whitaker seeks validation from robby from the beginning, wants his praise, wants to impress him. every time robby gives him a nod of approval or tells him he's done well, whitaker gets a rush of satisfaction and adrenaline like a dopamine hit. he craves it, constantly chasing the next good job, kid as if it's a drug.
it's a broken record in his mind every time the words fall from robby's lips. you did well. good job. that was some save. don't sweat the small stuff, you're doing great. good job. keep up the hard work. nice catch. good job. after each compliment, whitaker nods and hides his pleased smile and tries not to sound like a hopelessly pining idiot when he replies thank you, captain.
after a particularly stressful experience with a patient that involves a lot of blood and bones sticking out of places they shouldn't be, whitaker is changing his scrubs for the second time that day when robby strides over, places his hand warm and firm and solid on the back of whitaker's neck, and says, "that was a lot in there. you okay?"
whitaker shrugs, his mouth forming an awkward sideways smile of its own accord. he never really knows what to say when people ask him that, especially in moments like this. he's exhausted and covered in blood and rethinking his career choice on a weekly basis and lusting over his attending on like ten different levels, but yeah, he supposes he's okay.
"i'm fine," he says eventually, and it's basically the truth.
he's okay, yes, until robby nods back, pats him once on the shoulder, and seals his fate without warning.
eyes wide and unblinking, whitaker watches robby cross the floor to check in with dana or samira or someone, who the hell knows, whitaker sure doesn't because his fucking boss just called him a good boy and how is he supposed to focus on anything else after that? he is suddenly extremely and uncomfortably turned on in the middle of the ptmc, and this is so not the time or the place but if whitaker doesn't get off right away immediately now he might actually die.
he locks himself in a bathroom stall and replays robby's voice in his head, low and rough and unfairly sexy, fuck, why did he say it like that? good boy. whitaker bites his lip, strokes himself hard and fast because he doesn't have time for this, goddammit. if anyone knew what he was up to, if anyone came in and heard-
if robby heard. if robby saw. if robby joined him, helped him out... it doesn't take long before whitaker is close, free hand sealed over his own mouth to keep himself quiet, and he feels like such a pervert for what he's doing, for what he's thinking about while he does it, but he's there, he's right on the edge, he's going to come-
the bathroom door opens. dennis freezes, his orgasm retreating as quickly as it crept up, slamming him back down to earth in a single instant. fuck his life.
"whitaker? you in here, kid?"
whitaker fucking hates the way his cock twitches a little when robby calls him kid, jesus christ, this is miserable. he takes a deep breath.
"uh, yeah, um- just, just needed a second," he calls back shakily. "sorry, just a second."
"you sure you're alright?"
"yeah, no, i swear, all good," he insists, trying to telepathically convince robby to leave through sheer willpower. his hand is still on his traitorous dick, for fuck's sake. he can't catch a break. "just- had to piss, and...yeah. so. i'm good."
"okay," robby relents. "you got sixty seconds to get back out there. i'm timing you."
oh, good. fucking awesome. sixty seconds to picture the most unsexy things he can think of and pray to anybody listening that it turns him off, and he already knows it's not going to work because he can still hear it. good boy. this sucks, it fucking sucks, and now he has to go back on the floor and act like he hadn't just been seconds away from coming all over himself because of robby fucking robinavitch.
it bears repeating: fuck his stupid gay life.
