can I…?” Without waiting for an answer, Dennis’ hand drags shakily along the sheets, down, a clear goal in mind. Michael quickly snatches it before it even gets half way. With years of experience, he easily bends and folds his arm in behind his back, clenching his fingers into his wrist and pinning it there. Dennis’ breath hitches and his eyes open, head turning to peer up at him as well as he possibly can from where he’s pressed flat and flushed to the sheets. Adorable.
“No. No, I don’t think so,” he says with a lot more calm to his voice than he’s feeling. Loosens his grip on Dennis’ hair to rather pet through it. Slides his fingers down the nape of his neck, along his sweaty spine and further to grab a hold of his buttcheek - spreading it to get a better view as he gives Dennis a single hard thrust inside.
“Wh,” Dennis mewls for the jolt of pleasure, goes on watery and incredulous, “Why not?”
“You begged so prettily for my cock, baby. Since you needed it that badly, it should be plenty to get you off,” Michael explains, keeping his voice as steady as he can, as if explaining a logical next course in a treatment plan.
“But - what if I can’t?” Dennis’ question tumbles out of his mouth a tiny bit panicked. As if he hasn’t managed it before. But of course it is hard to remember, mid-coitus, cock splitting him open. All the better for his teaching purposes, though.
“Tough.” Michael punctuates the word with another hard thrust, hips angled right at his prostate - Dennis’ breath leaves him in an honestly adorable hiccup.
“Please, Michael.” He’s squirming, not getting anywhere fast with it - his free hand briefly twitches to go down, but he quickly shoots it back over his head to brace against the headboard when Michael fucks into him again. “Oh, God - please, let me.”
“I already told you no.”
“Sir,” he tries, whines it so pretty and sweet and oh, Michael’s cock twitches - a fucking Pavlovian response. But he keeps his calm, breathes through the coil of hunger in his loins. He’s in control.
“That’s cute. Not gonna work this time,” he chides him with a hoarse laugh. Shifts for a better stance, ignoring the way his knees protest, then starts moving again. “Shut up and let me fuck you. I’m almost there. Who knows? If you’re good, I might let you come too after I’m done.”
“Oh, fuck,” Dennis sobs, pressing his face into the pillows. Shoulders jerking for each of Michael’s thrusts, fingers clenching into fists - behind his back, into the sheets. But he is good. He behaves. Keeps any further complaints to himself, pleasure-pained little noises the only thing leaving his lips. Enduring his oversensitized struggle towards an evermoving finish line. Seeing him like this really brings out the worst in Michael.
Because now there’s a cruel idea writhing in his mind - to keep Dennis from coming, fuck him selfishly to his own completion. To tell him not to touch himself after, let him sit in the fucking frustration until next time they meet. But since Michael isn’t sure when that would be, isn’t sure Dennis would be into that sort of powerplay, isn’t sure he’d be able to work an entire shift with that sort of energy coursing in his veins - he decides to be merciful without showing his hand.
Michael subtly shifts his stance on the bed to press Dennis firmer into the bed. One hand on the small of his back, weighing him bodily down into the mattress. Makes sure that each time he thrusts, his neglected cock drags against the sheets - giving him some much needed friction without allowing him the certainty and warmth of his hand. Plenty to make him come in this keyed up state, though. A calculated concession.
Beneath him, Dennis’ breath leaves him in staccato breaths - held for a few seconds longer every time, hitching higher and higher. He’s got his eyes shut, lips parted, brows furrowed in concentration. Delicious, tell-tale signs of an impending climax.
Michael’s own orgasm is creeping up on him - he feels the tell-tale tingles up his spine, the clench low and heavy just behind his balls. But he’s determined to get Dennis off first. He shifts his angle, fucking Dennis down into the bed, frotting his cock into the high thread-count cotton.
The result is instantaneous.
Dennis' entire body tenses - straining for purchase in the sheets, a wheezy string of ‘uh-huh’s stuttering out of his throat, spine bowing - and then he yelps and jerks. Over and over again, orgasm tearing through him.
Inside, Dennis is hot enough to burn. His ass clenches around his cock - over and over in delicious, demanding pulses. With an overwhelming shudder, Michael pushes into it, snaps his hips hard enough to bruise against Dennis’ backside and finally succumbs to his own climax. It’s intense enough to hurt, aches from his groin to the back of his teeth. His dick lurches again and again as he spills inside the condom - he groans for the wet, hot feeling at the crown and wrenches Dennis’ body back against himself a couple of times as he rides the orgasm out. Stays there for as long as he can bear it. Only when his cock starts to ache does he pull out, fingers clamped on the base of the condom to make sure it doesn’t slip off into the still weakly clinging depths of Dennis’ body.
Panting heavily, Michael props his hands on either side of Dennis’ head - crumples down to his elbows and drapes himself over him, front to back. A breathless laugh tumbles over his lips when Dennis twitches and shrinks away from the contact. He presses a few heated, wet kisses to his shoulders. “Shh, relax. All done. No more, promise.”
“Oh, thank God,” rushes out of Dennis’ mouth, muffled and half-conscious and Michael bursts out into another laugh.
-
A few minutes later, he’s got Dennis rolled over on his back, wiped clean and a respectable distance away from the wet stain he’ll be dealing with later. Michael lays down beside him, stroking soothing lines up and down his chest, smiling when he arches up into it.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like I was hit by a mid-sized bull,” Dennis says dazedly. “Holy shit.”
Amused, and a tiny bit wry, Michael snorts and kisses his shoulder. “Sorry about that. Should probably have gone easier on you before work.”
“No, no - it was great,” Dennis turns his head to grin at him - with the bedside lamp turned on, he’s haloed in a golden light. The visual makes something in Michael’s heart swell to the point of pain. “I feel more awake than I’ve been all week.”
“Well, in that case, you’re welcome,” Michael pushes himself up to sit. His head is reeling a little. It’s got nothing to do with the physical exertion. Fucking hell. “How about you hop in the shower and I’ll order us some food. You like pho?”
“What’s that?”
“Vietnamese soup, pretty much.”
“Oh. I’m…not a huge fan of soup.”
“Got it. Dumplings?”
Dennis’ stomach growls and his face colours.
“Dumplings it is.”
-
After ordering the food and getting a twenty minute estimate, Michael ends up joining Dennis in the shower. Helps wash his hair, rubbing his scalp until Dennis melts with his forehead pressed to his neck and arms loosely wrapped around his waist. Again, there is a concerning spasm deep in his chest, intensifying when Dennis lets out a throaty little hum into his wet skin and lazily kisses his throat.
By the time the food arrives, he’s got Dennis back in his newly washed clothes, towel on his shoulders and a cup of coffee in his hands by the kitchen island. They eat their dumplings in companionable silence, feet hooked under the table.
“So,” Michael says once they are finished and he’s hastily getting their plates and chopsticks into the dish washer, “what’s your next rotation going to be?”
“Oh, uh…pediatrics.”
“Good luck keeping your scrubs clean,” he snorts, remembering his own rotations ages and ages ago. Kids with sticky fingers, runny noses and upset bowels do not make for the cleanliest of patients.
“Yeah, cause I’ve been doing such a good job of it this far,” Dennis drawls with a heavy roll of his eyes. “Got any actual tips for me?”
“Make sure to cover every bit of yourself in hand sanitiser or you will be getting every cold and sinus infection known to man.”
That prospect seems to make Dennis a little more nervous. “Got it.”
“And kids are more likely to play down their symptoms than adults. Even if a kid says they are fine, be thorough examining them,” Michael finally offers a more serious bit of advice from his years down in the Pitt. “Parents think their kids like to fake being sick to get out of school, but it’s a lot rarer than you think.”
“Geeze,” Dennis mutters, “my parents used to sign me off from school sick to get extra help at the farm during calving season. I don’t think I ever got to stay home for anything otherwise.”
“What, you never got sick growing up?”
“I mean, sure, but. Farm kid,” Dennis shrugs with a laugh, “we learned quickly not to complain about anything. No one ever got tough being babied.” The words sound absolutely foreign on Dennis’ tongue - like it is something he’s been told enough that it stuck, yet never suited his palette.
“Right.” Michael frowns. Hesitates, then decides not to comment. Family dynamics are tricky and he’s not about to judge some farmers in need of extra hands - not when their son ended up so brilliant and will be finishing up med-school in the summer. But he doesn’t forget.
“What other rotations are you doing?” he asks as he returns to sit at the kitchen island again. Slides a hand onto Dennis’ thigh, rubbing it warmly with his thumb.
“After pedes, I’ve got the ICU, I'll have some time off in December for interview-prep and studying,” he lists, then hesitates a second. Swallows, before going on in a mumble, “then psych in January? I, uh. I’m really looking forward to it, actually. Working with Kiara and the street team and seeing those folks out there, I…I think it will be really helpful.”
How the hell does this man keep impressing him, Michael wonders. So fucking full of surprises. “You got that right. You’ll be a real asset down with us once you graduate.”
“If I graduate,” Dennis mumbles sheepishly. “Still got a few months of school and passing my MLE to get through.”
“When,” Michael corrects him firmly, squeezing his leg. “You’re a bright kid. You’ll do fine.”
Dennis blushes, pleased. “I, uh, also got to match with PTMH. To be an asset to you.”
“We’ll fight for you,” Michael promises, then falls silent. “And even if you don’t end up getting matched with us - well - Pittsburgh’s got a few good hospitals to choose from.” If that’s what he wants - maybe by the end of his semester he’ll want - something entirely different. There’s no way to know for certain.
But it’s hard to doubt, when Dennis lights up ever so slightly and leans over to kiss him. Lingering, warm and sweet. Michael’s mind goes pleasantly blank. When they part, Dennis is smiling.
-
At seven thirty, Michael is leaning against his foyer wall, watching Dennis tie his ratty shoes. “Those are going to leak like hell in October,” he says off handedly. Fall is just around the corner, after all. It’s already nose-nippingly cold at night.
“Oh, uh. Yeah. Gonna have to pray for clear skies.” Dennis’ laugh sounds a tiny bit strained as he gets back up.
“What? Didn’t bring any boots from Nebraska?” Michael teases, reaching out to tap his socked toes against his converse. “One would think you came out from the womb in them.”
Something complicated passes over Dennis’ face. Then, he shrugs and clears his throat. “Yeah, uh…well, I forgot them when I was home last. Been meaning to ask ma- I mean, mom to send them. I should really get on that, I guess”
The slight twang of Nebraskan has Michael sort of distracted. It’s - it wouldn’t be sexy in any other context than this exact one. It being fucking Dennis Whitaker with his sheepish expression and wide eyes sounding like he just stumbled into the big city. Fucking shit, he’s a lost cause.
“You should. Ask her for a better jacket while you’re at it.” Michael runs his fingers down the collar of the measly windbreaker, clicking his tongue. “I get cold just looking at you.”
“I’m - I run warm. Don’t worry.”
“Well, for my sake,” Michael grabs an old green thermal he’s got hanging by the door - he usually wears it when the spring comes and he can break out the motorcycle, so he’s in no dire need of it for now, “take this. Bring it back to me when you’ve got your winter clothes from home, yeah?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Dennis starts, then falls silent as Michael unzips and peels his jacket off of him. Remains quiet and still as he tugs the thermal on, adjusting and zipping it shut decisively before wrapping him back up in the jacket. He can tell the kid must be feeling heaps warmer already by the way his shoulders slowly sink and relax.
“There. Better?”
“Better,” Dennis confirms softly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” Michael presses the travel mug with coffee into his hands. “Have a good shift.”
“I think I might, actually.” With a smile and a quick final kiss, Dennis slips out the door and off towards the hospital, leaving Michael alone in the foyer. Slowly, he drops his forehead to the dark wood of the door. He heaves a heavy sigh, from the depths of his chest.
“Fucking hell, Robinavitch,” he mutters at himself, lightly banging his head against the door. “Get your shit together.”
-
“Evening, everyone!” Dennis calls cheerfully as he passes central at a quarter to eight, heading off to get changed for the shift ahead. Footsteps light and full of almost concerning amounts of energy.
“Damn,” McKay drawls as she watches him go, turning to wink at Collins, “glad to see someone is getting laid around here.”
“Girl,” the other doctor swats her with a clip board, “that was an inside thought you let slip.”
Dana follows Dennis with her eyes as she shrugs on her jacket. “Well, I'll be.”
“What?” Princess asks at her elbow, tiredly grabbing her purse from her desk.
“Nothin’,” Dana shakes her head.
But inwardly, she wonders how the hell Robby's thermal ended up poking out over Dennis Whitaker’s jacket collar.
-
“Nice mug,” Abbot says, eyening the travel mug Whitaker is refilling in the staff lounge.
“Oh, uh. Thanks?” Whitaker looks at him a little bit funny, then back down to the rather plain looking thermos mug. A solid black thing with a Pittsburgh Panthers sticker on the front.
There’s a brief pause. Abbot waits until Whitaker rescrews the lid on the thing.
“So, how’s Robby?”
“Good,” Whitaker replies without thinking. Then, he blushes. Terribly. And promptly fumbles with the thermos. “I mean - I think?”
“Uh-huh,” Abbot smirks, pushing away from the counter. “Start working on that poker face. It’ll help with more than calming down patients.”
“Yessir,” Whitaker mumbles under his breath, cheeks red and head bent as he follows him out of the staff lounge and back to work.
-
About an hour after Dennis leaves, Robby’s phone rings. He stares at it for a second too long before swiping to answer, sitting down with a feeling of trepidation in his gut. “Janey? Is everything alright?”
“Hi, Robby. Yeah, everything’s fine.” The tone of her voice doesn’t match the words, not quite. But he is saved the trouble of asking as she gets straight to the point of her call - she was always good about that. “Leah’s parents asked me to reach out to you. Her funeral will be next week.”
Robby’s gut clenches. For a second, he’s back there - bent over Leah’s too pale body, pumping hard and heavy on her chest, pushing blood through her system that leaks straight through her shot apart heart and out through her chest tube and into the cell saver.
“Oh. That’s nice of them. I’ll have to check my schedule, but-”
Janey cuts him off, gently but firmly, “I’m asking you not to go.”
This time, it’s his chest’s turn for a beating.
“Okay?”
The way her voice drops into apologeticness cements that he is about to get his damn heart broken. “I don’t think Jake will be able to handle you being there. He’s doing a lot better, going to therapy and everything, but…he’s hardly ready to go to the damn thing as it is. Adding you being there…”
“It would be an unnecessary stressor,” Robby finishes for her, voice low and hoarse. He rubs his temples slowly, gets up to pace.
He doesn’t blame Jake for hating him still. It’s not like a day goes by where he doesn’t hate himself at least a little, too.
“I’m really sorry, Mike.” She sounds it. Some fond part of him hurts hearing it. “He’s really trying, you know. To forgive you. Not that there is anything to forgive, I hope you know that.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s okay. I get it. Really, I do.” And he does. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.
“I’ll call Cheryl, tell her you have a shift and can’t make it. Maybe you could send some flowers?”
“Yeah. Just send me the details and…I’ll do that. Yeah.”
They say their goodbyes quickly after that. Robby stands for a long, long time in the middle of his living room. Hands on his hips, staring at his feet.
-
The rest of his day off passes in a blur. Before he knows it, Robby’s back at work. He’s got a bit of a headache from too much bourbon, a twinge in the small of his back that just won’t go away from falling asleep on the couch and a phone that feels heavy after using it to call the funeral home to arrange for flowers. It’s a shitty way to start any day, in particular a work day.
But the day has a good chance of turning around. After all, he can spot some of the night shift milling about - he nods to a familiar night nurse on his way in. He’s come in a few minutes early, hoping to…well.
It’s not that Robby has Whitaker’s schedule memorized or anything. But he should be able to catch him at the end of his shift. Seeing as it is the official end of his ED rotation, it seemed - important. To give him a proper send off and well wishes, to let him know not to be a stranger. That this thing they’ve got won’t fizzle out when he leaves his immediate reach.
Still, Abott has finished the hand off, finished getting his jacket on and still there has been no sight of him. Robby has to start rounds soon, surely he should be-
“Your boy already left.” Abbot says out of the corner of his mouth, halting Robby’s mid searching crane of the neck.
Fuck. Is he that transparent?
“Didn’t ask.”
“Sure. And since you didn’t ask, I'm not going to tell you that Kiara asked him to do a drop off for the street team. Someone called in sick.”
“After a twelve hour shift?” Robby whistles, low. “That’s rough.”
“Kid’s tough, he’ll be fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” Abbot sends him a side glance and a smirk. “Easiest five out of five for tenacity I ever gave.”
Pride squirms in Robby’s chest. Ridiculous.
Abbot claps him hard on the shoulder and leaves. Robby stretches his back out, takes a long breath through his nose, then pulls out his phone. Composes a text quickly and shoots it off, before heading off into the hustle and bustle that is the emergency department at seven AM.
A proper send-off will have to wait.
-
Working for the street team is rewarding. Dennis enjoys it - being out and about, meeting people and helping in a very hands-on way. It sort of feels like walking to neighbouring farms to help shovel driveways as a kid - but, well. A lot more serious.
It’s also nice to be spending time with some of his future coworkers. Today he’s got Princess and Kim with him, who are chatting idly about this or that behind him as they walk. It would be a lot nicer if he wasn’t half asleep and unable to really contribute to the conversation with more than hazy nods and mumbles of agreement.
It’s also a little difficult to concentrate due to a text he received just after their first medical drop off. He’d almost fumbled his phone seeing it, which had Princess teasingly calling him butter-fingers for the rest of the day.
The text had been simple: ‘Congrats on finishing your rotation. We’ll celebrate. xo’
Dennis has not seen anyone signing anything with x’s and o’s ever in real life. He’s kind of on cloud nine about it. He hasn’t been able to reply, because he’s too nervous about his team mates noticing, a little paranoid that they’ll somehow understand that the ‘Michael’ in his phone is the same as the one at work.
Also, he isn’t sure what to reply - the only thing that seems fitting is sending just the melty smiley-emoticon and that seems really juvenile. So it’ll have to keep.
-
The three of them make quick work of their patients and soon enough they reach their final stop for the day. By that time, Dennis feels just about ready to drop face down on a sidewalk and call it a day, but he pulls himself together.
“Hey, Mr. Krakozhia,” Dennis smiles wanly as he approaches the man. He’s looking tired too, but far less harrowed than he had in the emergency room. “How are we doing today?”
“Hey, doc,” Krakozhia stands from his makeshift bed, rubbing his hands against his trousers before offering one to shake. Dennis takes it without hesitation. He nods to the nurses, then goes on with a clear of throat. “Not too bad.”
“Ready for your shot?” Kim asks, already pulling on gloves.
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugs off his coat and rolls up his sleeve.
Dennis opens the cooler and holds the lid out of the way to let Kim grab what she needs - she gives him a warm smile as she does. Behind her, Princess looks like she is about to start laughing for some reason.
“How did your job interview go? You had one this week, right?” Dennis asks as Kim gets ready to administer the medicine. “Kiara told me.”
“Okay, I think,” Krakozhia looks away from his arm and up at Dennis, glad for the distraction. “Miss Alfaro has been very helpful. If I get it, they’re going to help with housing, too. Just, uh, somethin’ shared, but - still. Beats the street.”
“Sure does,” Dennis agrees, hoping no one can tell just how well he does by the tone of his voice.
The shot is quickly handled and they leave Mr. Krakozhia with a word of good luck and a pilfered sandwich from the hospital lunch cart.
“That was the final stop,” Kim says, looking up at Dennis as they walk. She tucks a few fly-away strands of hair behind her ears. “Got any plans for the day?”
“Just going to bed, honestly. Check my notes once I wake up and turn the day back around for my next rotation,” Dennis shrugs, tugging the cooler higher on his shoulder. “You know. Real daredevil stuff.”
Kim laughs a little harder than Dennis expects for such a lame joke. Beside her, Princess shakes her head, mumbling something in Tagalog.
“Don’t let any of the other rotations steal you away from us,” Kim says once she’s sobered a little, pushing her hands into her pockets, giving his side a small nudge with her elbow.
“Yeah,” Princess agrees. “You’d break all our hearts.”
Dennis laughs, tugging on the strap of the cooler, “No worries. I’m very much set on emergency medicine for my internship. The other rotations are going to have to be really good to make me switch.”
“Or have cuter nurses?” Kim teases with a wink.
“Or doctors,” Princess hums. Her wink is far more lethal, somehow. It seems knowing.
“I’m - I’m here for the medicine,” he mumbles, ducking his head to hide how his cheeks are starting to feel warm. “Not, um. Cute people.”
“Boo,” Princess sighs. “When did young people get so boring?”
-
They part ways not long after that - the nurses heading back to the hospital for their shifts with the cooler, Dennis heading home to crash into blissful sleep. Kim gives him a hug before leaving. Behind her, Princess waggles her eyebrows at him the entire time they spend in it, which makes him feel very weird and he might be blushing a little waving them off.
It is then that Dennis makes a decision that will turn his pretty normal day into a shitty one.
See - he has been working for twelve hours - another one spent on his feet walking through the city. His backpack is heavy, he’s got a pebble in his shoe and he’s almost going cross eyed with no one to talk to to distract him from how heavy his eyelids are. Normally, he’d stick to the sidewalk all the way back, follow the route he usually walks back from working with the street team.
Today, though, for the first time in his life, Dennis decides to take a shortcut. He walks into an alley, brick walls towering over him from half-delapetated buildings, the quiet buzz of the road melting away behind him. And tired as he is, he doesn’t realise he is followed into it until that fact quite literally hits him over the head.
A pair of hands grab him by his backpack and yank. Completely caught off guard, Dennis yelps and stumbles, the momentum spinning him so he slams into the wall back first - the world briefly goes white and his ears ring, and when he gets his bearings, he is sitting on his ass, back of his head throbbing along with his pounding heartbeat. He sees four, no - two pairs of legs in front of himself and he follows them upwards. Takes in dirty jeans, oversized flannels and stained coats and gloves. Two men are towering over him - their faces are weathered, but Dennis thinks they can’t be older than thirty, even if they look more mid-forties.
“Give us the drugs, man,” the bigger of them growls, holding out a demanding hand. He’s got weeks worth of grime under his fingernails.
“What drugs?” Dennis asks - his voice comes out wobbly to his own ears.
“Don’t fuckin’ play us, dude,” the other man rubs a frantic hand over his face, under his red nose. “You’re one of them street doctors. We’ve heard ‘boutchu. Just give us the drugs and walk away.”
“I…wait, no, we don’t have drugs.” When both men’s faces tighten with anger, Dennis lifts his hands placatingly, fights to keep his voice steady and speaks quickly, “seriously! We - It’s medicine, but not like - narcotics. We give out, uh, insulin and anti-psychotics and anti-depressants and stuff like that! Not pain meds or anything you’d get high on.”
“Fuck,” the smaller guy mutters, once again rubbing his face - looking up nervously at the other guy. Clearly taking his cues on what to do next from him.
“You’re full of shit,” the bigger guy narrows his eyes - but he doesn’t seem too confident in his accusation.
“I’m really not,” Dennis shakes his head.
“Fuck!” he snarls, then leans down and grabs the shoulder strap of Dennis’ bag, “Give us your fucking money then!”
“Oh, bud, I- I don’t have any money,” Dennis starts, then his breath leaves him in a rush as the guy kicks him hard in the ribs.
“Don’t bullshit, you’re a doctor!”
“Med-student,” Dennis manages to choke out, clutching at his side - there is a distinct burning sensation each time he breathes. Doesn’t feel broken, though. “I swear, dude, I- I don’t have any money or - or anything else you want, cross my heart.”
“Give me your bag, fuck-” He’s hauled to his feet by the strap of his bag and the man yanks, lifts a fist to punch him when it doesn’t immediately come off and -
-
Here’s the thing.
Dennis Whitaker has been bullied for as long as he can remember. Youngest brother, scrawny kid with good grades and a helpful demeanor and more emotionally mature than any other boy his age. Always invited to sit with the girls, because they liked how he was nice to them and didn’t pull anyone’s pigtails or tried to peek at them in the changing rooms after PE. He’s very familiar with being beaten up.
So familiar that his brothers lost their patience with it. One day, a few days after his twelfth birthday, they stopped kicking the shit out of him for no reason. Instead, his brothers with the oldest in charge sat him down outside the barn furthest from the house.
“Listen,” Daniel had said, solemn as if they were about to head to church, “everyone at school’s calling you a wimpy fag. We’ve heard it and seen ‘em pushing you around. It’s not good for the family name and it sure as shit ain’t good for our reputation.”
The other three nod along, equally serious. “Dang right it ain’t,” one of the twin brothers had said - Dennis can’t remember if it was David or Dixon.
“So that’s gotta stop,” Daniel went on.
“It’s not like I want them to beat me up,” Dennis had mumbled, hanging his head sulkily. He distinctly remembers rubbing at a bruise Stevie Nelson had given him on the way home from school - big and mean and blue across his chest.
“Shut up, Den,” his second oldest brother, Dylan, kicked at the dirt warningly and Dennis had quickly done as told. It was always easier that way.
“Like I said - that’s gotta stop. And it’s only gonna stop in one ‘a two ways. Either you stop being a weird little loser-”
“And the good Lord knows that ain’t gonna happen any day soon,” the other of the twins had chimed in, earning laughs from the others and an annoyed slump to Dennis’ shoulders.
“Yeah, so that option’s shot. Which leaves you with the other one.” Daniel’s hand landed heavy like a promise on his shoulder - hesitantly, Dennis had lifted his gaze, confused by the firm, brotherly touch.
He remembers Daniel’s grin - wide, boyish and brimming with an odd excitement.
“You’re gonna have to man up and learn to punch back hard enough to get ‘em to leave you alone.”
-
Six months later, Dennis Whitaker got suspended two weeks from school for breaking Stevie Nelson’s nose at recess.
His father had been livid, his mother inconsolable.
And Daniel had taken him to shoot airsoft guns with his other brothers for the first time ever in his life. Despite his butt and the back of his thighs burning with fresh belt marks, Dennis still thinks of it as one of the best days of his life.
-
- and Dennis just acts on instinct ingrained in him from a not-so-sunny childhood.
Dennis ducks backwards - there’s the slightest of impacts across his cheek, barely enough to bruise. Then, he plants his feet, squares his shoulders, draws his arm back and swings. Quick, controlled, to the point - business like. He connects right at his attacker’s jawbone. He hears and feels when it snaps against his knuckles, sending the man reeling back with a choked off roar of pain.
“Holy shit, Charlie!” the other man shrieks, then comes in tackling Dennis from his bruised up side. They fall to the ground and this isn’t unfamiliar territory to Dennis, either. Scrapping is in the blood of any Nebraskan boy, as natural as breathing - he twists and curses under his breath, bucks like a bronco and lands a knee in the other man’s gut. It winds him and Dennis manages to get the upper hand - wrestling until he is on top of him, panting heavily. Lands a punch - on the guy’s arm, he’s got both of them up over his face to protect himself.
Before he can do much else, though, he’s once more grabbed from behind by the strap of his backpack - it sends him sprawling and his arms slide out of the straps and he lands on his back with a breathless grunt.
“Motherfucker-” The guy apparently named Charlie grits out - his jaw looks off now, crooked and stiff. There’s murderous fury in his eyes as he lifts his foot over his face. Time slows to a crawl - Dennis could count every single ridge on the underside of his boot. His body tenses, he prepares to roll out of the way, despite his chest hurting and not being able to catch his breath, and then -
“Hey! The hell’s going on in here!” A voice shouts from the mouth of the alleyway. There are rushed footsteps coming their way.
“Shit, let’s go!” The man on the ground has scrambled to his feet, grabs his friend and drags him off in the other direction. They’re gone before Dennis can fully process it - left winded, dizzy and aching on concrete.
A face swims into view above him - clean cut and wide eyed. “You okay, man?”
“Super,” Dennis wheezes out.
Two pairs of hands grab him by the arms and help him get back on his feet. Everything hurts, but Dennis thinks he’s okay other than some wicked bruises. Still, he gratefully takes the offered arm around his shoulder keeping him steady without complaint.
“Where’d they go?” Dennis rolls his head towards the speaker and oh - he realises now, he’s wearing a police uniform. As is the other man.
“That way,” he nods down the alleyway. Immediately, the cop jogs down along the way to check, speaking into the radio on his shoulder as he does.
“Got a good look at ‘em?” The cop at his shoulder asks, guiding him over to sit on a trash can. Dennis slumps down on it with a groan. His name tag reads ‘Gilbert’, embroidered on his chest.
“White guys. One’s, I don’t know, 6,2? Other guy maybe 5,11,” Dennis guesses, rubbing a hand over his face as he thinks, “both brunets and pretty rough looking. They thought I was carrying drugs.” He gestures to the back of his jacket, “I’m with PTMH’s street team.”
“Got it.” Officer Gilbert pushes a button on his radio, repeats all the information Dennis gave, then looks at him again, “Anything else you can think of?”
“I - I think the tall one’s jaw is broken.” Dennis assesses numbly. He’s starting to shake from leftover adrenaline. “I hit him pretty hard. He’ll need medical attention. Other guy’s probably fine, but I did knock him around a bit too.” He feels like there might be more, but catching a train of thought feels like trying to grab handfuls of water - some droplets clinging to his skin, but most of it escaping and dribbling away.
“Damn, Peter Parker.” Officer Gilbert whistles after relaying the information, patting him on the back. “Wouldn’t have thought, looking at you.”
“Oh, you know,” Dennis says tiredly. His head feels a little funny. “Four older brothers. Comes with the territory.”
“That’ll explain it - shit, kid, you’re bleeding!” Gilbert suddenly gasps.
“What?” Dennis asks dumbly before realising - yeah, the back of his neck feels kind of wet. He reaches up, winces as he drags his hand across the sore back of his skull, bringing his fingers up for inspections and - yeah. There’s blood soaking his fingertips. “Oh, yeah. Looks like it.”
“Damnit,” Gilbert cusses, pushing the call button on his radio again, “Dispatch, we’re going to need an ambulance at my location. Vic’s hurt.”
“Ambulance - oh, no, I don’t need an ambulance,” Dennis says quickly, nervously. Because an ambulance means going to the nearest trauma centre and that means -
“10-4,” The radio crackles. “Got a wagon nearby, maybe five minutes out.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Dennis tries again, getting to his feet to show he is perfectly alright.
Then, he promptly bends over and vomits all over his and Officer Gilbert’s shoes.
-
“Got a doozy coming,” Dana calls from central, “Mugging victim. And we’ll need to keep an eye on the waiting room for the next few hours.”
“The waiting room?” Mel asks confusedly, pulling on a pair of gloves at Robby’s side.
“It seems the kid gave worse than he got. One guy’s got a broken jaw and he got a few good licks in on the other guy, too. They’ll show up somewhere eventually and we’re closest.”
“Two against one and still came out kicking? Sounds like we’ve got a certified badass on our hands,” Robby chortles, wandering over towards the ambulance bay - ready to take on whatever might come through the doors.
Or so he fucking thought.
Because when the gurney is rolled in it’s carrying a very pale, blood covered Dennis Whitaker. Sitting supported by one of the paramedics putting pressure on the back of his head, C-collar on and looking an utter mess. His clothes are covered in dust and street grime, his Street Team jacket looks torn. His left cheekbone is red and slightly swollen. And that’s just the damage he can see.
It doesn’t seem real. Time slows to ultra rapid, everything blurs. For too long, Robby is frozen in place, fingers hooked on the latex of the glove he just finished putting on.
“Oh!” Mel gasps, covering her mouth with both hands. The sharp noise immediately brings the situation back into focus and Robby slams back into himself with a start.
“I’m fine!” Dennis calls out at once. He looks, of all things, embarrassed. “It - It looks a lot worse than it is, I tried to tell them-”
“Shut up, Whitaker,” Robby snaps, taking a hold of the gurney and assisting in bringing it inside to keep himself from doing something utterly fucking stupid - like grabbing the lightly shivering man on the stretcher and never letting go. “Give me the rundown.”
“Well, uh-”
“Not you, Whitaker,” Robby glares at him sharply until he snaps his mouth shut, then looks to the bemused paramedics. “What’ve we got?”
“Vomiting, headache, light sensitivity and lethargy.” The paramedic lists as they wheel Whitaker into an open emergency bay. “Scalp lac to the back of the head, soreness around the ribs on the left hand side. As well as some bruised knuckles.”
“I hit them pretty hard,” Whitaker admits softly, wriggling his fingers with a wince. “Don’t think they’re broken, though,” he adds as if this is a teaching case and not his own damn body he’s talking about.
“Fucking Christ,” Robby mutters under his breath, then helps heave Whitaker onto the bed, then steps back to let a very tight-lipped Perlah get an IV in him and leaves Mel to lead the examination. Watches with his heart pounding in his ears as she takes a small flashlight from her front shirt pocket, shining it in Whitaker’s eyes - he winces sharply for it and flinches away on reflex. Robby’s hands clench into his biceps.
“Pupils are equal. Some delay to light reaction,” Mel says grimly. “Whitaker, uh - what day is it?”
“Friday - no, saturday!” Whitaker quickly corrects himself when she looks concerned. “It’s not - I just got off shift, it’s not brain damage, I’m just tired. Ask me another question! I know who the president is, unfortunately, I - I know this is Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, I’m pretty sure I could count backwards from a hundred-”
“Robby, we’ve got another ambulance coming - STEMI,” Dana calls from the open door. She’s looking a little distraught watching the scene which isn’t too strange. But for some reason, her eyes turn more worried when they turn to him and that is a little disconcerting. If nothing else it helps shake him from his stupor and reminds him he needs to act fucking normal about this. Like an attending and not a worried - fucking hell.
“Robby?”
“Right, I - yeah. Doctor King, you’ve got him?” Robby asks, heading for the door. Stops and waits for a response, when he usually would be rushing out and away in a heartbeat. Makes sure to assess the way Mel nods, the level of confidence in her shoulders and reply.
“Yup, I- yeah, I’ve got it. Perlah, call CT and tell them we need it as soon as possible. We need to do a FAST-exam, too - I’ve got that one. And Jesse, an X-ray of the spine and chest?”
“On it.” Both nurses chorus, turning to their tasks.
Yeah, she’s got him. Mel King is a powerhouse of a doctor, she will take good care of him.
Knowing Dennis is in good hands doesn’t make it any fucking easier to turn his back and walk out.
-
“I really am fine.” Dennis tries to reassure as Jesse cleans out the cut on the back of his head. The X-ray and ultrasound came back clean, so he’s out of the C-collar, but definitely not out of the dog house. They’re still waiting for a spot for a CT to open up.
Judging by the disapproving look both Jesse and Perlah lob his way, he isn’t doing a great job selling it.
“Let us work, Whitaker.” Mel eyes the cut once she has it fully visualized, sighing with relief, “Barely a centimetre and superficial. Some glue will fix it right up.”
“Who jumped you?” Perlah asks, voice tight with barely concealed fury, where she is cleaning out the cut he’s got on his right hand knuckle. The skin split, there’s no deep tissue damage or bone fractures. It’ll heal quickly without issue. They’ve sent out for a blood test to rule out any blood borne diseases too, he heard the order called in during the X-ray.
“Just - some homeless guys. Uh, unhoused, I mean,” Dennis corrects himself. Winces softly as Mel applies some medical adhesive to his scalp, holding the wound pinched shut. “They thought I was carrying drugs, or money. Honestly, I feel worse for them, it’s gotta have been disappointing. I didn't even have a fiver in my wallet. All they got was my bag and-”
His phone. His phone was in his bag. Sure, it was a cheap, kinda crappy one that takes forever to accept a charge. But it had Robby’s number. And every contact from back home. It sinks for Dennis that - he has no way to contact anyone from his family now. Or for them to contact him.
“Oh, fuck, my phone,” he mumbles to his lap.
“Cops are out looking. And every hospital is on high alert. You’ll get it back,” Perlah promises. He must look really pathetic, considering the sympathetic pat she lands on his knee.
“Oh, Whitaker.” There’s a horrified gasp from the doorway and before he knows it, Princess has joined at his bedside. She sits down, touching his shoulder, a little wide eyed, “We- oh, we should have made sure you got home safe before we left.”
“It wouldn’t have made sense for you to go that far out of the way, don’t feel bad. It was just a fluke. Oh, but we’ve got to talk to Kiara,” Dennis startles slightly, voice growing more insistent, “those guys, they thought we were carrying drugs. That’s why they jumped me, we - we’ve got to like, either go out with what we’re actually doing or start bringing security from now on, because if that’s what people think-”
Princess has gone pale for the implication. Even so, she reaches out and halts him by patting his shoulder, shaking her head. “Slow down, Whitaker. Don’t worry about it right now, I’ll tell her. You just focus on getting better, yeah?”
“I’m fi-” The reassurance is quickly halted by a sudden roil of nausea. Before he can even indicate anything is wrong, Jesse’s got a bedpan shoved into his hands. Gratefully and pitifully, Dennis gags and vomits what precious little remains in his stomach into it.
“Yeah,” Jesse drawls once he is done and merely panting miserably, “excellent diagnosis there, Whitaker.”
-
They deal with the STEMI as efficiently as they ever have. The patient is upstairs well within the door-to-balloon timer. It’s a bit of a miracle, considering how fucking out of it Robby feels. He feels literally split in two - one half of him focusing on work, on the cases, on what needs doing. Another half is having him hovering at Central, staring at the half open door to Whitaker’s room. There’s a police officer posted up outside, talking into a radio - probably relaying whatever further information Whitaker could provide on his attackers.
The lights have been shut off inside. Because Dennis has got a concussion and the bright lights are giving him a headache. Doctor King prescribed him some Tylenol and has a nurse inside with him at all times to make sure he stays awake until his CT. He’s well taken care of. And even so, all Robby wants to do is march in there and make sure himself. Run his own damn fingers over each hurt and just fix him.
“Robby, they need you in chairs.”
“What’s up?” Robby asks, pretending to not have been startled by Dana’s sudden appearance at his work station. Like the past two hours haven’t left him feeling like he's moving his body like a marionette rather than on his own.
“They think they’ve got eyes on the guys who jumped Whitaker,” she clarifies, then frowns. Reaches out and brushes a hand against his arm. “You good, cap?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he lies, shrugging her off and pushing away from his desk. His heart has started to beat very, very hard - knocking against his chest wall as if it is trying to break out of confinement. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
Less than a minute later, Robby pushes open the door to the front desk cubicle. He’s plastered on a polite smile, as to not alert anyone in the waiting room that he is there for anything other than routine. “Where are they?” he asks quietly, approaching
Tracy smiles up at him in much the same way, though she has some tension around her eyes as she nods out towards the crowded waiting room. “First row, furthest left. Broken jaw, came in together with a friend that has a backpack that looks a lot like Whitaker’s.”
Robby follows the guiding nod - makes sure to have it look like a casual once over of the chaos, a familiar motion. He immediately spots them. Something heavy coils in his belly - cold fury mixed with mild astonishment. Because the guys are both bigger than Whitaker, especially the one with the impacted jaw.
“Right, here’s what we’re going to do,” he says calmly. “You call security. Have them alert the police. Bring them back to room 14.” An examination room furthest away from innocent bystanders. It also has a lock on the outside. “Page Donahue and have him meet me there. And for the love of God, tell security not to approach until we’ve got them in there. We don’t need them getting suspicious and bolting before we can get a positive ID.”
“How are you going to get a positive ID?”
Robby’s eyes go back to the bag clutched in the smaller man’s shaking hands. Ratty, but clean, looking mighty familiar indeed. It sat on his foyer floor a few days ago and he’s watched it exit the ED enough times to be sure. “I’ve got a couple ideas.”
-
“You really broke someone’s jaw?” Matteo asks, adjusting his IV-bag.
Dennis pulls a face and shrugs, sighing as he rests his head back against the pillow. A pillow that feels very, very comfy in that moment. “Not like, on purpose.”
“That’s crazy, man. You a former boxer or something?” There’s a soft beep of something being activated. Probably the IV-pump.
“No.” When did he close his eyes? Oh, it’s nice to, though. The pain meds are really helping him relax. “My brother taught me. Thumb outside the fist, wrist square, power through the hip, that type of thing. He almost knocked out one of my molars showing me how to do it.”
“Wow. Some brother,” Matteo sounds…a little less impressed now.
“Yeah, he’s great,” Dennis mumbles absently. There’s a heaviness pooling in his head, then spreading through his entire body - the feeling of slowly sinking into quicksand. Or maybe a grain silo, like that one guy from a farm over back in Nebraska. They had to drain the entire thing to find his body. Scary way to go. Still, the imagery right then is pleasant and Dennis leans into it, breathing evening out.
And then there is a very uncomfortable drag of knuckles against his sternum.
“Ow!” Dennis coughs, eyes shooting back open. Matteo’s grinning down at him, but there is something grim around his eyes. Serious. If he hadn’t been desperately crazy about a certain attending, he might have blushed. No wonder Javadi nearly walks into walls whenever he’s around.
“Stay awake,” he reminds him brightly, patting his cheek before moving on to adjust something else at his bedside.
“Wasn’t sleeping,” Dennis grumbles, sitting up a little better against the pillows. Winces when his side twinges from it, then settles back - crossing his ankles and folding his hands over his belly. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Uh-huh.”
The doors slide open and Doctor McKay slips inside. Her face is soft and slightly pinched - it leaves Dennis a little breathless with how badly it reminds him of his mom’s concerned expression and he almost tears up. Thankfully, he manages to keep it together.
“Hey, slugger. How’re you feeling?” she asks gently, coming over and putting a gentle hand on his arm.
“All good. Just tired,” Dennis says. Then, when he catches her and Matteo exchanging glances, he quickly goes on, “not in a brain damage sort of way! I came off my shift this morning. I’m - I’m just normal-tired. Promise.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon,” McKay squeezes his arm, then kicks off the breaks on the bed. “I’m bringing you up for your CT. If it comes back clean, we’ll stop bothering you and you can get your Zs, okay?”
“Yes, please,” he moans.
They roll him out and - Dennis can’t help it, even with the bright lights and too loud sounds, he looks around. Tries to catch a glimpse of - disappointment fills his chest, because Robby’s workstation is empty.
It’s not surprising, Robby always has a shit tonne to do during his shifts. Chances are always slim to see him, unless you’ve got cases for him to assist on. Still, Dennis deflates the tiniest bit as he’s rolled onto the elevator to head upstairs.
It would have made all of this a little less scary if he could at least catch a glimpse of Michael again today.
-
Donahue looks like a thunder cloud, waiting outside the examination room. Robby grabs him by a thick shoulder and squeezes, “Fix your face, man. Don’t want to make them think they’re in trouble before we know for sure.”
“Sorry. Just can’t fucking help it,” the nurse grumbles, brows smoothing out a little. “Imagining they jumped Whitaker. The kid’s so friggin’ nice, you know? Just feels wrong.”
“Sure does.” Robby has to take his own advice of adjusting his expression before grabbing a hold of the door knob and swinging it open - a wide, friendly smile on his face as he steps inside. “Hello, sir, I’m Doctor Robby. I hear you have an issue with your jaw?”
“Yeah,” the man on the bed grits out - the muscles on his neck strain, the veins are popping. He must be in a fair share of pain.
“It’s broken, we think,” the other man mumbles, slightly more articulately.
“What happened, exactly?” Robby asks as he steps up, gloving up as he does. Runs his fingers over the impacted jaw and - it might be dislocated rather than broken. It’s swollen to hell, at the very least, an angry red and blue bruise running up the entire side of his face and down his neck.
The two men share a quick glance. “Uuh,” the smaller of them mumbles from the corner he’s got himself propped up in, “just, y’know. It’s hard out there.”
“Ah,” Robby says mildly. “Well, we’re going to need a quick X-ray - Donnie, get that prepped for me, would you, while I give our friend here something for the pain?”
Ten minutes and a small dose of morphine later, Donahue has got the X-ray shot and put up on the light board. Robby whistles. “That’s not pretty. Double whammy. Dislocated and broken.”
“Holy shit,” Donahue mutters under his breath. Quickly schools his expression, though, even if his eyes remain a tiny bit wide. And no wonder. It’s difficult to imagine their Whitaker would have the chutzpah to do this kind of damage.
“Well, gentlemen, looks like you’ll be here a while. We’ll need to call ortho and have them take care of that. Might take a minute, we’re pretty busy today. Just hang tight in here, okay?” Robby pulls up his phone. Scrolls through his contacts, finds - a number he has saved under ‘Dennis’ and he subtly tilts his phone away from Donahue just in case. Pushes it, puts his phone to his ear.
Tinny and muffled, funk starts playing from the bag in the corner.
Triumph fills Robby’s chest. But he keeps his face neutral, gestures for Donahue to follow him and strides out as if everything is completely normal. Speaks into the phone as he shuts the door, “Hey, Walsh, I’ve got a case for you to look at.”
As the door shuts, he pushes the button on the handle. There’s a quiet ‘click’ as the lock slides in place.
“Well?” Ahmad is waiting for them just outside, hands in his belt, brows furrowed. Shoulders tense, ready to jump into action.
“Yeah,” Robby says, lowering his phone - ending the call as he does. “That’s Whitaker’s bag. Call the police, let them know.”
-
The CT comes back, confirming a concussion. Minor, no lasting damage done - not that the CT can pick up at any rate. Radiology recommends they keep him under observation, but he should be good to go home soon. There are no ICU-beds available, as per usual, so Dennis gets taken back down to ED to occupy a room there instead until he can be picked up by Santos to bring him home. They’ve tried calling her, but Dennis knows she sleeps with her phone on silent and won’t wake until late in the afternoon.
The only thing he cares about is that he is finally allowed to sleep. The second Matteo and McKay park his bed back in his room, he is out like a light.
When he wakes, it’s to a faint throb between his temples - better than before, still present. His body feels warm and heavy under the hospital sheets. He’s still sleepy and very, very comfortable, so he isn’t really sure what woke him.
Then, there’s a soft click of a door shutting. So that must be it - the door opening, the shift of energy of another person entering his sickroom. Dennis cracks his eyes open slowly, expecting a nurse.
Instead, to his stomach-swooping surprise, there’s Robby. Hoodie on, looking tired, face worn the way it is towards the tail end of a shift. He’s lingering by the door, an electronic chart in hand. Scrolling through it for a second, before putting it down on a low table. He lifts his head and - startles, slightly, when their eyes meet.
“Hey,” Dennis croaks out, a faint smile tugging on his lips.
“Hey.” Robby’s voice is quiet, a tiny bit strained. Like he’s consciously keeping it down. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s okay.”
There’s a heavy stretch of silence. Robby’s staring at him. Dennis stares back, growing more conscious by the second. Aware suddenly that he’s wearing a hospital gown and probably looks a mess, old sweat sticking to his skin and in dire need of a shower after a long shift and an eventful day. Aware that they haven’t seen each other properly since that amazing day at Robby’s house. Aware that he still hasn’t replied to that text message from this morning and that he might never be able to with his phone missing.
Then, Robby finally moves. He turns away and for a second Dennis thinks he’s about to shove the door back open and leave. Instead, there’s a soft hush of curtains being pulled, shutting out the bright lights of the ED fluorescents. The only light coming in is from the high windows in the corner, letting in a dimmer light from an adjoining corridor.
That done, Robby turns and walks over to the bed - slowly, steps heavy. He ends up by Dennis’ bed - hovering there, hands on his hips. Like he’s unsure where to put them. Where he’s allowed to, as if they haven’t been all over him since the first day they met. As if Dennis doesn’t feel a little cold whenever they’re not touching him. His face is blank - but his eyes are expressive enough. They glow in the low light, darting all over him - from his scalp, to his cheek, down to his bruised knuckles. Cataloguing each injury.
It hits Dennis like a tidal wave. He’s worried. It shouldn’t be such a shock, but it is. All at once, he wants to make it go away, the half-turned down quirk of his lips and disquieted glint in his eyes.
“I’m really fine,” Dennis says softly, in the same tone he’d tell a patient’s loved one that everything will be alright.
“I know.” It doesn’t sound like he does, no matter how flat a tone he’s attempting. There’s a raggedness to his words, something sharp guarding against - something. Against him? Maybe he misread it - maybe he’s actually angry. That makes Dennis’ stomach roil with nausea that has nothing at all to do with his scrambled brain.
Frantic to make things right, Dennis goes on, voice raising a tiny bit at the corners, “My head just grazed the wall, it barely hurts anymore. And I last threw up, uh - hours ago. When Mel - Doctor King closed my head lac. And my CT came back clean. It’s - barely a concussion, really. I’ll be on bedrest for a few days, but Doctor Farrow said I’d be able to join my rotation as long as I’m feeling better and have no brain fog. Maybe a few days late, at most.”
“Right.”
“Honestly!” Dennis lets out a nervous laugh and, before he can think better of it, says, “My brothers used to rough me up way worse when I was a kid. This is nothing.”
That was not the right thing to say. Dennis can tell the second the words leave his lips. It’s like watching shutters slam shut, the way Robby’s eyes darken. His shoulders tense and square. There’s a distinctly unhappy twist to his mouth. Slowly, he places his hands flat on the bed and leans into Dennis’ space.
“That. Is not nearly as reassuring as you seem to think.” His voice is steady. Steely enough to cut. The way it sounds when someone has badly fucked up, when a patient is on his last nerve. Dennis very much wishes he’d just stayed quiet.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, lowering his gaze to his hands on his lap. A vaguely familiar, unpleasant feeling is stirring in his gut. The one he felt all those months ago over the phone with his dad. Being a horrible disappointment, fucking up and not being sure what he’s done wrong or how to fix it.
There’s a long, tense silence.
It’s broken by a heavy sigh. The mattress sinks down beside him. And a large, wide knuckled hand comes into view, closing over his own. Shockingly warm, squeezing some much needed heat into his cold fingers.
When Dennis lifts his gaze, it’s Michael staring at him from his bedside. Shoulders hunched, he looks suddenly exhausted and his eyes are glistening and oh. Dennis is starkly reminded of that first day in the Pitt, of walking into the makeshift morgue to fetch blankets and instead finding a man adrift and needing a hand to pull him to shore.
“You’ll be the fucking death of me, kid,” he whispers hoarsely. “The fuck were you thinking? Fighting two men twice your size.”
“They weren't that big,” Dennis manages. As much as he feels like he’s drowning a little in this conversation, he is floating on what the expression in Michael’s face is saying where his words are failing. “And I wasn’t - it wasn’t a conscious decision. He swung and I hit back.”
“They could have killed you.”
It’s funny - until Michael says it, Dennis hadn’t even thought about that. That he might have been in danger, for real. That this could have gone much, much worse. His face tingles and his eyes lower. He swallows dryly. Turns his hand in Michael’s grip so it is palm up and he can tangle their fingers together. He can’t find any words that might fix that, none are big enough to acknowledge how lucky he’s been today.
All he can do is squeeze Michael’s hand, keep his head bowed and lay silent grace at God’s or whoever else’s feet that might have spared him. And some at his brothers’ feet too. Misguided as they might have been
They sit like that for a long moment. Holding on to one another, breathing together until their breaths match. Then, Michael speaks again.
“When you were brought in, I - fuck, Dennis.” His voice is frayed, a tiny bit high and breathless. Fingers clenching around his own, another hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Holding on a tiny bit too tight. Dennis can’t imagine telling him to let go, even if he might bruise. “I thought I was about to have a heartattack.”
“I asked them to bring me to Mercy,” Dennis mumbles, as if that might help.
It doesn’t. Michael scoffs. “As if a phone call from Mercy would have been better.” He stops. Seems to be breathing heavily. “...not that they would have called me. Fuck. That’s the rub.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t been working, if you hadn’t been brought here - I wouldn’t have fucking known it happened until it was all over. Because no one would have thought to call your emergency medicine-attending to tell them their student got hurt.” The words are bitter, pained. Michael looks suddenly incensed, though he reels it back in - face smoothing out into something less fraught.
A quiet ringing has started to fill Dennis’ ears.
“Oh.”
“And you know what the worst fucking part is?” Before Dennis can even attempt to answer, Michael goes on. “You’re brought in here by some fluke. I get to oversee your care. But I’m not allowed to show how it fucking kills me to see you hurt. I have to act like some stranger you started working with a month ago, I’m not supposed to - shit.” He cuts himself off. The hand on Dennis’ shoulder leaves to smooth down his own face, as if he can wipe away the frustration in that decisive motion.
“It’s…I mean, we agreed on that,” Dennis says faintly - tries to ignore the way his heart is racing. Any faster and he’s going to trigger a cardiac alarm on the monitor.
“I know, fuck. I know. I thought I could handle it,” Michael tilts his head back and - Dennis’ heart twinges sharply when he pulls his other hand away, too to rub both palms over his face. Leans away from him. Out of reach and looking so done.
For the first time this day, Dennis feels scared.
Slowly, Michael drags his hands down and away from his face, smoothing down his beard as he does. He lifts his gaze to Dennis’. There is something pained and defeated in his gaze. Something massive and heartbreaking. His mouth opens and Dennis almost wants to beg him not to speak, to not - end this before it can even properly begin. Give up on them, on him, like everyone else. But he can’t get the words out on time, can’t do anything but let his eyes tear up when Michael says,
“When you’re feeling better and settle into your next rotation, we’re figuring out how to start telling people about this. Because I’m not built strong enough to pretend I’m not absolutely fucked about you.”
It’s such a complete mental 180 that Dennis’ brain completely stops processing. Can’t comprehend the words that just fell out of Michael’s mouth and straight into his heart.
Dennis promptly bursts into tears.
“Fuck-” It clearly catches Michael by just as much surprise as he just did him. He’s immediately on his feet, reaching out to - well, first let his hands hover in the air between them, uselessly opening and closing. Then, they come to rest on Dennis’ cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs, shushing him, “Hey, no - Dennis, calm down, what-”
“I’m fine,” Dennis sobs out in a way that probably makes him sound half-way hysterical. The crying gives way to laughing, big heaving gasps of it which - honestly, probably doesn’t help calm the older man down whatsoever. “I just - it’s stupid, I’m tired, nevermind. We - yeah, sounds good - let’s do that. Tell. People.”
“Baby,” Michael whispers and Dennis hiccups sharply when he leans in and presses a kiss to his temple, down his cheek, then to his lips, lingering there for several seconds. The taste of salt is - a little unpleasant, but cleansing. Like pouring saline solution onto a wound to clean it. He feels light and hollowed out when it ends - his breathing having eased to something less hitchy and pathetic.
“So, uh,” Dennis manages, a laugh puffing past his lips, “fucked about me, you said?”
Michael lowers himself back to sit on the bed, wiping away the last of Dennis’ tears with his sleeve. He shakes his head, chuckling. “Absolutely,” he confirms. The handsome crows’ feet are back around his eyes. His hand leaves his face to rather take one of Dennis’, squeezing.
Then, the door opens.
The soft snap of it stuns Dennis absolutely still like a deer in headlights - Michael is quicker on the uptake, getting to his feet and dropping his hand immediately. Shoves them into his hoodie pockets and sways back on his heels as they both turn their heads to look.
Doctor Collins pauses in the doorway. Her brows quirk and - Dennis hasn’t known her that long, hasn’t spent enough time with her to know her every microexpression or anything. He doesn’t need to, though, to tell that she is very, very displeased.
“Sorry to interrupt. Dana told me you were in here,” she says. Her eyes are sharp and drilling into Robby’s with frightening intensity. “I need you for a consult.”
“Right, yeah. Of course,” Robby nods - his voice is far more even than Dennis ever could have managed when faced with that subdued fury. He looks back at Dennis, clearing his throat. “Before I forget. The police will be by to talk to you. They’ll want a positive ID on your attackers. Your bag is in custody with them, but it should be cleared in time for Doctor Santos to bring you home. Alright?”
Dennis’ head reels. For a second, he’s just staring dumbly up at Robby for all this new information, he hadn’t even known they had been caught - then he raises his brows pointedly and he finally remembers to speak. “Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks, Doctor Robby.”
“Don’t mention it. Feel better soon, Whitaker.” He starts to turn. Stops. Then, he turns back to him with a tight lipped smile. “And thanks for your hard work with us this month,” his hand comes out of his pocket and he pats him firmly on the shoulder - fatherly and impersonal and Dennis sort of wants to die.
“Yessir, uh, I mean - yeah. No problem,” he stutters out in the least inconspicuous way ever. “It’s been great.”
With a final nod, Robby walks out through the door. Doctor Collins is staring daggers into him as he does. Her gaze softens into something kinder and…oddly sympathetic when she turns to Dennis. “Get some rest, okay? It’s been one hell of a day for you.”
Oh, she has no idea.
“You can say that again,” he says with an awkward laugh. “Thanks. Have a good rest of your shift.”
The door shuts behind her. Dennis spends a long time with his hands over his burning red face, squinting up at the ceiling through his fingers.
-
Robby knows he’s in deep fucking shit when Collins doesn’t lead him to an examination room and a patient, but rather drags him into one of the family rooms. He wonders if Whitaker felt the same creeping dread when he hauled him into one his first day.
“Go on, then,” he says as calmly as he can, settling against the armrest of one of the chairs.
“That did not look like letting down easy, Robby,” Collin glares at him from the door, crossing her arms.
“What? I can’t be worried?”
“I just told you what is being said around the place and you just - decide to sit vigil at his bedside?”
“I went to check on him,” Robby does his best not to sound defensive. It’s not going well. “It’s not that serious, Heather. I can check on one of our med-students when he gets hurt. Especially when it happens while he’s doing the hospital a favor. Gloria would praise me for doing damage control.”
Collins stares at him. Her jaw is twitching, her hands clenching into her arms. When she next speaks, her voice is horrifyingly calm. “You don’t realise what an impact you have on people, do you?”
“Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Michael asks. Folds his hands between his knees, trying to keep his body language loose. Can’t quite manage it, heel bouncing a few inches over the floor.
“Do you not see the way that kid is looking at you or is it boosting your ego too much for you to do anything about it?”
It’s cutting. Robby’s breath catches in his throat. Collins always fucking knew how to hit where it hurts. He can tell she knows she hit her mark by the curl of her lips.
“You are treading some mighty thin ice right now, Heather.”
“You don’t scare me, Michael Robinavitch,” she lifts her chin. As if that was ever his intention, as if he ever thought he could. “Just tell me. Is this another mid-life crisis happening? Is this the motorbike all over again? Are you still driving it without a helmet, by the way?”
Something hot and uncomfortable crawls up the back of Robby’s neck. He remains stubbornly silent. Whatever is showing on his face seems to give Collins everything she needs to know anyhow.
“Whatever this is,” she goes on, turning around and reaching for the door handle, “deal with it, Michael. Don’t take your insecurities out on doe eyed med-students, or I will have to get involved. That’s all I have to say about it.” With that, Collins yanks the door open and storms out, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary. An angry exclamation point to the conversation.
Robby breathes out slowly and steadily through his nose. Rubs his palms against his temples and tries to let his blood pressure drop back to normal levels.
He wonders how differently the conversation would have gone if she had actually noticed the way he’d been looking at Dennis this whole damn time.
-
The police come by not long after Doctor Collins and Robby leave. Officer Gilbert is heading the investigation and he shows him a slideshow of pictures to pick out his attackers from. He won’t tell him if he picked the right guys, of course - just gives a non-commital ‘great, thank you’ before leaving and promising to get back to him.
They give him his bag back, too - everything is still in it, which is a relief. That includes his phone, which - he’s not really supposed to use screens for the next twenty four hours, but he still takes a quick peek just in case there’s any emergencies. There are none - save for a missed call from Michael, which makes his stomach clench awkwardly. It also confuses him, because the time stamp is for when he was very much hospitalized.
He doesn’t have much time to wonder about it though, because the door to his room opens in one hard jerk and he almost jumps clean out of the bed for it.
Santos is standing in the doorway - still in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, hair a mess, jacket thrown on haphazardly. She’s wearing crocks of all things. Like she didn’t have time for shoelaces. She’s got a clear plastic bag filled with his clothes from when he got jumped under her arm. Something eases in his chest to see her.
“Well. This must be nostalgic,” Santos drawls.
Never mind.
“Ha, ha. Have you considered a career change? They could use you on SNL,” Dennis mutters grumpily.
“They couldn’t afford me,” she scoffs and wanders closer. When she reaches his bedside, he can tell her lips are a little tense and her eyes are red around the rim.
Something inside of Dennis softens. “True that.”
There’s a bit of an awkward pause where they are both staring at each other. Santos twirls her car keys around her fingers.
“Did you really break a guy’s jaw?”
“I guess,” Dennis mumbles.
“Holy shit.
“Yeah.”
Another pause. Then, sounding a little awed and far more impressed than he’s ever heard her before, Santos says:
“I’m upgrading you to a Karev instead of a Lexie.”
“Oh my God, shut up-”