Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You in, dude?” Santos cocks an eyebrow over the rim of her freshly cracked Red Bull. 

“What?” Dennis blinks. Apparently he’d been in the middle of a conversation. That happens to him sometimes, especially at the tail end of a night shift. He’d clocked in before the sun set, his time card blinking a status of “In” at 6:55 P.M. His phone died a while ago and a charger he’d fished out of the lost and found accompanied it in his pocket. He never found a long enough moment near an outlet to make any difference. 

“Yes or no, Huckleberry. Vic’s down so what do you say?” 

Victoria just trudged through the same shift that Dennis had. She’s curled up with her chin resting on her knees in one of the rickety chairs at the break room table. “Hmm?” she says. 

Dennis double taps his knuckle against the touch screen timeclock system on the wall near his locker. It’s almost nine in the morning. Dr. Robby is going to kill him for the overtime, but that, he decides as he clocks out for the day, is a problem for a future Dennis. 

“Say yes,” Santos demands again. Now she’s started chanting, slowly, louder and louder. “Say yes. Say yes! Say yes!” 

“Jesus H—fine.” Dennis drags a hand down his face, practically numb with how much he aches for a solid eight hours of sleep. 

“Say yes! Say ye—wait.” Santos stops chanting. “Really?”

“Sure.” Dennis drags an arm through the sweater he keeps hanging on the back hook of his locker. The neck is oddly stretched out but it’s still just as warm as it ever was. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

“Hell yeah, bro. Let the games begin.” She raises her Red Bull in a cheers motion. Both Dennis and Victoria leave the gesture ignored. 

**

“Did you hear?” Jack leans against his open locker with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s already dressed for the day, a scope draped around his neck and a fanny pack full of supplies buckled securely around his waist. 

“Hmm?” Robby palms one of his earbuds. His music stops automatically. He’d jammed the lock on his locker years ago and now all he has to do is tug on the handle just so for it to pop open. He shoves his whole backpack inside without unpacking. Mostly everything he needs is in his hoodie, anyway. 

“It’s starting up. About time.” Jack smirks. 

“Jesus. What?” Robby’s brows knit together automatically. It’s never a good sign when Jack finds him in the morning. He’s already got a three digit number blinking at him from the indicator of his unsigned chart notes and he needs to follow up with Kiara about a few patients from his last shift. It’s a Tuesday, so it shouldn’t be too busy but he knows every time he thinks that at the beginning of a shift, it ends up being a nightmare. And—

“Chill, man.” Jack pulls him out of the spiral he knows he started. “The kids are just being kids. The regular ‘who can take the most staff to pound town’ fest has started, so I’m told.” The corners of his mouth are curled up into a grin that he’s not trying very hard to suppress. 

“Oh.” A weight immediately lifts from Robby’s shoulders. If that’s all. “It is about time,” he says with a nod. This group of med students and interns are an odd bunch. They come in every day with questions to ask about improvising their skills and all of them have grown exponentially as physicians and as people over the last half a year. There hasn’t been any of the normal drama that accompanies a fresh batch of twenty somethings meeting for the first time. Frankly, it’s been annoying. “All of them?” he asks.

“Usual suspects.” Jack’s grin sharpens. “Oh, no. Mel made sure to let everyone know explicitly that she is not participating. But I’ve heard even that little one you like has a horse in the running. Heather has a pool going. Talk to her about it.” 

“Mel is the little one that I like.” Robby’s brow furrows in questioning. He very strictly ignores the pair of smiling (but still drooping) pale blue eyes and steadily growing dirty blond hair that fill his thoughts. 

“Sure, dude.” Jack claps a broad hand over Robby’s shoulder with a squeeze. “Keep telling yourself that.” 

Robby takes out his other earbud and carefully places them both in their case. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and rolls out the tension already building between his shoulders. It’s going to be a long shift. 

**

“What the hell is up with the nurses?” Dennis tosses his shed gloves into the trash with a little extra force. At first he thought he might have been paranoid. From the second he stepped foot through the doors of the hospital everyone was giving him side eyes, heads bent together as he passed between beds—and there was this look he kept seeing. This momentary weird look in everyone's eyes just before they answer any questions he asks. The hesitation had just led to him having to redo a set of blood cultures for a patient that’s already low on platelets to begin with. 

“I’d watch the tone.” McKay flips the page of the packet of medical records she’d just grabbed off the fax machine. 

“Is it a blood moon or something? The patients are fine but the fucking—” 

McKay cuts a glare his way and it shuts him up before he can dig himself into a deeper grave. He’d gotten good at these cues lately. He tends to try not to talk because his mouth gets him in trouble when he opens it.

“Hey, stud muffin. If you can spare a second from drowning in puss to sign off the lab orders I sent you half an hour ago I’d appreciate it.” Princess doesn’t even do the courtesy of looking him in the eye as she bustles by, arms laden with saline from the warmer. 

“Like that—what even is that?” Dennis gestures to her, following her with his hand down the hall. 

“You really don’t know?” 

“Completely in the dark here. Am I the victim of this hell hole’s next ritual sacrifice or something?”

“You know, you’re kind of weird.” McKay flips another page. “It’s the fuck fest you guys have going on.” 

“What fuck fest?” Dennis is over the conversation now. He taps his badge into the COW station nearest to him and opens up the system to check off those delicately requested labs. There are more than just Princess’s waiting for him. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d touched a computer this shift. Okay, maybe he is in the wrong here. But it still doesn’t explain why everyone’s been acting so weird. 

“The competition. With the newbies, med students and interns?” McKay asks. 

Dennis looks at her blankly, his hand clicking around the suggested prompts in a daze. Checking all the required boxes on his charts is muscle memory by now. He doesn’t even have to look.

“You really don’t know anything about it? ‘Cause you’re on the roster, last I heard. I need to move some money around if you’re not dedicated.”

Pieces fall into alignment and Dennis badges his computer back to the sign on screen, turning to face McKay directly. “Wait.” He holds up his hands. “Is there some kind of sick betting pool on who can sleep with the most people?”

“I don’t know about sick—” 

“And you bet on me?” Dennis asks. 

McKay shrugs. “I always bet on the dark horses.”

“Code stroke ETA three minutes.” Jesse slaps his hands against the ledge of the nurses station with a smile at McKay. His eyes slide over to Dennis and he sees his expression change. His smile loosens and his eyes brighten and a hip cocks to the side, just slightly, just a shifting of weight. “Hey, Dennis.”

“Hey.” Dennis stands to make his way to the ambulance bay. This place constantly proves to him that it can in fact get weirder. 

**

Robby hasn’t worked a night shift in almost a year. Dana had promised it was just a princess shift. Four hours for coverage between the day and night shifts to pick up some slack from the nursing strike. She made the call from the front lines, a phone pressed between her chin and her shoulder because her hands were busy with her cardboard sign. He’d heard the chanting in the background. 

Turns out they haven’t really needed the coverage in the end. Even the frequent flyers haven’t been able to bring themselves to cross the picket line. God bless Pennsylvanians. By the time he’s caught up on all his charting, ordered every lab for every patient, sent every intake he possibly could upstairs to their awaiting beds, swept and disinfected the hub and restocked the refrigerator in the lounge with his secret stash of scraps from drug reps and cafeteria residuals, it’s not even midnight.

He swivels on one of the worn out office chairs in the hub, turning lazy circles as he balances a pen between two fingers. A tech leans against the ledge of the counter scrolling lazily on their phone. Nurses huddle in groups of two or three, catching up with the people they work sixteen hour shifts with but never really get to know. 

Whitaker rounds the corner and settles on an empty stool. He stretches his arms above his head with an exaggerated yawn. He rubs his knuckles into his eyes. There hasn’t been a moment where Robby thought this kid looked rested. You could tell with most med students what shift they were meant for by their color on the third or fourth week, but no matter day or night Whitaker looked like he lived on an IV of drip coffee and free graham crackers and peanut butter from the blood sugar cabinet. “What a night, huh?” He stretches again, fingers linked together above his head. “I’ve never seen it so—” 

“No!” all staff within ear shot shout at the same time. 

“Christ alive!” Whitaker winces, covering his ears with the flat of his hands like a child at a fireworks show. 

“Do. Not. Say. That. Word.” Robby warns with a gentle smile. He rolls over to the mini fridge and grabs two containers of apple juice from the icy inside. The fridge was decades old, a donation from before even Robby started here. It wasn’t supposed to freeze all the juice into slush but no one ever complained, so it never got fixed. He tosses one of the containers to Whitaker and the both of them massage the plastic, crushing the icy inside into something sippable.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say.” His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment as they so often are. Sometimes Robby tells him he did a good job at the conclusion of a trauma just to see the pink creep over the tops of his ears. 

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t want to jinx it.” He peels back the top of the juice container and takes a slug of the half frozen apple slush. “God, that hits the spot every time. You won’t find this in every ED.” 

That makes Whitaker relax. He settles onto his stool, back hunched into a half moon as he tears into his own juice. Robby watches him take the first sip and sigh, renewed.

The two of them sit in silence together for a moment, enjoying each other’s company to the faint sound of the home improvement show on in the waiting room. He can’t remember the last time he’d been able to hear that from the hub. It makes the ends of his fingers itch for something to do. Idle hands are the devil’s work, especially in this place. 

Whitaker badges into one of the terminals and clicks into the system, checking into the stats one of the five patients they have in their care. Robby leans in when he notices an alert on a lab result. Whitaker clicks it open before he can say anything. 

“UTI,” he says. 

Robby leans back, schooling his pleased smile into a look of neutrality. “Tell me how you know.” 

He moves his mouse around the screen, highlighting the patient’s urinalysis and going over the patient’s status upon arrival. She’s an 87 year old woman found wandering naked through the halls of her nursing home. Combative to the EMTs that brought her in. Of course it’s a UTI. There's even a big flashing yellow box in the corner of this new AI system the city forced down their throats saying “UTI” in big bold letters. But the kid interpreted the lab results and came to his own conclusion and there’s some admirability in that. He’s just about as green as that raggedy sweater he’s been wearing in and out every shift as the weather gets colder. He soaks up this place like a sponge every day, becoming more and more of a hell of a doctor. He takes on the nightly challenges with pride and carries a notebook full of scribbled notes and stickers of the charts of patients he means to check on once they’re settled upstairs. 

Like most people his age, Robby mostly takes everything about this new generation with a grain of salt, but there’s just something about this most recent batch of students. They fight hard and learn as much as they can, all jumping at the chance to prove themselves. Almost in spite of how much darker the world gets every day.

 “Good job, Whitaker,” Robby says. He watches the blood rush to the kid’s ears, bright pink in just a moment. This time he allows himself a smile. 

“Thanks.” He doesn’t let his eyes leave the computer screen but Robby sees how the corners of his mouth perk up timidly. It’s cute. You couldn’t pry it out of Robby with a crowbar, but the damn kid is cute in a looks-like-he-lives-on-caffeine-and-cigarettes kind of Midwest emo farmboy way. He didn’t quite see it until all the nurses started buzzing about him when he left the patient’s rooms. This stupid competition is flashing over Whitaker’s head like a neon sign saying “available,” and it’s sending the virile and non-virile alike into a tizzy. 

“So, what's the score, anyway?” Robby asks. 

“Which game? What day is it?” Whitaker reaches for his pocket to fish out a phone that’s no doubt full of sports apps. 

Robby snorts. “No.” He couldn’t give less of a shit about whatever football scores he could conjure out of the kid. “The score. You know, with that thing you kids have going on?”

“The thing,” Whitaker repeats. Robby watches the red on the tips of his ears stretch all the way to the lobe. “Oh, the—that, um, I—” he stammers, obviously so flooded with adrenaline and panic right now he can’t speak. 

“Oh, hey, Whitaker, look. You don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He’d basically just asked, as the poor kid’s boss, how much pussy he’d been smashing. His superior, his teacher, his mentor. Not to mention someone with a good, what, 30 years on the kid. It was inappropriate and he’s on thin ice with the board anyway. But it was almost worth it to see the kid blush just a tiny bit more. He had wanted to see just how pink he could make him and when he realized that's what he was doing, he tightened the reins. 

“We don’t—it’s fine. Not that you wouldn’t—” Oh shit, now he’s the one babbling. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, just as pulsing and pink as Whitaker’s face. “You’re a good-looking kid and you should put yourself out there is what I’m saying. Try your luck every now and again. Live a little. I did when I was your age.” God, Robinovitch, shut the hell up. He’ll never hear the end of it from Jack if he doesn’t stop running his mouth. He closes his eyes for a moment, raising his hands in surrender. “It’s not my business. Never mind.” 

“The score is zero,” Whitaker says, quietly. 

“Well I’m sure it won’t stay that way for long.” He says it before he can help it. God he is so fired.

And despite it all, God is still on Robby’s side. Because before he can make this poor kid feel any more preyed upon, a naked woman with a leaking, disconnected IV trailing behind her rounds the corner at full speed. He grabs Whitaker by the front, lifting him from the stool and shoving him out of the way. 

“Hey, Mrs. Henry. Right on time,” Robby says, leaping into action. The woman crashes into the terminal Whitaker is still logged into. He catches her before she can fall, his lower back twinging just a bit from the quick movement. 

“Let's get you some more Ketamine.” Whitaker joins right away, smoothing out the front of his shirt. He takes Mrs. Henry’s other arm and the two of them guide her back to her bed. 

**

There are entirely too many bodies crammed into their tiny apartment. It started with just Victoria and Mel. The three of them tried and failed at studying for an exam and ended up ordering a pizza to split as they took turns on Mario Party. Santos got her ass handed to her by Mel, who took home all three bonus star awards. Then she must have called someone. Sent up a bat signal or something. Because the entire ER was in their apartment so fast it was like they were being timed. Day shift and night shift alike. If they aren’t on call tonight, they’re pumping a keg in the kitchen or sitting too close together on the furniture.

The music is good. Dennis will give Trinity that. The girl can build a killer playlist. He nurses a cider, the apple taste crisp and sharp against the mixing smells of so many bodies. He’s having a good time. He’s only a little buzzed and these people just seem to like him more than anyone ever liked him back home. The song changes and he can’t help it. He whoops, throwing his arms in the arm to jam out like he’s in his room alone. 

And these people—these life saving, hard-working folks his mom calls Yankees with pure vitriol every time she calls—don’t boo or shout or laugh. They join him.

He’s finished his cider and lost the cup somewhere when Jesse grinds against him and whispers things that make the hair rise on the back of his neck. It’s so instant and he’s just the right kind of tipsy to allow their legs to tangle. The music is so good and Jesse smells like musky cologne and tastes like soap at the crook of his neck. Dennis doesn’t mind leading the way to the solace of his bedroom. 

It won’t stay that way for long.

Dr. Robby’s voice rolls across the tilted floor of his brain like a loose marble. His boss is the last thing he should be thinking about right now. But the flash of salt and pepper hair in his mind matches the tone of the grey, short hair he’s running his fingers over and he shivers. He grips tighter, bringing Jesse’s mouth to his with a muffled groan of relief. 

Good job, Whitaker. 

That one scratches against his brain hard enough to spark a flame and he shoves Jesse flat across the middle of his unmade bed. He strips him of his shirt and kisses his way down warm, tanned skin in a hurry as Dr. Robby encourages him in his brain. 

Live a little. Try your luck. 

Later, when the both of them are wrung out, sweaty and panting with satisfaction in the dim light of the computer monitor bouncing around Dennis’ geeky screensaver, there’s an angry knock on Dennis’ door. 

Dennis shoots straight up, the high of getting Jesse off that one last time crushed by the sudden weight of being perceived. 

Santos cracks the door and speaks through the space: “You know if you keep this up I’m gonna tax your rent at the brothel rates.”

Jesse doesn’t seem put out by the interruption. “Thanks, Dennis. You should call me some time.” 

He pats Dennis’ bare thigh in a friendly gesture before situating himself back into the clothes he’d never really gotten off. Dennis stays frozen in bed. Whether it’s shock or whiplash or just humiliation, he can’t move. 

Jesse laughs, gently amused. He throws a blanket over Dennis' body and drops a kiss to his sweaty brow. 

Jesse doesn’t even shut the door fully behind him before he’s boasting: “Three points.” 

“Wait, really?” Dennis hears someone ask. “Huh.” 

**

It’s the fifth time he’s noticed Whitaker walking by a gaggle of nurses only for them to bend together like flowers to the sun to giggle behind their hands when he finally asks Dana for intel. 

“And his head inflated seven sizes that day,” he says from behind the safety of a COW station. Whitaker has started to take notice. And Robby has started to take notice of the way his chest puffs and he walks a little taller down the crowded halls. Confidence suits him. He leaps forward during incoming traumas and has stopped hesitating when answering pop questions, trusting his instincts. It’s the point of allowing these HR nightmare events to happen with the staff. It makes them feel seen. 

Dana snorts. “Oh, you haven’t heard?” 

“Not a word. On purpose.” It’s fun to witness the change in his students from afar, but he likes to keep his nose out of their business as much as possible. He nudges his glasses back into place with his wrist and double clicks something on his screen, hoping he looks like he’s too busy to chat.

“Well, allow me to illuminate you.” Dana laces her fingers underneath her chin and leans on a counter, batting her lashes. “A little birdie told me the kid knows what he’s doing. Good with his hands.” 

“Dana—” 

“He looks like he’s a giver, is all I’m saying.” She raises her hands in mock surrender.

He shakes his head with a laugh. “You’ve done worse.” 

“Nah, givers aren’t my type. I like to drag any form of affection out of anyone in my bed. Makes it more of a challenge.” 

“So you’re saying you’d eat him alive,” says Robby. 

“I’m saying maybe you should take a bite of that. I think he’d let you cut in line.” She peers up at him through her lashes in that way that she has. Like she knows what you’re thinking before you speak. 

“You’ve been talking to Jack.” 

“I’ve been listening to my staff. And you’re more uptight than I’ve seen you in a decent decade. Let loose a little. It’d be good for you.” 

“Dana, we’re out of—”

“Ah! Don’t finish that sentence if you haven’t checked the closet.” She turns to face the tech who’d gotten her attention. She points a finger down the hall and says, “March.” 

“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do,” Robby calls as she walks behind the tech towards the closet. 

“That’s all I’m asking!” she calls back. 

**

It’s a bad idea. Dennis' skin prickles with how much he knows that. He’s on break and he’s an adult and he’s consenting, but the walls of the lounge bathroom press in around him as strange hands ruck up his scrubs. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name. They work opposite shifts and have passed like ships in the night since Dennis started the program. But now he’s here and his hands are rough on Dennis’ back, indenting his skin as he drags Dennis’ mouth to his. 

He smells like laundry soap and hand sanitizer and once they’re kissing, Dennis’ thoughts pinpoint to the feeling of his solid body. The softness of his down-covered stomach. The rasp of his beard. Then it doesn’t matter. He gathers a fistful of the resident’s scrubs and crushes their mouths together. 

It’s a little bit shameless—maybe a lot. He’s never hooked up with someone like this, so urgently, not even enough time to say anything other than Can I touch you? Do you want me? But the resident is hurried and passionate and he touches Dennis with clear intention. And Dennis wants, of course, but he’s also never been vulnerable like this at work and holy fuck it seems like a pretty terrible idea.

He drops to his knees before he’s even really made the decision to do so. The resident groans breathlessly, a hand pushing into Dennis’ hair.

“Yeah,” he says, already shoving down the waistband of his scrub bottoms. “You look perfect like this—show me how good your mouth is.”

Dennis is distantly aware that the resident is making a lot of noises, gasping breaths and deep moans, but even the threat of someone knowing what they’re doing in here isn’t enough to make Dennis want to stop. Getting someone else off makes him feel good, and his day has already been such shit—he just wants a couple of minutes where he can turn his brain off.

And the resident gives that to him, the same way he feeds his cock down Dennis’ throat.

After, when the resident has come and Dennis casually flips over his badge to see his name—Franklin, apparently—he only has a little bit of shame about the wrinkles on the knees of his scrubs. Mostly he feels pretty fucking great.

“You want?” Franklin offers, only he doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic now that he’s weak with orgasm.

Dennis shakes his head. “Break’s over. Maybe another time.”

**

There’s a rumor. There’s always rumors, but this one—

The PTMC newbie fuck fest is common, and Robby’s always kept his nose out of it. Okay, maybe when he was younger he let himself be roped into a fling or two, but not since he became an attending. That stuff, the casual sex with coworkers stuff, is for kids who don’t know any better. Robby definitely knows better.

And yet. He’s curious. He hangs out at the central nurses’ station more than he should, wondering if he’s gonna overhear something new. The really interesting thing is that no one seems to be talking about the other newbies, the ones he knows are participating in the same competition. That’s probably good, though, he decides, since sexually gossiping about young women is probably even worse than what they’re saying about Whitaker.

He happens to be leaning over a nurses’ station looking for a highlighter when Perlah points to a resident walking by, whispering something in Tagalog to Princess.

“No!” Princess says in a too-loud whisper. “Well, good for Whitaker.”

Perlah shushes her and they laugh.

Robby’s eyes follow the resident, Dr. Cavendish, often called “Cavs” by his friends. He’s—older than Whitaker. Mid-30s. Dark hair and a beard. Thick in the middle. Kind of how Robby looked in his thirties, just with a thicker hairline. He rubs his fingers through the thinning line at the front of his scalp before he can help it.

Dr. Cavendish goes into the lounge, and when he emerges a couple of minutes later, he says an exhausted goodbye to some nearby colleagues and then heads for the door. End of shift. Robby is so busy watching him that he doesn’t notice Whitaker appear at the nearest COW station until Princess slides over in her rolling desk chair.

“So is it true?” she asks in a hushed tone, but not too quiet for Robby to catch.

“What’s true?” Whitaker asks.

“You and Cavs—got busy in the lounge bathroom.”

Robby can’t help but look; he catches the way Whitaker’s face goes pink. “Uh,” he says.

“Good for you,” Princess says with a joyful tone. “He looks strong, like when he bends you over you know you’re not going anywhere.”

Robby clears his throat, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s keep it professional here, guys.”

“Sorry, Robby,” Princess says, an appropriately guilty look on her face as she wheels back to the counter.

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” Whitaker says with a waver in his voice and Robby can hardly stand to look at him but he has to.

“S’alright,” Robby says with a shrug. “We were all young once. Let’s just keep the gossiping to a minimum.” If only for his sake.

**

The air cools even more as October draws to a close. There’s a new surgeon from upstairs that gets called down a couple times for trauma stuff; like the rest of her colleagues in surgery, she’s confident and aggressive and cracks inappropriate jokes. When they’re out of the trauma and tearing off their protective layers of plastic-y coverings, Whitaker tries to thank her for trusting him in there, for giving him work to do and letting him prove himself.

“Call me Dr. V,” she says with a grin, hand flicking the stethoscope around his neck. “Or if you wanna buy me a drink, you can call me Sasha.”

He takes Sasha to the dilapidated pub around the block from the hospital and when he orders a water and whatever she’s having, she orders him a Guinness and puts the tab on her matte black Amex. She does let him buy the Lyft back to her huge, white washed Colonial with a wrap around porch that he would coldbloodedly fucking murder someone for. A tall, thin man with thinning blond hair opens the door for them. Dennis thinks it’s her butler before she pecks the corner of his mouth. 

“Hey, honey,” she greets him. “I brought dinner.” 

“Chet.” The man reaches around Sasha, clapping Dennis' hand with a firm shake. “I’m assuming you’ve never done this before.” 

“You trying to scare me away?” Dennis steps forward, edging a knee in between Sasha’s legs, pressing his chest against her back. Mr. V makes an excited, breathless noise, then the three of them are making out in the foyer of their massive home. 

So there’s Dr. and Mr. V. They’re the first to call Dennis back for seconds. When the rumors spread and the scores are re-tallied he gets an angry, all caps text message from Santos reading: “Only the first time counts!” He doesn’t bother arguing. He’s pretty sure he’s in the lead of this weird make believe game. 

And then there’s Kim, finally, since he’d wanted to sleep with her since he met her in September. She grabs him when they’re all at a bar after a brutal shift, drags him onto the makeshift dancefloor, and he would be a little too shy to dance like this in front of his colleagues, but he’s had a couple of drinks and the music is good and Kim flirts with her body against his, arms around his shoulders, a teasing smile on her lips.

“I hear you’re a fun time,” she says later when they’re making out around the back of the bar, the chilly air the only thing stopping him from suggesting they just get it on right then and there. “But just so you know, I’m not looking for anything serious.”

“Cool,” he says, nonjudgmental. “Me neither. School and stuff—busy.”

“Totally,” she says. “So, can we go back to yours?”

Dennis knows there’s gossip. Especially since he keeps hooking up with nurses. That’s probably a bad idea, probably going to get him a reputation he doesn’t want. But he’s never had this much sex in his life and he’s having a lot of fun and everybody involved seems happy, so—why stop?

He does start to feel a little bad once he hooks up with Mateo, mostly because he knows Victoria’s really into him. But Mateo is shy and curious and has those eyes. And Victoria stammers a little bit when Dennis tells her, but she doesn’t actually seem mad.

“Was it good?” she asks, and Dennis blushes.

“Uh, yeah. He’s…” He struggles to choose an appropriate word. “Really sweet,” he lands on.

Victoria beams, nods. “Nice.”

Dennis wants to ask her how she’s getting on in the competition, but he’s pretty sure he knows. Victoria only agreed because Trinity forced her into it. Not that she isn’t cute—she could be getting all the sex she wanted, Dennis is absolutely positive. But she’s a little socially awkward, better with the science than with people, and he gets the feeling she isn’t very experienced. Sometimes he thinks about telling her that it’s okay, that she shouldn’t rush herself; he thinks about telling her what it was like for him when he was 20, wanting to have sex but feeling weird about his body, wanting to be close to people but not wanting to be vulnerable. Ultimately, he decides it’s probably too much. They don’t need to know everything about each other.

Actually, he really should want his coworkers to know a lot less about him. And he should stop hooking up at work.

That’s what’s going through his head—at least in the background—when he ends up in the supply closet with Kim and another nurse during a particularly slow Tuesday. (He’s pretty sure her name is Erica, but he actually isn’t confident.) He’s also thinking about her strawberry-scented lip gloss and the way her hips feel under his hands. They were flirting a little bit at a COW station earlier and now he’s absolutely certain that he has some kind of reputation among the nurses, because she arches into him and whispers, “Can you do that thing with your fingers everybody’s talking about?”

He’s very much considering the logistics of abiding by such a request when the door opens. Maybe-Erica shoves him back, righting her scrub top; she and Kim make themselves scarce quickly, shooting under Dr. Robby’s arm to escape the trap he’s set in the closet doorway.

“Whitaker,” he says, and Dennis isn’t sure if there’s disappointment or something else in his tone. “Look, I know we all like to have a little fun but at this point I’m gonna have to talk to HR. Just to cover all our asses.” 

Dennis’ stomach drops, taking his lungs with it. He forgets how to breathe for a second and then when he remembers, he says, “Yeah. That’s—sorry.”

“Let’s try to keep it off campus from now on, okay? Or at least not when you’re on shift.”

He’s sure that he’s turning so pink that he’s going to just burst into flames. Spontaneous human combustion. That happens from the embarrassment of your hot boss catching you feeling up a girl at work, right? Someone should document this stuff.

“Sorry,” Dennis says again, and Dr. Robby drops his arm, gesturing out into the hallway.

“Back to work,” he says, and Dennis goes.

When Robby claps him on the back as he passes, Dennis’ whole body goes hotter than it had been a moment ago in an enclosed space with pretty girls.

**

It was the middle of a goddamn Tuesday afternoon when Robby watched Whitaker tug Kim through the door of the supply closet and then watched Kim pull in a flushed and giggling nurse along with them. If anyone asks, he’s going to say that it was the shock that made him hesitate before breaking up whatever nefarious business was going on behind that closed door. The truth is, he wanted to catch him in the act. After all the rumors, he just wanted to see it for himself.

And when he finally did pull open the door, he got what he asked for.

The women scattered like mice, but before they did he could see their hands on Whitaker’s body. He saw pale skin and lean abs and Whitaker’s pale brows creased in concentration as he pawed at the nurse’s tits underneath her scrubs. Robby swears that he closed his eyes automatically and that he made himself known immediately. But he saw. 

And he still sees it. Every time his mind isn’t occupied with something else, he sees that look on Whitaker’s face. Content, rebellious pleasure. Easy confidence. 

It’d been so long since he’d thought about anyone touching him. 

And he’s seen how good this kid is with his hands in and out of the ED. 

When he can’t fall asleep that night despite the Ambien and the six hours of OT he’d powered through, that look is what drags across his brain catching like soft fabric on dry skin. He wraps one of his own wide hands around himself with a gentle tug, thinking: This is how he’d do it. 

Guilt washes over him when he comes, quicker and harder than he had in a long time. This is not good. 

By the time he’s taking out his headphones at his locker the next morning, he’s resolved that it’s a good thing Whitaker is running around with women. Women his own age. He’s not even going to file the report. Whitaker is what he is: a horny kid 30 years younger than him. His inferior. His pupil. He pushes everything together into a dense mass that he tucks away behind his sternum so he can do his goddamn job. 

He’s successfully avoided seeing Whitaker for eight out of his scheduled twelve hours when Jack bursts through the lounge door, his weird Nu Metal blasting from the tiny speakers of the old Android half hanging out of the pocket of his riding jacket.

“Get some headphones, you old fart.” Robby scrunches the screwed up time sheet he’d been pouring over into a ball and lobs it at the other doc. 

Jack turns his music off and unloads into his locker, hanging his jacket on the coat rack by the door. “You wear the pea pods and you can’t hear shit. My ears are untainted.” 

Robby knows that’s not true. Jack is a combat doc. He’s been shot at and blown up and probably has more ear drum damage from the wind when he rides his bike than Robby will ever get from his little white headphones. 

“Oh, back in my day,” Robby mocks and Jack throws the paper back at him, bouncing it off Robby’s forehead. 

“I’m only a year older than you.” 

Robby grins. “You’re the older one, I’m the wiser one.”

“I don’t know about that. I know something you don’t know.” There’s a look on Jack’s face that reads nothing but trouble. 

“It’s been a great shift,” Robby says as he gathers his timesheets and taps them into a neat stack. “I’m leaving you in good hands. It’s too bad that I have to go home immediately and forget that I ever spoke to you.”

“Not so fast.” Jack pulls out a chair and joins him at the table. He looks him level in the eye. “Mano a mano,” he says. 

“Shit.” Robby pushes his glasses up his forehead then drags his hands down his face. Twenty years ago, in this very same lounge, they’d created that code phrase for when shit gets serious. When Jack came back from the tour that took his leg, he had trouble with understanding sarcasm grasping what was reality. Robby would grab him when he noticed the dissociation and look him square in the eye. 

Mano a mano, this code is a brutal one, man. But you’ve done this before, and you can do it again. 

Mano a mano, this movie sucks ass and I don’t know why you like it. 

Mano a mano, I can see that you’re a little freaked out. Why don’t you go have a smoke? 

The last mano a mano Jack used was to tell Robby that Janey wasn’t the one for him. It turns out he was right. So Robby slumps back in his seat and stares up at the ceiling. “What,” he says. It’s not a question. 

“Mano a mano,” he starts again. “I had the best fuckin’ sex of my life last night, brother.” 

The tension in the room bursts like a bubble and Robby chuckles. “Okay, I’m happy for you. Don’t fucking scare me like that.” 

Jack finally lays it to him straight: “I had the best sex of my life last night and it was with the fucking kid.”

Now who’s the one with a problem with sarcasm. 

Robby’s mouth goes dry and he gapes like a fish out of water for a second before he remembers to close his jaw. He wants to say something about how sick he is of hearing about this and how he’s putting a report in in the morning, no exceptions—but he’s so taken aback and so instantly hard inside his fucking pants that he’s rendered speechless. 

“Yeah. Yeah, just as I expected.” Jack does that thing that doctors do. Where they pretend to know what’s wrong with you before even you know. 

“Oh, what the fuck is that.” Robby finally wrenches some words past his Saharrah dry throat. 

“Mano a mano,” Jack starts again. He puts a hand on Robby’s shoulders with an understanding squeeze. “The people that know you. The ones that love you, can see the way you’re eyeing Dennis sideways.”

“Oh, he’s Dennis now, is he?” 

“Shut the fuck up. That’s not the point.” Jack points a finger in Robby’s face. “It’d be good for you. He would be good for you. It’s some no strings fun. He’s—Robby, you know I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if I didn’t think this was a good opportunity. Get fucking laid, dude. You’re driving all of us up the wall with the stick you have shoved up your ass. Loosen up. You got it?”

Robby takes a beat. That’s what his therapist and Gloria are always telling him: Take a moment. Reflect. Then respond. He exhales with a sigh and rubs at the back of his neck. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Yeah?” Jack grins. 

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” 

**

There’s a holiday party at the sports bar next door in early December. It’s non-denominational, everyone emphasizes, and there’s no actual religious stuff around—just twinkly lights and some streamers and a lot of food. That’s the first thing Dennis notices when he arrives, the huge table of food, and he’s starving. The second thing he notices, though, is Dr. Robby sitting at the bar, hunched over an iron colored beer with a thick head of pale foam. He’s wearing a heavy jacket even though the temperature inside the bar is climbing, and he’s got one earbud in, despite—or maybe because of—the noise surrounding him. When he meets Dennis’ gaze, he lifts his drink in a silent greeting.

Dennis lifts a hand awkwardly, waves hello, and then heads toward where Victoria and other med students are taking advantage of the free food.

Eventually, there’s a group of them around a table, drinks and food littering the surface. Santos, Mel, and other interns join them; they’re loud but not any louder than any other group in the bar. The entire crowd seem to have segregated themselves based on who they hang out with at work, nurses and orderlies in one area, med students and interns in another, a handful of overwhelmed residents as most of them couldn’t be bothered to come to the party, and then Dr. Robby, the only attending around, keeping to himself.

“So, let’s hear it,” Santos says. “Official weigh in—let’s tally up where our scores are at.”

Dennis gives her a skeptical look. He lives with her, and he happens to know that she’s not really doing as well as she thought she would. (She’s hot, obviously, but when she opens her mouth she seems more like a socially inept 14-year-old boy than a 27-year-old emergency physician.) “You sure you wanna do that?” he teases.

“I’m curious,” Mel says, smiling with interest. “This is more exciting than Dance Moms, which is what I normally watch with Becca on Saturdays.”

“It hardly seems fair,” Victoria says. “Everyone knows Whitaker’s winning.”

“I don’t know about all that.” He leans back on his stool coolly. He doesn’t want to completely ruin Santos’ reputation, and he’s sure that some of the other med students—some of whom are currently still on shift—are racking up scores of their own. It’s not his fault that nurses like to gossip. So for the sake of his friendship with Trinity, he decides to change the subject. “Anyone for another drink?”

Santos starts to drum on the table, rattling the many dishes. “Jägerbombs! I’ll buy the first round. Mel, can I borrow some money?” 

“Uh, sure.” Mel smiles without hesitation at being included. Her hands wrap excitedly around the edge of the table as she beams at her coworkers. 

“She’s kidding.” Dennis kicks at Trinity’s shin underneath the table. She knows he doesn’t like it when she picks on Mel. When she doesn’t return the kick even harder, he knows she’s thankful for him changing the subject. 

Mel and Santos go together to the bar and return with a tray of shots. Jäger is kind of disgusting in practice, but the Red Bull helps a lot; his mouth is sugary and fizzy so he hardly even notices the black licorice taste of the alcohol. Some of the people at the table aren’t interested, so Santos shoves another shot in front of Dennis and they cheers, grinning at each other as they drink.

“You’ve grown on me like a tumor, Huckleberry,” Trinity says. She’s slurring her words a little bit; Dennis can relate.

Someone comes by the table to share news: some surgeons are coming by to crash the party. Santos brightens, and Dennis wishes her luck in her pursuit of Dr. Garcia before announcing his need for a cigarette and escaping out the side door.

He exhales a huge sigh of relief as he leans against the brick wall, reaching into his jacket for his pack. He’s studying to be a doctor—he’s well aware that it’s a terrible habit, but he’s never needed a cigarette so badly in his life. It’s the Jäger. It’s been the Jäger since the first time he got drunk at 18 and he stole an unfinished non-filter from the ashtray on the back porch railing of his dad’s house. The first inhale is a desperate relief, like a splash of cool water on a hot day. Which is ironic, since it’s freezing out.

He huddles further into his jacket, wishing that he’d thought to reattach the hood he removed last week for laundering. (A patient totally puked in it. That was the last time he’d stopped to talk to a patient before dropping his things in his locker. Brutal.) It’s good that the sweater he’s got on underneath is thick, comfortable wool, hand knit by his mother, and recently patched by Mel after the collar had been torn in a zipper accident. The new, soft, sunset orange yarn that clashes so disgustingly with the originally kelly green will keep him warm.

“Those things’ll kill you.”

Dennis almost jumps, but he’s a little too drunk to react that quickly. So instead he turns around and nods, appropriately shamed. “No kidding,” he says. “That guy last week with the two-pack-a-day habit? I threw out my pack when I left that day.”

“Yet here you are,” Dr. Robby says.

He shrugs.

“Can I bum one?”

He laughs, softly, surprised and amused. “Yeah,” he says, and holds out the crunched cardboard for Robby. Their fingers brush a little, and Dennis might as well be some Victorian virgin because it’s like he can feel that simple touch radiate all the way up his arm and through his body.

Dr. Robby is just—distractingly attractive. Dennis can’t think about him for too long, can’t look at him for too long, or he’ll lose focus on whatever else he’s up to. He knows his own limitations, and he’s good at avoiding eye contact and stuff with Robby when they’re on shift together. It’s just easier that way. Although it’s not just his eyes—or the devastating crow’s feet at the corners. Because there’s also his smile, which doesn’t appear that often but is always breathtaking when it does. And there’s the little gray patch on his chin, and the smattering of white whiskers in his mustache. 

That’s just his face. Because Dennis also finds himself increasingly distracted by Robby’s broad shoulders, and occasionally a glimpse of chest hair poking out from the V-neck of a scrub top. One time he bent over to pick something up and Dennis stared at his thick thighs and wondered just how much strength he was storing in his body—and then he promptly dropped an open pitcher of water on himself instead of gracefully setting it down on a tray like he meant to. Even just talking to Robby can be difficult sometimes, because of that low timbre of his voice, a voice full of patience and wisdom and comfort. Dennis does think of him as a teacher, but he’s also often had a thing for his teachers.

And right now—it feels a little different than he’s ever felt with any of his professors. He’s definitely never smoked a cigarette with any of them in a cold alley behind a sports bar. 

“Got a light?” Robby’s breath fogs between them, the cigarette held skillfully in the corner of his mouth. 

“Shit. Yeah.” Dennis scrambles to find the lighter but can’t, for the life of him, remember which pocket he’d stashed it. 

“Here, just. Can I?” Robby raises his eyebrows, leaning in. He holds his cigarette between two fingers and touches the tip to the cigarette hanging from Dennis’ lips. The cherry glows bright red as Robby’s cigarette ignites and he takes a pull, hissing the smoke into his lung from behind his teeth. He steps back and bounces on the balls of his feet, hunching his shoulders against the cold, all while Dennis is fighting to keep his heart from leaping out of his open mouth like a dove released at a magic show. 

“It seems like you guys are having a nice night,” Robby says.

“You should have joined us.” Dennis takes a pull from his cigarette and leans against the wall. Suddenly, his heart is racing. It could be the alcohol. It could be the Red Bull. It could be the way Robby’s eyes are crinkling at him in the low street light. Regardless, he suddenly feels rather brave.

“No one wants the old warden to join in on the Jägerbombs,” Dr. Robby laughs. 

“We would’ve.” Dennis smiles at him as he adjusts the grip on his cigarette to one that feels more cool. He holds it between his pointer finger and thumb, instead of the peace-sign he’d been working with, placing it carefully against his lips, his other three fingers stretched out. “But hey, if you can’t hold your liquor.” 

“It’s like that?” A broad, endearing smile lights up Robby’s face. His cheeks are red. Dennis can’t tell if it’s from the grin or from the cold. 

“Yeah. It’s like that.” He takes half a step closer, the smoke from their cigarettes dancing in the air mixing between them. “You’re the only attending that came. It means a lot.” 

“Yeah, well.” Robby shoves a hand deep into the pocket of his coat, batting his lashes at their shoes. “Abbot’s on shift, and Shen’s probably sleeping.”

Dennis shrugs. “Still.”

“Speaking of Jack.”

Dennis says nothing, simply inhales on his cigarette. He imagines Robby knows—they’re practically best friends. He wonders if Robby knows the details, how they fooled around on the couch before Jack picked him up and carried him through his loft, taking him to bed, where Jack made him come on his fingers before they finally, finally fucked. He wonders if Robby knows about Round 2, or Round 3.

“I hear the competition’s heating up.”

“Is that what Dr. Abbot said?”

“Among other things,” Robby says with a shrug.

Dennis is so sick of the shrugging. He wouldn’t be out here in the cold bringing this shit up if he weren’t interested. He followed Dennis into this dark alley. He’s looking at him through those lashes like he’s just asking for permission. It’s out of his mouth before he realizes he’s said it: “Why do you ask?”

Robby catches him with a gaze like a laser beam. Huge, brown eyes rimmed with thick black lashes bore into his own for a searing moment. Then, Robby takes one last pull from his cigarette before flicking it down the alleyway. “Fuck it,” he says, voice gruff. 

And then Dennis is being grabbed by the front of his coat and he’s breathless trapped between the scratch of the brick wall at his back and the solid heat of Robby at his front.

Finally, every sense Dennis has screams at the touch. Robby leans down, invades his space, his lips a hair’s breath away from Dennis’ like he’s asking permission. Dennis grants it, dropping his own cigarette so he can grip his fingers into the short hair on the back of Robby’s head. Their mouths come together with a sigh. Like a valve finally releasing its pressure. Robby’s warm, square hands find Dennis’ waist, and Dennis can’t help but arch into him, wanting to feel more—all—of him.

He kisses more aggressively than Dennis would’ve expected, open-mouthed and intense, full of desire, of intent. Dennis clings to him, one hand holding onto his jacket, the other pushing through his hair. He tastes like cigarette smoke and the IPA he was drinking earlier, and he feels like sex, warm and big against Dennis, absolutely perfect. 

Robby is pinning him against the frozen wall, and he nudges Dennis’ thighs apart with his knee, shoving it between Dennis’ legs. Dennis moans into his mouth, can’t help it, and when Robby breaks the kiss Dennis’ head falls back, knocking into the bricks.

“Fuck,” he spits at the pain that vibrates from the knock of his scalp against the wall; he reaches back automatically, feeling at the back of his head.

“Lemme see,” Robby says, already backing off.

“No, I’m—it’s nothing,” he dismisses. He drags Robby close again with the hand on his jacket. “We were in the middle of something more important.”

Robby huffs a laugh. “You’ve been drinking. If you have a head injury…”

“You can look at my intact scalp under a light,” Dennis says, “back at your place.”

Robby gives him a look, but he’s still right there, nice and close, and Dennis knows he’s convinced.

**

Robby’s pretty proud of his apartment. It’s in a historic building and he can walk from his front door to the ambulance bay in under seven minutes. Ten if his back is acting up that morning. He and Whitaker make it from the bar in under that, cheeks pink from the cold and the heat they’d generated in the alley.

They’re kissing again before the door is even closed behind them. It’s hungry, eager, already different from any of the kissing Robby has done in the last few years; he can’t remember the last time he was with someone so desperate to touch him. That makes it all the more exciting, headier. He can feel Whitaker’s desire in his hands, in his kiss, in the way their bodies press together.

“Can I look at your head?”

Whitaker blinks at him. “Seriously?”

“Humor me,” he says, and steps back so he can pull off his jacket and the hoodie underneath. He quietly appreciates the way Whitaker watches him, eyes going to his shoulders, his arms. Clearly the kid likes the way he looks, or they wouldn’t be here right now.

“You’d be annoyed if someone came into the ED complaining of a bump to the head,” Whitaker tells him as he sheds his own coat. “No LOC, no blood. Skulls are stronger than ya think—”

“Uh huh,” Robby cuts him off when he starts quoting his own teaching lines at him in a mocking tone. He grabs his phone, scrolls open the flashlight. The kid huffs about it, but he turns around and lets Robby comb through his hair with his fingers. “Okay, you’re fine.”

“Told you.”

Now that he’s certain, Robby feels no qualms in dragging Whitaker close again, and slipping his hands under the kid’s weird green-with-a-touch-of-orange sweater. “You want the tour?”

Whitaker smirks, a gentle slope to his mouth. “Lead the way.”

Robby doesn’t like a lot of flashy stuff, but he has enough money that he treats himself to nice things often—and his apartment is his greatest indulgence. It’s got three bedrooms, one of which he uses as an office, and two point five bathrooms, with a huge jacuzzi tub in the main suite. It’s also got a beautiful view of the city, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and whatever fucking video game consoles Jake talked him into buying. He doesn’t spend a lot of time watching TV, but Jake’s friends seem to like the set up.

His decor is pretty…spartan. He doesn’t like clutter. But he has a nice couch and there’s some color in the dark blue curtains he has hanging up. That’s enough for him. 

He points out the kitchen and the office, the guest room, and then steers Whitaker straight into his room. He didn’t make his bed this morning, never actually does, but that’s probably better—he was probably going to push the comforter onto the floor anyway. 

“Wow,” Whitaker says, walking toward the expansive window. “That’s—quite a view.”

“Sunrise is nice,” Robby tells him.

Whitaker smiles knowingly. “I’m sure it is. Listen—have you ever—with a guy like me?”

Robby tilts his head, examining him. He seems nervous in a way he hadn’t earlier, at the bar. Robby knows what he’s asking, or at least he thinks he does. It’s not the age difference. It’s the fact that Whitaker had stuttered through coming out to him when they were debating a treatment plan for a trans patient last month. Robby thanked him for telling him. Actually, he was in a pissy mood and he thanked him for his honesty. But the truth is that Robby couldn’t fucking care less. Something flips over in his stomach, actually, at the thought of wet heat between Whitaker’s legs. (He also, for the record, has a lot of thoughts about Whitaker’s fingers; the nursing staff can’t seem to shut up about them.)

“No,” he admits. “Does that worry you?”

“Worry is a strong word. I just…” He shrugs. “Wanna make sure you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Robby tells him. He’s not that old. Even so—his age means that he’s been going to Pride longer than Whitaker’s been alive. But he knows where the fear comes from, so he shows his hands in a gesture of innocence, trying to put off an air of confidence. “Don’t worry, you’re in charge.”

“Me?” Whitaker laughs.

“Yeah. Whatever you want, I wanna do.”

Whitaker’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Really?”

“Really. Name it.”

Robby can see the way his gaze drops to his mouth, but the younger man says nothing. After only a second of hesitation, Robby strips off his shirt, tossing it toward the hamper. Maybe it’ll make Whitaker more comfortable, he thinks, if he shows some vulnerability. It works—Whitaker is pressed against him again in the drop of a hat, arms slung around his neck, kissing him like he needs it to breathe. 

One of Whitaker’s hands comes to the side of Robby’s face, adjusting the angle manually so that his mouth slides open just a millimeter more. He devours him, kissing him like he wants to climb inside his mouth. Their tongues slide deliciously against each other, the lingering taste of cigarette ash and black licorice sharp as Whitaker drags his tongue along the roof of Robby’s open mouth. It’s so impossibly filthy, it’s almost unbelievable. Robby grips into the belt loops of Whitaker’s jeans. If he lets go, he may float off like a balloon. 

He’s straining against his pants between them, his cock achingly hard against the zipper. Dennis seems to notice it at the same time he does, grinding his body up along the length of the bulge in Robby’s pants. It’s all he can do to keep kissing the boy as his deft hands wander Robby’s front, trailing over the freckled skin of his shoulders and chest. He doesn’t ask, he just works, exploring Robby’s body with slow determination until his hands dive under the softness of his belly to make quick work of his fly. 

“Oh,” Whitaker says. It’s a flat syllable. Not surprised. Not excited. Not disappointed. Anxiety spikes through Robby’s mind and he flinches hard enough for Whitaker to notice. “Oh, no. I mean yes. Yes, please.” The kid winces at his own choice of words and it makes Robby chuckle. It’s cute. He’s fucking cute. 

“What?” he asks. 

“I just didn’t expect the whole going commando thing,” Whitaker says, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Robby can’t help himself. He cups the side of his head with his palm and traces a thumb over the redness of his cheeks. He’d been wondering how warm it made him. He’s feverish under Robby’s touch, pulse quickening. 

“I don’t normally,” Robby admits. He’d thought—well, it was a fucking dumb med school superstition. But his old roommate used to skip underwear when he wanted to get lucky. He figured he’d weigh the odds in favor of himself so when he’d gotten out of the shower, he’d forgone his usual briefs. 

A wicked grin spreads across Whitaker’s face. It’s devious. Dark. It makes his cock twitch. 

“You could have just asked,” he says. His eyes meet Robby’s as he reaches between them. His hand is cold compared to the blood heat and Robby hisses, gritting his teeth at the sudden touch. “I’ve wanted—for a while.” 

“Yeah?” 

“God, yes. Robby—I mean—”

“Robby is fine.” He can’t believe they’re having this conversation now, but they would have had to have it eventually. He just kind of wants to get it over with so the kid will stroke him again. 

“Dennis,” he says. Then he does squeeze his fingers, pulling the velvety skin up in a long, glorious tug before sliding it back down in another warm squeeze. He knows what he’s doing. Just like everyone said. And if he keeps looking at Robby like that he’s not going to last much longer. 

“Dennis,” he repeats. It’s oddly formal in that way that only doctors and sailors and military personnel understand. It’s personal. 

“Robby,” he parrots. “Is this okay?” 

Robby’s breath hitches as Dennis twists his fist skillfully and pumps at him from a different angle. It feels deliciously good, making Robby’s toes curl in his sneakers. Which he somehow still has on.

“Maybe—bed?” Dennis says, and if Robby weren’t in his fifties maybe he would’ve scooped the kid up and dumped him on the mattress. But he has a herniated disc and an order from a grumpy physical therapist not to do any dramatic lifting, so instead he nods and nudges the younger man toward the bed, while he kicks off his shoes and strips off his jeans.

Dennis follows suit, scrambling out of his clothes as he makes himself comfortable on Robby’s bed. He’s stunning, all pale smooth skin and whispers of dirty blond body hair, subtly strong muscles that Robby aches to touch. Robby’s mouth waters as he drinks in the lines of his body, the shape of his thighs, the darker patch of pubic hair between his legs.

“You waiting for an invitation?” Dennis teases.

Robby finds himself kneeling on the mattress before he’s even consciously chosen to move. “Make a decision yet?” he asks, hand cautiously trailing up the downy hair on the inside of Dennis’ thigh.

“Ages ago,” Dennis says. “Get up here so I can play with your dick.”

It hits Robby like lightning, all the blood in his body moving south at once. He crawls up Dennis’ body, fitting between the boy’s legs as he brings their mouths together into another blistering kiss. Their heated skin meets in new places that were covered with clothes before. He’s so warm. Robby feels the sweat beading on his forehead already, but he anchors his hands into the mattress on either side of Dennis' head and kisses him senseless. 

Dennis wraps his legs around the back of Robby’s thighs, clinging to him desperately. His hips buck into bare air, blindly seeking any kind of friction. Hands find Robby’s neck, fingernails scraping down his back. 

He’s all but forgotten his age as Dennis sucks on his tongue. But then Dennis clings too hard. He uses Robby’s spine for leverage to lift himself off the mattress and a twinge starts in Robby’s lower back. He powers through, focusing on the task at hand. But then the twinge shoots down his right leg like a bullet and he gasps in sudden pain.

Dennis retracts immediately, hands held in front of his face shakily. “What? I’m sorry. What did I do?” 

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Robby hides the pain from showing on his face as he drags himself off the bed, limping across the floor. He presses one of his hands deep into the portion of his lower back that’s out of whack. He’s not as young as he used to be, but to be perfectly fair this isn’t the first time he’d hurt his back during sex. He’s hunched over sideways and wincing in pain, but Dennis doesn’t skip a beat. 

“Do you need help laying down?” Dennis is sitting up now, a look of concern on his face. He’s got a knee bent like he’s posing for a painting. 

And Robby probably could use a strong arm to hang on to for a counter balance as he lays down with his head propped against the pillows stacked against his headboard but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit it. So he clings to Dennis, accepting his help, and drinks him in with his eyes as he settles, fighting the groan of pleasure as he relieves the pressure on his bones. Dennis’ pale skin glows in the light of the city that filters through his windows. There are thin, silvery scars stretching underneath each pectoral muscle, almost faded away into nothing. The muscles of his arms and abs are defined and moving with each breath he takes. Robby briefly thinks that he needs to drink more water. But they can worry about that later. 

“How about you come here?” he asks, jerking his head to beckon Dennis forward. 

He doesn’t miss a beat. Robby doesn’t have a spare moment to try and wallow in his age and frailty because Dennis is there and he’s dragging his tongue over one of Robby’s nipples. He hisses, sinking a hand into the soft hair at the back of Dennis’ head, holding on as he rolls the hardness gently along the edges of his teeth. He settles his weight between Robby’s thighs and he spreads them apart to make room. 

Dennis slides down his body, achingly slow, trailing kisses and lingering bites down Robby’s quivering stomach. He noses at the round indent of his navel before going further south, placing an open mouthed kiss on the right seam of Robby’s thigh. The sensitive skin being too well explored spreads goosebumps up Robby’s arms. He finds Dennis’ head again, cupping the back of his head as he laps at the spot, only drawing closer to his cock inch by fucking inch. There’s a smirk on Dennis’ face when he finally licks a line along the vein pulsing under Robby’s length, drawing a groan deep from his chest. One of Dennis’ arms fling upwards, squeezing at one of Robby’s pecs as he adjusts his angle and swallows Robby down to the root.

God, his throat is so hot and tight. The thick, blunt head of Robby’s length hits the back  of the muscle and it contracts, just for a moment. Dennis makes a surprised noise, then exhales into a satisfied hum that vibrates all the way through Robby’s body. He spreads one hand against Robby’s hip and drags the other down his stomach before taking hold of the base of his cock. He pulls all the way back, the wetness of his mouth glistening on his lips and on the plummy thickness for just a moment before he bobs his head again, skillfully moving his hand along with the rhythm he’s set.

Robby throws back his head, surrendering to the onslaught. He can’t bear to watch or he won’t be able to keep it together very long. He’s already fucking weak to it, pleasure twisting in his spine with every passing second, every slurp and sound Dennis makes. This kind of skill comes with obvious practice, Robby knows—Dennis can read every sign thrown at him, chasing each moan of pleasure and easing back from touches that force the air out from behind Robby’s teeth. 

When Robby feels Dennis’ throat constrict around his cock this time, sparks flash behind his eyelids, his breath catching. And Dennis just keeps going, keeps swallowing, moans around him as if he’s getting off on this. Robby can’t help it, has to slip a hand into his hair so that he can feel his movements; he ends up cupping the back of Dennis’ neck, worried that if he holds onto the boy’s hair too tight he’ll end up choking him. And the thought—the thought makes him even harder, shame and arousal swirling in his gut.

The white hot pleasure building from the base of his spine takes over before he has a chance to damper it, to stretch this out just that much longer. Dennis swallows just the right way and Robby gasps with a buck of his hips, coming down the back of Dennis’ throat with a short shout. 

He takes it. Dennis doesn’t jerk away or sputter. He flicks his eyes upwards, along the line of Robby’s body and watches, content and hungry as he swallows, throat constricting even tighter against Robby’s twitching dick. 

“Oh, holy fuck,” he hears himself say.

A sparky aftershock rockets through his entire body. Dennis stays with him, gently stroking as Robby rides the waves of his intense orgasm. He’s sweating. His sheets are sticking to the backs of his thighs and he feels wrung out and overheated. And all he wants to do is get his mouth on this boy to return the favor. Dennis releases him from the seal of his lips with a messy, wet pop. The overabundance of saliva and other fluids spills onto Robby’s thighs and drips to his sheets. Dennis wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, a guilty expression blooming on his pink face. 

Then Robby has a thought. 

“That was—” He starts and stops. He knows it’s not what he means to say and he’s been working on this in therapy. He swallows and clears his throat and he’s just as pink as the kid by the time he musters up the words. “Good job, Dennis. You took me so well.” 

If he could frame the look that passes over the kid’s face and put it on display in one of those fancy kink galleries down town, he’d make a million fucking bucks. It’s an expression so full of lust it could knock lesser men to their knees. His normally pale blue eyes darken like the sky before a storm. Robby watches the column of his throat as he swallows. He’ll see that image behind his eyelids for the rest of his fucking life. He’ll get off to it in the shower. He’ll want to make it happen again. 

“Yeah?” Dennis’ voice is raw when he answers. Strained and scraping and heavy with need. 

“Yeah,” Robby encourages. And because it seems to be working for the kid, he adds, “You’re so good for me. Can I make you feel good?” 

“Yeah,” he says again, this time the tone is different. “God, yes.” 

“C’mere,” Robby says, holding out a hand. “Your turn.”

When Dennis scrambles into his lap and meets him in a kiss, Robby can taste himself on the boy’s tongue. Salt and musk and the malingering acidity of the amount of coffee he drinks a day. In a valiant attempt at rallying, his cock twitches weakly against his thigh. Now that could turn out to be dangerous in the future. He wants to do everything with this kid. Wants to see how many places on his body he can turn pink. Wants to see what noises he can coax out of him. Wants to see if the rest of him tastes like licorice. 

Ask for what you want, Robinovitch. 

“Let me taste you.” He’s speaking before Dennis is through kissing him and their teeth knock together. Dennis leans their foreheads together, the both of them panting in the humidity of the bedsheets. “I want to put my mouth on you. Here.” He leverages his leg strength to scoot them both further down the bed and swings an arm behind himself to knock down the pile of pillows he’d been propped on like a princess. He leans back, flat. 

“Robby,” Dennis says. Like it’s a warning. Like he can’t believe his luck. 

“Your throne.” Robby’s punch drunk, grinning like a fucking baffoon as he pats gently at his chest. He can be fun. He’s a fun guy. He’s had fun sex with fun men and he’s just as good with his mouth as he is with his hands. And that’s pretty fucking good considering all the lives he’s saved. A sudden second wind races through Robby’s veins and he feels like a fucking kid. “You’re going to sit on my face,” he states. “I’m going to make you come your brains out. At least once.”

A nervous raspberry of a laugh sprays from Dennis’ lips and then the both of them are laughing, nerves evaporating into giggles for a moment before Robby gathers his cool again. 

“Are you going to make me ask again?” Robby cocks an eyebrow. He’s still grinning, eyes sparkling at Dennis in the dim light. 

There isn’t any production to it. Dennis wraps himself around Robby’s shoulders like a precious necklace, fitting his knees carefully. He’s gentle. Careful of his limbs and the balance of his weight in the soft give of the pillow top of Robby’s very expensive, orthopedic mattress. Robby wraps his hands into the firm meat of Dennis’ backside, pulling him in. 

“Don’t be shy,” he says against the silky soft skin of Dennis’ inner thigh. “Not done this a lot, huh?”

“Not like this,” Dennis says. “Definitely not like this.”

Robby grins to himself. “Closer,” he encourages. “Don’t worry, I can take it.”

The younger man curses under his breath but he goes where Robby puts him, settling against Robby’s chin. And Robby—is starving. He’s so fucking hungry for Dennis that he feels like he might die if he doesn’t taste the boy right fucking now.

Dennis seems nervous at first, unsure how to settle, but Robby can feel when his spine just melts—it’s right around the moment Robby sucks his cute little cock between his lips, wanting to know what kind of sounds Dennis would make in response. The answer is a series of breathy mewls, which Robby responds to with his own vocal satisfaction, fingers digging into the backs of Dennis’ thighs, holding him close.

“Fuck,” Dennis sighs, a hand pushing into Robby’s hair. “God, you’re good at this—I wanna—I wanna write poetry about your mouth, oh my God.”

Part of Robby wishes they had more time, wishes that he had more energy, more strength to throw Dennis around and fuck him the way he wants to. But maybe that’s for later, if he’s lucky. Maybe he’ll awake refreshed and revitalized in the morning and he can fold Dennis in half before breakfast—that sounds pretty fucking fun. Right now, he’s enjoying the taste of him, the silkiness of his pretty cunt, the way his cock twitches on Robby’s tongue.

“Can you—” Dennis cuts off with a moan, a shudder going through him. “Fuck, can you use your fingers? Inside?”

Robby hurries to comply, shifting a bit so he has room to ease a finger past his chin and into where Dennis is open and wet, the muscle reacting deliciously to the intrusion. A second finger is just as easy, and he knows just how to curl them, how to make Dennis feel good, even though he doesn’t have the best leverage in this position. It hardly seems to matter, since Dennis is grinding faster against his tongue, hips rolling in a frantic tempo, almost bouncing on his fingers; the whole thing is so fucking erotic that Robby can’t help but lose himself in it, eyes slipping closed.

When Dennis starts to come, Robby knows it first from the way his thighs tremble, and then from the sound he makes, bright and sharp and unlike anything else that Robby’s heard come out of his mouth tonight. He can feel it in the way Dennis clenches around him, the way he shudders and shakes and gasps, and then the way he goes limp and relaxed.

Robby can’t help grinning to himself, proud. He doesn’t even care that it’s cocky.

“Christ,” Dennis mutters once he’s recovered, settling beside Robby on the bed on his back, shoulder to shoulder. They both stare at the ceiling for a dazed moment, the world coming back to them piece by piece. “That was…”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” He turns toward Robby. “It was for me.”

“It was good for me too,” Robby assures him. “Next time you can teach me what you like.”

Eyes wide, Dennis huffs a little self-conscious laugh. “Next time?”

“Sure. If you want.” Robby crosses his arms behind his head. “How many points does this get you?”

Dennis grins, cheeky. “At least a handful,” he admits. 

“Huh.” Robby huffs a little. He figured he’d be worth double. 

**

Waking up next to Dr. Robby isn’t as weird as Dennis would’ve predicted. Especially since it involves more sex, including Robby making him come in his fuck-off big shower, pinning him to the glass wall and driving him absolutely fucking insane with his fingers. The man is a menace, and Dennis is incredibly appreciative.

It’s mid-morning by the time Dennis actually makes it back to the apartment, feeling more than a little bit worn out. He’d left Robby’s apartment building with a borrowed umbrella and a lingering kiss that earned a warning cough from the complex’s doorman, and on the trip home on public transit he’d done a lot of thinking. He doesn’t really need this thing anymore. This fuck fest. He’s actually kind of tired of being treated like some kind of emergency department bicycle. The new year is just around the corner, and if he does another rotation in the ED, he’ll have a reputation that precedes him. He’s got hospitals to match with and jobs to get.

He’s prepared a speech for Trinity for when he opens the front door. He’s got it fully rehearsed in his head and he’s absently moving his mouth along to the inner dialogue he has planned when he turns the key in the lock. He’s got to come at this carefully. If there’s any form of teasing, Trinity will take it as a challenge and they’ll be trapped in this loop forever. He thinks he’s thought through all of his counter arguments when the door swings open, sunlight filtering into their tiny, dirty living room. 

At first, nothing appears to be different. The living room is the way it always is, unkempt and covered with jackets, books, medical journals, shoes, piles and piles of throw pillows. Dennis doesn’t even know anything is off until he’s standing in the kitchen, drinking from a chilled bottle of Powerade, and Trinity’s bedroom door opens.

“Shit,” Dr. Ellis says, pausing in the doorway. Her dreads are loose around her shoulders and all she’s wearing is an oversized jazz festival T-shirt. His jazz festival T-shirt that had been missing for weeks from his laundry basket. “Hey, uh…” She pauses sheepishly. 

Dennis manfully resists the urge to grin, keeping his face neutral. “Whitaker. Dennis,” he says, politely. 

Trinity appears behind Ellis’ shoulder, beaming. Dennis is certain that the expression is deserved.

“Right,” Ellis says. “Hey. Sorry.” 

She closes the door again, and Dennis can hear two voices speaking in hushed tones, hear footsteps and laughter. When they emerge again a couple of minutes later, Ellis is wearing a hoodie and jeans and she waves at him before heading for the door. Trinity follows, and the two of them stand outside the front door for a minute, probably saying goodbye.

When she comes back into the apartment, she’s wearing a smug expression. Dennis can relate.

“Congrats,” he tells her.

“Senior residents are worth more than the other residents,” Trinity reminds him, coming to sit at the kitchen counter. She swipes his Powerade, taking a glug.

“Actually, I was gonna ask you—my ED rotation’s up next week. So, we’re probably calling the whole thing quits soon, right?”

Trinity shrugs, nods. “Sure, Huckleberry. No point in dragging it on too much longer, huh? On the topic, though—whose bed did you end up in?” She’s grinning as if she already knows the answer; Dennis wonders if someone saw them leave together, maybe even saw them kissing.

“You know,” he accuses.

“I don’t, I swear,” she laughs. “I sent someone to go get you so we could do another shot and you were gone.”

He can’t help but blush a little, not quite embarrassed but maybe a little overwhelmed just by the memory of his night. “I left with Dr. Robby.”

Trinity’s whole face changes, her expression going from lighthearted curiosity to complete shock. “Shut the fuck up. You’re kidding. Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Dennis confirms. “He’s got a great apartment.”

“Well, sure. You know, I’m really interested in his choice in interior design,” she says dismissively. “What about the fucking?”

He grins, more than a little self-satisfied. “That was great too.”

“Okay, hold the fuck up.” She shoots to her feet, going to the fridge. “We don’t have prosecco so not actually mimosas, but—yes!” She grabs a jug of orange juice and a bottle of tequila. “Hair of the dog?”

He shrugs out of his jacket. “Just one,” he says. It’s back to the night shift the night after next and he should really try to change his routine anyway. What's a little tequila first thing in the morning?

Thirty minutes later, they’re both strewn on the couch, yelling at each other with grins on their faces. He’s put some YouTube mix of ambient club music on in the background and Santos is filling their cups again. They’ve been trading details back and forth—Trinity takes great delight in bragging about the way Ellis basically fucked her against a wall—and Dennis is smiling up at the ceiling as he tells her about his night.

“And then,” he says with great drama, “he patted his chest and said, ‘Your throne.’”

Trinity groans enthusiastically. “Okay, I’m choosing to believe that's a lie for my own sanity. How are you even going to look at him tomorrow?”

“I’m off tomorrow.” He raises his half full cup to the ceiling in triumph. “That’s a problem for future Dennis.” 

“To future Dennis.” Trinity taps the edge of her cup against his and the two of them down the remaining dregs.