˚₊ · »-♡→ Short one-shot, written intentionally vague (gn friendly)
˚₊ · »-♡→ Inspired because a friend awoke the dormant medplay beast inside of me that’s been neglected
˚₊ · »-♡→ Never wrote a fic like this but this was really self indulgent so
The lights don’t flicker. They don’t even buzz. They’re even warm—in their quarters anyways.
It’s not like they’re kept here against their will. Why would they need to be? When the Dr gives them the freedom to leave, why would they take it when they get everything they could want or need?
The Dr even warns them before the experimental treatments. They keeps them well fed, lets them do whatever they want! There’s only three rules.
Always allow the Dr to run their experiments
Eat food for the strength you’ll need
Never fight against the restraints, they’re there for your safety.
The Dr never hurts them. Even the needles don’t hurt that bad! And it’s always with the promise to make them better than any other. To make them more successful, stronger, whatever they want to be they’ll be able to be.
As long as they follow the last rule—the unwritten one.
Always trust the Dr.
When the experiments work, they feel great! Every desired outcome, every craving satiated for a temporary period.
The Dr hasn’t made a permanently altering one yet, but they trust that one day he will.
Sometimes the Dr runs tests that have nothing to do with their desires, but who are they to complain? When the Dr makes them so happy all the time. So strong, and so skilled.
Who are they to complain when the Dr’s test fails, and they get hurt. But it’s okay, because they’ll get the comfort they’ll need.
Soft whispers of “it’ll be okay”
and
“You’re so strong…my greatest success..”
And then the Dr always gives them medicine! Which makes them feel better, and by the time they wake up they’re back to normal
Occasionally they leave the lab together, and they’re even allowed to talk to people! Allowed to go wherever and get whatever they want!
The Dr always lets them pick out whatever they want to eat, or whatever they want from the store.
So why would they leave?
Even when the Dr gets mad at them and locks them in their room, the Dr always comes back, apologizes, and gives them a treat.
And it’s such a good treat! It makes them all happy and giggly, and by the time they’re back to normal they’ve forgotten all about why they were locked away in the first place.
The Dr assures them that their family doesn’t miss them. Even when they saw their missing poster, the Dr assured them it was their family manipulating the masses for fame.
So the Dr promised to make them a star.
Every new experiment made them better. They never questioned how the surgeries worked—they didn’t care. Cause the Dr always assured them that it was completely safe.
And while they were healing, the Dr would hold them, and offer endless praises.
“It was a success…you taught me a lot.”
“Your new voice will be beautiful..”
“You are healing faster than normal—the experiment worked.”
There was a file cabinet of every experiment and test ever done. Sorted into failures and successes.
When their new voice box was in, and they could finally talk again after months, the Dr praised them so much.
“Your voice sounds great…the transplant worked.”
Sure, it was experimental. But they couldn’t argue with results.
The Dr would even take them to work sometimes. They would sit on the floor beside the Dr, listening on conversations they didn’t understand because all they could focus on was their Dr.
The others that would come through were always labeled with numbers, but not them. They were the Dr’s favorite. So they got a name.
They even wore that name on a collar.
They don’t even remember the name they had when they first met the Dr. They don’t even remember the first time they met the Dr!
But they were assured that the Dr saved them from certain death, and that’s why there was such bad gaps in their memory.
So even when the door is unlocked, and they could easily leave, they stay. Surrounded by jars with strange fluids and objects, and needles and notes.
˚₊ · »-♡→ CW for: Implied smut (not detailed), ‘problematic’ ship, age gap (both of age ofc)
˚₊ · »-♡→ The length of this got away from me, and I did ~5 hours of research on Broken Bow Nebraska. This IS accurate to real life.
˚₊ · »-♡→ The setup for this (Robby being in Broken Bow accidentally) came from @slowburnsaint ! She’s my best friend so I’m bias but she has some great fics
Robby was in absolutely no rush to get anywhere.
That’s why he was already enjoying his sabbatical so much more than anyone—even he—suspected he would.
3 months. No strict timeline…no deadlines…no door to balloon times…no Press Ganey scores…just peace.
Him, his motorcycle, and the open road. For three, unplanned months. He had a final destination—and a few stops he wanted to make specifically. But outside of those? Completely unplanned.
Specializing in emergency medicine made him really good at playing it by ear. Made him good at going with the flow, and taking things by stride.
So when he ended up in a small half undeveloped town in Nebraska, he was completely fine with it. He actually liked it—if he wasn’t practically married to the bleach and alcohol of the ED he’d move himself to a town very similar to this one.
It’s not like there was much tying him to Pittsburgh.
So instead he was enjoying a Mint Chocolate Chip Dairy Queen Blizzard, sitting under a nice umbrella and listening to the birds chirping. Robby would much rather listen to birds chirp than heart monitors.
Because here, he wasn’t an attending. He wasn’t liable for someone’s death. He wasn’t in harm’s way if another combative junkie came in throwing fists and bodily fluids like it was a full time job.
Here, he was just Michael Robinavitch.
And Dennis was just Dennis. That’s why nobody questioned it when they saw him fixing Mrs. Walker’s flat tire on the side of Paulsen Road.
Because he was just Dennis. A well known, good meaning boy that went further than anyone expected. Because someone born on the farms here rarely left. So when he came back, everyone was happy to see him. Just Dennis.
Not Dr. Whitaker, the young intern known for being in new scrubs every hour. Not Huckleberry, known for being victim number two of Trinity Santos’ nicknames.
Just Dennis. The farmboy that worked tirelessly, and was always willing to help anyone he could in any way. He was less manly than his brothers, in some ways. He preferred being clean-shaven, and he didn’t enjoy beer and football games. He’d rather have a margarita at brunch with his elderly neighbor’s book club, but he’d have to leave early because it was time to milk the cows.
So when a rugged looking kid wearing scuffed Levi’s and broken-in workboots—covered in oil slicks and grease—walked up to the window to order Mrs. Walker lunch…no one questioned it.
Not even Robby, at first.
He’d seen plenty of working men in the past. Blue collar men that did something they either enjoyed or were just good at, just trying to enjoy that moment of peace they had between clients.
Until he recognized that dirty blond mullet. The one Trinity forced Dennis to let grow, because she insisted it made him look less like a kicked puppy.
And he recognized the deftness of those hands as they handed over a bag and cup to a nice old lady, who looked enamored by the young man’s kindness.
And then he heard the old lady speak: “Thank you so much Dennis…you’ve always been a sweet boy.” Her smile was deep, one that lived many years but still reached her eyes like she still had faith in humanity.
Maybe it was because this small town had many people like Dennis.
Maybe it was just because this small town had Dennis.
“It’s really no problem, Mrs. Walker. I wouldn’t let a young lady such as yourself change a tire on her own, after all!” His smile was just as wide. He seemed so much more relaxed in this environment than in the ER.
Though, Robby would be the first to admit how difficult it is; being relaxed in the ER is an impossible feat some days.
“Flattery will get you everywhere with me, dear,” Mrs. Walker said, tapping the young man’s cheek. “Come by my house later—I’ll have a fresh batch of cookies with your name on them!” She chirped.
And then she was off, beckoning to everyone sitting outside the Dairy Queen that they have a spectacular day. It was more of a command than a suggestion.
Robby didn’t realize he’d been staring so intently until his eyes burned. Had he not even blinked?
“Dr. Robby?” The voice was hesitant, like it was responding to the sudden appearance of an angel and not an ordinary man. Robby snapped out of his staring spell, blinking up at the young man, who was now standing closer to the table.
“Just Michael, please…I’m not a doctor for another two and a half months. What are you doing here, Whitaker?” Robby responded, pushing his forgotten blizzard aside. It was starting to hurt his teeth, anyway. He definitely didn’t need a large.
“If you’re just Michael then just call me Dennis. Or Denny works, too…most people here call me Denny.” Dennis responded, slipping into the bench on the other side of the table without prompting.
He seemed much more confident here.
Because this was his turf. In the ER, Robby was supreme…not counting Gloria. But here, Dennis was in his element. The streets he grew up on—he got his first job at this Dairy Queen. He didn’t need to be prompted to do things here. He just…did them.
Robby liked that.
“Okay…then call me Mike and I’ll call you Denny.” Robby responded, smiling faintly. “But still…why the hell are you here?”
“I’ve had this time off approved for months—it’s my mothers birthday this weekend so she and my dad are goin’ off. Wanted someone they deemed responsible on the farm for the week.” Dennis responds. running his hands through his hair. Robby notices the sweat lining his hairline and arms, the same way it does when he does chest compressions for too long hoping for impossible resurrection.
Here, Dennis seems far less anxiety ridden than normal.
“Aren’t you the youngest?” Robby inquires, chuckling, both at the absurdity of running into his subordinate 17 and a half hours from his place of work.
“Still the most mature.” Dennis smirks, rolling his eyes. A moment of somewhat awkward silence stretches. Because Robby doesn’t know how to progress the conversation from there.
“What drew you to Broken Bow of all places?” Dennis asks, resting his elbows on the table.
“Just passing through, really. Not really following a set path to my destination, and I wanted ice cream.” Robby shrugs, gesturing to his half consumed Blizzard.
“Alberta, right?” The younger man tilts his head. “Heard you talking about it with Abbot before you left. Pretty place.”
“You’ve been?”
“Well…no,” Dennis looked away, a faint pink dusting his cheek that he swears is just from the heat. “Did some research on it though. Beautiful mountains—kinda reminds me of the Rocky’s in the beauty part.”
“The Rockys sure are a sight to behold.” Robby agrees, smiling faintly.
The silence resumes.
The birds are quieter now—or maybe Robby is just so focused on Dennis and his uneven breathing that he can’t hear the intense chirping.
“You sticking around for long? Not much to do here.” Dennis finally speaks, looking back to Robby with now perfectly normal cheeks.
“Eh, maybe. Was considering gettin’ a hotel. Plenty of daylight left, though. Is there anything to do in this town?”
“Ha! No…nothing at all,” Robby noted how similar that laugh was to Dana’s. “All there is is parks, Dollar Generals, and this small business district. Besides that, just the farms.” Dennis smirked, shaking his head. Broken Bow wasn’t even lucky enough to have a Walmart.
Just a couple Dollar Generals.
“Might kick out early then…not much use in wasting daylight in a boring town.” Robby immediately felt bad for calling Dennis’ home boring. “Sorry that was rude.”
Dennis actually laughed at that. “Not gonna get upset because you’re stating a fact.” The young man chuckled. But for some reason, he felt sad at the thought of Robby leaving so soon. The same sadness he felt when he was first told Robby was leaving for three whole months.
“If you want…” Dennis trailed off, because he only processed what he was gonna offer halfway through the sentence. But he was already halfway there, and he never was one to quit. “I could give you a little tour of the boringness I grew up in. Maybe show you the farm, if you want?”
Robby raised an eyebrow at that, his mind immediately going to the ethical concerns Gloria would reem him over if she were to hear that sentence.
But he’s not Dr. Robinavitch here. And this isn’t Dr. Whitaker. This is Michael and Dennis. And Gloria is 17 hours away, still stressed about patient satisfaction.
Michael couldn’t care less about anyone’s satisfaction here—except for his own. And Dennis’ apparently.
Dennis’ mind immediately went to the social implications of taking his boss—whom is 20 years his senior—on what could definitely be interpreted as a date around his hometown. Ending at his family farm that has been such for generations.
What would Trinity say? She’d probably cheer him on, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge. And she was all he had so…no one to object to the idiotic plan.
Therefore the plan must be a good one.
Logical.
“If you’re offering…sure. Though I’m not sure how much there is to see here.” Robby joked, gesturing to the rather simple main strip of Broken Bow.
“Well…the farm is probably the most interesting. Sure you can handle it, Mr. Steril?” Dennis responded, his earlier trepidation at his own resolve instantly disappearing. He would not admit to himself that he was more eager to show Robby around than he would be most others.
“Excuse you!” Robby forced an offended face, but the amused expression in his eyes gave him away. “I’m plenty used to a non-sterile environment—thank you very much.”
“You practically live in the ER, Mike.” Dennis deadpanned.
“Irrelevant.”
“Uh-huh..”
Dennis stood, and Robby followed with all the eagerness of a kid touring a firetruck. Though no one would be able to tell with how placid he seemed.
After a short struggle of loading Robby’s Bonneville into the bed of Dennis’ truck, the two were already climbing into the cabin of the small vehicle.
It was nothing fancy. At all. An old, beat-up pickup that Dennis found abandoned and restored on his own after getting permission from the presumed owner. He pretty much rebuilt the whole thing, save for the engine and transmission which he had an actual mechanic help with.
“This is why smaller trucks are better. Never would have gotten that thing into a 150.” Dennis said, cranking the engine.
“Do all farmers hate big trucks? Don’t think I’ve heard you people do anything but talk shit about them..” Robby joked, forgoing the seatbelt because it wouldn’t help in an old truck like this anyways.
“First of all, not a farmer…I’m a farm-boy. There’s a difference…”
Dennis took Robby on a very short drive around the small, empty town he called home for his entire pre-college life. The conversation was easy, and the two didn’t have to mention the ER or work even once to keep it going. Instead talking about the places Dennis did stupid things as a kid.
They talked about where Dennis had his first kiss—and then the spot not far away where he washed his mouth out in Mud Creek because he hated it.
They talked about where he jumped off a playscape and broke his first bone—his middle finger. Which is why it always looked a little crooked when flipping someone off.
Because on a farm you can’t not haul hay just because you broke a finger.
Dennis showed Robby both the Dollar Generals, and explained that one was better for snacks and one was better for a quick stop for basic necessities.
He showed the Town Square, where there was a park that was just a tad more used than the rest.
He showed him the Chinese Restaurant that he and his family ate at every Christmas Eve—because it was a tradition that started when he accidentally caught a turkey on fire.
And then they were following the bump dirt road to the Whitaker Family Farm, where his great great great grandfather built the barn himself. Since then it has been repaired so much that it could be compared to The Ship of Theseus.
“Fell off that barn once—landed in a pile of hay so I was fine. It was a doozy though.” Dennis explains as he pulls them past it up to the front of the farmhouse.
A simple, two floor house. It was large though. Large enough for Dennis and his three brothers to always be causing mayhem. Large enough for large get-togethers where everyone would bring a platter of something to share and half the guests would be drunk in the fields by 7PM.
“Why were you on the barn to begin with?” Robby questioned, dismissing the whole slew of potential injuries that could cause.
“Needed a quiet place to just…chill, I guess.”
“On the barn?” There was a brief pause between each of his words, like Robby was questioning a new section of his interns sanity with each word spoken.
“Brothers wouldn’t have thought to look there—they still think I’m too much of a pussy to do something that reckless.” Dennis snorts, shaking his head. Robby was just taken aback by the fact that, before now, he’s never heard Dennis cuss.
Dennis’ home was different than Robby expected. Or rather, more different than he assumed. He didn’t know what to expect. He’d assumed there would be the traditional Hollywood style country home—with a buckhead and rifle on every wall.
He didn’t expect the wall of crosses to be the first thing he saw when he entered.
He remembered Dennis saying something about not being religious even though he knew the religious texts. He remembered Dennis reciting that text the day of the Pittfest shooting.
Dennis didn’t remove his dirt-ridden shoes, so Robby didn’t remove his as he followed the man through the house.
Dennis was reeling internally the entire time. He noticed how Robby’s hand slid up the railing as they walked up the stairs, and how the older man’s fingers curled around the doorknob that led into Dennis’ childhood bedroom.
It was nothing impressive. Posters on the wall of various alternative bands from his intense emo phase in high school—the music taste never left but Dennis no longer wore strictly black outfits and chains and spikes.
A small desk, with an old laptop. An old memory foam mattress with a dent in the center that made it seem like Dennis slept in a ball.
Dennis did sleep in a ball.
Curled up like a puppy, as Trinity described it.
“It’s pretty bleak in here.” Robby said. Dennis couldn’t immediately decipher if his superior was judging or just making an observation.
Silently, he hoped it was the latter.
“Yeah…I never spent much time in here. Never cared to decorate much.” Dennis snorted, looking around the room. His eyes landed on the poster of a figure skater that was definitely his gay awakening.
“It’s very you.” Robby added, nodding. Dennis would interpret that to mean he’s bleak if it was said in any other tone. Instead, Robby’s tone was more…almosr affectionate.
Dennis could feel his heartbeat in his ears.
The tour continued. Dennis showed him the various rooms of the house, explained in brief memories the many scuffs and holes and cracks in the walls.
Robby asked questions like he was genuinely invested, and Dennis wanted to answer every single one if it meant Robby would say another word.
He’d tell this man his social security number and bank information if it meant Robby would continue talking to him in that tone that was so much different than the one he used when hovering over a fresh GSW.
By now, it was nearing 5:30. Dennis’ brothers weren’t home—the three of them went off to spend the weekend getting shitfaced a few towns over. Dennis couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed because he was home alone with his boss.
He was sure the priest at his old church would drown him in holy water for where that line of thought ended.
“You hungry? It’s about dinner time!” Dennis chirped, leading Robby into the kitchen. It was a simple kitchen that had seen many disasters and many Michelin worthy recipes—sometimes in the same day.
“I could eat—not gonna ask you t’ cook for me though.” Robby responded, his eyes flicking across the wooden cabinets and granite countertops.
It was a well used kitchen. Not run down by any means, but it was obvious how often it was used. He could tell in the way the stain on the bottom of the cabinets was rubbed off, and the once matte handles were brassy and shiny.
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Plus I love to cook—I only ever cook for Trin, and she has the pallet of an eight year old.” Dennis was already pulling fresh steak out of the fridge. Fresher than anything you could get in Pittsburgh, because the butcher owed Dennis a favor.
“Never imagined you to be a kitchen wizard.”
“I used to cook a lot with my mom,” Dennis responded, moving through the kitchen like water through slats in a drain. “She taught me everything, including the secret to making a phenomenal chili.”
Dennis turned on the stove—an old gas stove that sometimes he’d need a match to light. It was old, but it still worked. No reason to replace a perfectly functioning appliance.
The food was nothing particularly fancy. A seared medium rare steak, with homemade mac and cheese.
Something simple that Dennis has been making since he could eat solid foods.
To him, it was an easy, simple yet tasty dish he could serve. He tried not to focus on the fact that a steak dinner is typically reserved for romantic occasions. Anniversaries and such.
The food was good. It always was, when Dennis cooked it. Aside from that one fateful turkey, he’d rarely messed anything up in the kitchen.
And to Robby, who’d been surviving off of takeout and cheap diners since he left Pittsburgh, it was a delicacy.
Focusing on the food was difficult for Dennis, however. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy it—it actually came out quite perfect to his taste. But he was far more enamored by the flex of his attending’s biceps while he cut through a particularly rough patch of meat.
Surely it was just him wanting to ensure Robby liked the food.
That’s what he told himself, anyways.
Because the ethics committee at work would have an aneurysm if it were anything else than that.
The food didn’t last long. Robby inhaled it, and Dennis’ served himself a smaller piece because he wasn’t really hungry—he just didn’t want Robby feeling awkward eating alone.
And then the night went on. Normally. And Dennis couldn’t take his eyes off of his attending’s hands the entire time. Or the way Robby’s back muscles moved when he lifted a hay bale, or the way he grunted when bending at the knees.
It was a sickeningly sweet feeling every time the older man did something to remind Dennis of the 20 or so years of difference between them. Dennis was startled at the juxtaposition between himself and Robby when it came to endurance.
Robby got a tour of the farm. He found everything interesting, aside from the rat he saw scurrying away when they entered the barn. Dennis laughed at him, and Robby wouldn’t take his eyes off the way the intern’s top row of teeth showed when he did.
Robby found out that Dennis getting covered in fluids was more than just a work-related incident. When they went to Mrs. Walkers house to collect the promised cookies, the woman’s dog threw up on Dennis’ boot—which Dennis insisted was the least gross thing those boots have been through.
Robby made a mental note to order him new work boots anyways.
When Dennis showed Robby how to milk a cow, the milk got all over his shirt. Robby laughed. Dennis—who was already embarrassed to be making those hand movements—got even more embarrassed and turned into a tomato.
And then it was dark out, and neither of the men had even realized 5 hours had already passed since dinner. 6 hours since the fateful Dairy Queen encounter. The windows were open, the cool Summer breeze coming in and leaving just as quick.
Living here all his life, Dennis knew which windows to open to create a perfect breeze in the house.
“You should just stay the night.” Dennis offered, no longer watching Greys Anatomy—because he hated the show. He only put it on because he knows Robby likes it.
“I wouldn’t want to impose-“
“Nonsense. It’s only imposing if you invite yourself—I’m offering. Plus, you already saw me get covered in cow’s milk and vomit so…I think we’re past the point of imposing.” Dennis interrupted, chuckling at the last part.
“Where would I even sleep?” Robby asked, like it was a ridiculous thing to even consider offering. Most people want to be far away from their boss—Dennis is inviting his boss to sleep over.
“Well…the couch is a pullout. That’s an option. There’s a guest room, which has an old but technically functional bed, or we could just share my bed. It’s a king size—plenty of room for both of us.” Dennis rattled off the options.
Robby, already feeling bad about taking the offer to stay under the same roof, wouldn’t even entertain to himself the option of the guest room. Much less Dennis’ personal bedroom. He justified it to himself by thinking about what Gloria would say.
Because that’s what made him feel the least like a dirty old man.
Totally not because he’s spent the day watching Dennis’ every movement, and sleeping in the same bed would only exacerbate that feeling in his chest.
Totally.
So Dennis pulled out the couch.
Robby lasted thirty seconds.
Riding on his motorcycle for days without end made his back hurt more than he’d like to admit. He remembered that woman on his last day that said it was stupid for a man his age to go on a motorcycle for months…he almost agrees with her now.
And the guest bed is worse than the pull-out.
Which is how, despite both of the men’s many protests, they ended up in the same bed. Robby trying to deny the offer, Dennis trying to insist that he would just sleep on the couch.
Now, here they were. Laying, facing opposite directions. They stayed like that for a while, until Dennis was certain his attending was asleep. Then he turned around, and stared at the older man’s back.
The way he slept made his shirt strain against his back. Dennis could see the sharp curve of Robby’s shoulder blades, and the curve of his spine. He could see the rise and fall of Robby’s shoulders while he breathed.
“Mike..?” Dennis whispered softly, not understanding why he followed the urge to speak before his mind could process it.
He reasoned with himself that just because he was 27 doesn’t mean his prefrontal cortex is actually developed.
Because that was easier to accept than the burning and magnetic pull he felt in his chest.
Dennis bit his lip, expecting that the older man would be fast asleep—or perhaps weirded out by the tone which Dennis used when calling his name. He was shocked when, instead of the expected reaction, Robby turned around to face him.
The two stared at each other, and Dennis swore he could feel electricity crackling in the air. He swore that said electricity was the reason he reached out and grasped Robby’s star of david—because it was easier to blame electricity than the burning desire to do just that he’d felt all day.
It was easier to blame the tiredness when his hand traveled up the chain of Robby’s necklace, and settled into the crook of his neck.
He had plausible deniability for everything he did, so he couldn’t help but squeak when Robby’s hand came to cover his. Not pushing him away, holding him there.
He was able to justify himself moving closer—because he usually slept in the center of the bed anyways. It was natural. But he couldn’t figure out Robby’s justification for pulling Dennis closer.
Dennis wasn’t sure he cared anymore, either.
“Denny..” Robby’s voice was rough, and lulled Dennis even closer to its source. Like he was in a trance, he moved closer. Remembering every time that voice coached him through an intubation, or a procedure he’d never done.
But here, that voice wasn’t his boss. It was a gentle, promising lure to comfort and satisfaction.
Dennis’ hand moved up to the star of david necklace one more time, and he hoped to god the chain was strong because he tugged on it hard enough to crash his own lips into Robby’s.
And from there, all bets were off. Robby’s hand immediately slid up Dennis’ back, and tangled into the curls at the base of his neck. And Dennis’ hands slid up Robby’s body to steady himself with his hands on the mans chest.
The electricity Dennis had been feeling all day was finally not potential, but kinetic. The stagnance in Robby’s chest since the start of his sabbatical was finally a roaring river.
And between them, the dam that had been holding back everything finally broke.
Every touch, every whispered praise, every plea for guidance, all which added pressure to the metaphorical dam. Finally crashing down.
Hands traveled faster than Dennis’ heated skin could process, but that didn’t make them any less welcome. Lifting his shirt, pushing him down, but all the while being the most gentle he’s ever felt.
“Michael..” Dennis couldn’t find words other than his attending’s name, letting his neck be tickled by the feeling of the older man’s facial hair. “Gloria would kick your ass..” Dennis breathed with a chuckle—only being able to latch onto humor.
“I don’t wanna think about that witch right now..” Michael’s voice could only be described as a growl. Dennis only nodded, because he’d be damned if he was gonna disappoint Robby right now.
So Dennis vowed to just stay silent, aside from the occasional chant of “Mike…” or “Michael”, quickly lost to the next sound he’d make or the sounds Robby would make that overpowered him.
So much so that by the time the two men settled once more, with fresh sheets and hair that was still damp, Dennis still couldn’t find words. He just clung to Robby, regulating his breathing slowly to try and process what just happened.
Thank god they were home alone.
Dennis’ head was laid on Robby’s chest for a long time. No words. No conversation or verbal communication at all. Just the soft rise and fall of their chests and the expansion and deflation of their lungs to fill the silence.
Dennis could hear Robby’s heart beat, and swore to himself that he’d fall asleep to the sound if the peace wasn’t broken soon.
“BP might be elevated..” Robby whispered, breaking the silence with the closest thing to humor he could gather in the moment, coming down from a high such as that one.
Dennis hadn’t even noticed how Robby’s fingers had been resting on his Carotid Artery. Like he was doing the same thing as Dennis—silently tracking the other’s heartbeat and lulling to sleep because of it.
“It’s gettin’ pretty late.” Dennis responded, shifting to look Robby in the eyes. “You headin’ out early tomorrow..?” There was a soft sadness in his voice, like he truly didn’t want to part ways with Robby at this point. After the dam finally broke. After the truth came out, between them.
And Robby found himself saddened, too. He didn’t want to go anymore. But his trip had been planned. And while not meticulous, there were parts of it set in stone. He couldn’t abandon ship now.
But maybe…he could justify staying in town a few days longer.
His back could use the rest from the motorcycle. Dennis could use the company and help on the farm, and he still had so much to learn about Broken Bow.
Or, more importantly, he had more to learn about Dennis in Broken Bow.
Because now that he’s explored the resident beyond what the ethics committee would approve of, it’s time for him to learn not just the resident, but to learn Dennis.
And the true Dennis could never be fully comprehended by just his life in Pittsburgh. Broken Bow was part of the young man—part of his soul, even.
Plus, Dennis has a few more days before his PTO ends and he’s flying home. So Robby decided that was it.
“I’m not in much of a rush..” Robby’s hand slid off Dennis’ carotid and moved down to his Radial. “I could stand to stay a bit longer…if you’ll have me, of course.”
And Dennis could never imagine not folding under that tone. Not that he would have rejected Robby—the idea of having the older man in his home for the days to come was riveting.
Then Robby’s hand was on the move again, this time stalling on Dennis’ Femoral while waiting for a response. The cheeky older man was testing Dennis’ restraint. And Dennis was losing. Admittedly so.
“Keep my sheets clean this time, Robinavitch.” Dennis threatened weakly, giving into himself and Robby.
the dim lighting of robby’s desk lamp illuminates their tiny dorm room, the steady scratch of his pencil dragging across the paper.
it’s almost 2 in the morning and the ebbs of sleep are reaching robby’s eyes, heavy and persistent.
robby reaches for his water bottle, his sleep deprived hands failing him as the bottle clangs to the ground in an absurdly loud clatter.
jack stirs awake, confused, from his bed on the opposite wall.
the sound seems to echo longer than it should before settling into silence again.
“jesus… what was that?”
robby freezes, like staying still might undo it. it doesn’t.
“nothing,” he mutters, already leaning down to grab it. “just dropped something.”
there’s a pause.
“you’re still up?” jack’s voice is rough with sleep, softer than usual.
robby rubs at his eyes. “yeah. couldn’t sleep.”
“you’ve been at that all night, haven’t you?”
robby huffs quietly. “something like that.”
the bed creaks as jack sits up, then stands, crossing the small space without turning on the overhead light. the desk lamp casts just enough glow to catch on his face, his hair, the outline of him.
he stops beside robby’s chair, glancing down at the scattered notes.
“vitals?”
“yeah.”
jack hums. “and you thought staying up till two was the best way to learn that?”
“it’s quiet,” robby says.
jack watches him for a second longer than necessary, then sighs. “move over.”
“what?”
“if you’re gonna do this, at least do it right.”
there’s something about the way he says it that makes robby’s chest tighten.
still, he shifts his chair back.
jack doesn’t take it. instead, he reaches out, catching robby’s wrist.
the contact is warm. steady.
robby stills.
“go on,” jack murmurs, guiding his fingers into place against his pulse. “feel that?”
robby does.
a soft, steady rhythm under his fingertips.
“count.”
“right—yeah.” robby clears his throat. “one… two… three…”
his voice drops low, almost a whisper.
jack doesn’t move.
“…fourteen… fifteen…”
“you’re slowing down.”
“i’m not—”
“you are.”
robby exhales through his nose. “maybe you’re distracting.”
jack laughs softly. “didn’t realize i had that effect.”
robby doesn’t answer. he just finishes, fingers lingering a second too long before pulling away.
“…seventy-two.”
“not bad.”
a beat.
“breathing next,” jack says.
robby hesitates. “i know how to—”
“do it properly.”
he steps closer.
too close.
“go on,” jack says, quieter now.
robby nods, placing his hand lightly against jack’s side, just under his ribs.
jack inhales.
robby feels it the rise, the fall. steady. controlled.
“…normal,” robby murmurs, counting under his breath again, though it’s harder now. everything feels sharper. closer.
“you always talk to yourself like that?” jack asks.
“helps me think.”
another breath. in. out.
robby pulls his hand back a little too quickly this time.
the air shifts.
jack doesn’t step away.
“you’re better at this than you think,” he says.
robby lets out a quiet laugh. “i just counted your breathing.”
“still.”
their eyes meet.
too close.
robby looks away first. “you should go back to sleep.”
“you should too.”
“yeah, well—”
they don’t move.
not right away.
then jack steps back, the space returning all at once. “don’t stay up all night.”
robby nods. “i won’t.”
jack lies back down, turning toward the wall.
the room settles.
quiet.
robby stares at his notes for a long moment before switching off the lamp.
darkness fills the space.
it should end there.
it doesn’t.
“you’re still up.”
robby exhales. “yeah.”
a pause. fabric shifting.
“come here.”
robby turns his head. “what?”
“you heard me.”
he hesitates then stands, crossing the cold floor, sitting on the edge of jack’s bed.
the mattress dips. their knees nearly touch.
“you overthink everything,” jack murmurs.
robby huffs. “you don’t think enough.”
“maybe.”
their hands brush.
neither pulls away.
slowly, jack turns his hand, letting their fingers rest together—like he’s giving robby time to stop him.
robby doesn’t.
“robby,” jack says, quiet, like it matters.
robby turns, just enough
too close now.
“yeah?”
jack doesn’t answer right away.
then, softer “you’re really bad at pretending this is nothing.”
robby lets out a quiet breath. “you’re one to talk.”
there’s the faintest hint of a smile in the dark.
and then robby closes the distance.
the first kiss is tentative. soft. like a question.
jack answers it.
his hand comes up to robby’s neck, steadying him there, and the next kiss is a little more certain still gentle, but deeper, warmer.
robby exhales into it, shifting closer without thinking, one hand bracing on the mattress, the other gripping lightly at jack’s shirt.
they pull back
just barely.
then lean in again.
this time it lingers.
slower. softer. not rushed, not uncertain anymore just quiet and deliberate, like they’ve both decided at the same time to stop pretending they don’t want this.
jack’s thumb brushes along robby’s jaw, and robby tilts into it, kissing him again, a little firmer this time, like he’s testing how far he can go.
jack makes a quiet sound against his mouth something warm, something that makes robby’s chest tighten. his grip shifts, pulling robby closer.
there’s no space between them now.
the kisses come easier after that.
one after another, unhurried but constant soft presses, lingering touches, breaths shared in between like neither of them wants to fully pull away.
robby loses track of time.
loses track of everything except the warmth of jack’s hand at his neck, the way his fingers curl into his sleeve, the quiet rhythm of it all.
when they finally break apart, it’s only because they have to breathe.
their foreheads rest together.
neither of them moves far.
“…we should stop,” robby murmurs, though he doesn’t sound convinced.
“yeah,” jack says, just as unconvincing.
they don’t.
instead, robby leans in again, softer this time, slower, almost tired now, the kind of kiss that drifts instead of builds.
jack follows it, matching him, gentler, his hand slipping from robby’s neck to his arm, then his side, keeping him close without pulling.
eventually, it fades.
not abruptly, just gradually, like neither of them notices the exact moment it stops.
jack shifts first, lying back, but he doesn’t let go. his hand catches robby’s sleeve, tugging lightly.
“stay.”
robby hesitates.
then lies down beside him.
the bed is too small. it forces them close—shoulders pressed, legs brushing, nowhere to go but into each other.
jack’s arm slips around him easily, like it belongs there.
robby tenses for a second, then relaxes, settling in, his head finding jack’s shoulder.
he can hear his heartbeat again.
steady.
familiar now.
grounding.
“guess you’ve got my pulse memorized,” jack murmurs, half-asleep.
robby huffs softly, pressing a small, absentminded kiss against his shoulder. “shut up.”
jack’s arm tightens slightly in response.
silence settles over them, softer now. easier.
robby’s eyes drift closed, his hand still loosely curled in the fabric of jack’s shirt.
It took Dennis all of 30 seconds of observation to realize Robby wasn’t doing alright. If anyone paid attention they could tell, and Dennis was the last one standing after day-shift.
Their shift ended almost 2 hours ago. The night-shift had come in, and the handover was simple. There was nothing particularly terrible about today—nothing like Dennis’ first day.
There was an old lady, who died painlessly surrounded by her family. There was an unhoused man who was accompanied by several others that were in the same situation. Dennis recognized a few of them , he’d met them before Trinity offered him her spare room.
The worst was the 15 year old that came in right near the end of the day, when everyone thought that they just might get home without any added traumas from the day. He was already halfway through death’s front door when he came in on the ambulance—too much blood was lost and too many pills were consumed.
They couldn’t save the kid.
His twin sobbed—his parents were across the country and unreachable.
His aunt came in to go through the next steps with Kiara, and Dennis had to move on to the next patient before he could show any empathy. Dennis just hoped he didn’t see the remaining twin any time soon.
Dennis sighed, running a hand down his face. He wanted to leave—get out of these scrubs (his fourth pair today), and go home to where Trinity has probably already made a box of Great Value Mac and Cheese with water and not milk. But every time he looked over at his attending, he seemed to be even worse. Shaking, or just distantly staring at the screen he was no longer typing words onto.
Dennis spotted Abbot also staring at Robby—with that same face of concern Robby would give him after he lost another patient. He notices that Robby and Abbot were the same, just different.
Deciding his charting could wait—because he was making more typos than he’d like to admit—Dennis logged out of the computer and dragged his feet over to Robby, staring over the dissociative older man’s shoulder at the screen.
It was the kid’s chart.
Already filled out. There’s nothing that needed to be added or revised—Perlah had been the scribe the whole time and she was more than capable. Both Robby and Dennis knew this.
“You can’t change what happened by staring at the chart.” Dennis spoke softly, not knowing whether he would be making things worse or better.
“You yelled at me for doing the same thing last week.” He added, reaching over and clicking the button to log Robby out of the computer. He clearly wasn’t doing anything productive—only being self-destructive.
Robby gave Dennis a peculiar look at that. One that silently asked when he got bold enough to make moves like that—especially with his boss.
“Just making sure there was no errors..” Robby’s voice was softer than usual—more defeated.
“For 20 minutes?”
“More like an hour.”
Dennis pinched his lips together, giving the older man an incredulous look. It wasn’t healthy for Robby to be stewing like this, and Dennis took that personally.
“Come on, staring at your computer won’t make it better. Our shift is over, let’s go home.” Dennis still felt weird calling his place with Trinity home, and he was awkward about it. Which Robby didn’t miss.
“I’ve got charting to finish up.” Robby rebuttaled, looking away from Dennis and moving his badge towards the scanner again. Before his badge could scan, Dennis put his hand over the sensor firmly.
“Whitaker..” Robby warned.
“You’re the boss. You can procrastinate on your charting for one night—especially cause you’re not actually getting it done.” Dennis was also wondering where his sudden confidence came from. He wouldn’t talk to anyone like this on a normal day, so he chalked it up to post-shift exhaustion.
“You already know that’s not how that works.”
“Gloria can cope—she didn’t have to pronounce a kid dead.” Dennis winced at his own words, because he felt like an asshole being so blunt. His mother would have slapped his wrist with a ruler for that.
“You’re gettin’ bold, kid.” Robby muttered. But he didn’t fight it—he actually picked up his bag and gestured for Dennis to lead the way.
Dennis did lead the way. He typically leaves through the Ambulance bay, because it’s the exit of the hospital closest to the bus stop and while he has his license he definitely can’t afford a car or insurance right now.
Dennis fishes out of his pocket a pack of cigarettes, and offers one to Robby.
“You’re a kid.” Robby says, taking the cigarette anyways.
“I’m 27.”
“Those things kill.”
“And yet.” Dennis gestured to the one Robby took, giving him an indecipherable look.
The two stood there for several minutes, silently listening to the wailing of distant sirens—thankful that they were both off-shift and wouldn’t have to deal with any incoming traumas. Neither were sure they could handle any more for today.
“Why’d you pick emergency medicine?” Robby’s voice came sharp—an unprecedented contrast to the cool night air that made it difficult to tell whether their breaths were smoke filled or just hot.
Dennis mulled the question, turning it over in his head and finally just shrugging.
“ADHD?” He said, smiling faintly. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
Robby chuckled, and shook his head. He supposed it was as good an answer as any—he wouldn’t be able to answer it himself.
“More likely has to do with my upbringing, though.” Dennis added. “I’m indecisive. Figured working in a trauma center would mean I’m rarely dealing with the same thing twice.”
“Stick around long enough, you’ll see the repeats.” Robby muttered. It wasn’t meant to be sarcastic—it was genuine. Because days like these had happened before in his career.
“I spent a few days in the ER when I was a kid.” Dennis stated, puffing his chest out to help ease the tightness. “Saved my life, sent me on my way. Made an impact. Figured it’s the best path for me—it’s the only thing I ever felt drawn to.”
Robby didn’t know how to respond to that. He was never one for emotions, or understanding. He figured there was probably more to that story, but it felt rude to ask, so instead he stomped out his cigarette and brought the hand to his Star of David necklace.
“You need a ride home, Whitaker?” The elder asked, because he didn’t have the capacity to unpack everything Dennis had just said. He was still beating himself up about that kid—but Dennis talking to him made it feel lighter, so he’d keep the student around as long as possible.
“How do you know I don’t drive?” Dennis asked, mimicking Robby’s actions and stomping out his cigarette.
“Seen you at the bus stop.”
“You’re stalking me are you?” He slung his bag over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow curiously.
“Only on Thursdays.” The joke was dry—Robby was too wrung out from the day to use genuine humor.
Dennis smirked. Today is Thursday. Not that that meant anything, of course, but Dennis made note of it anyways.
“Yeah I could use a ride.” He said.
Robby nodded, and placed a hand on Dennis back, beginning to lead him towards the bike he rode to work every day. He had a helmet he kept stored on the bike for situations like this—where he gave someone a ride. He never wore it. It was strictly for other people.
“Hold on tight, and lean when I do.” Robby’s voice was low, almost silent—covered over by the rumble of his the bike below them. Just how Robby liked it—his bike drowning him and his thoughts.
“You don’t have a helmet?” Dennis asked, following the attending’s command and wrapping his arms around the older man’s waist, resting his head on Robby’s shoulder.
Robby wordlessly shook his head. Somewhere in his head Dennis committed himself to getting Robby a helmet with his first paycheck. Maybe the older man would wear one if it were a gift.
The ride was silent. Even in the silence, though, Robby felt more grounded. Less aware of how easily he could make his death look like an accident. Less drowned in his own memories and self-deprecating opinions.
He blamed tiredness.
He didn’t want to process the implications of Dennis being the cause of his internal peace.
And even when Dennis climbed off the bike—and forced the helmet onto Robby’s head—that mellowed feeling didn’t go away. Even when he noticed the anxious Trinity staring out from the upstairs window, not relaxing until Dennis waved, he was still feeling peaceful.
Like he was floating in a pool, not drowning in the riptide.
So he rode home. This time slower. This time obeying more traffic laws. This time not mulling over every single death he witnessed—instead he was too focused on the memory of his students' arms around his waist.
And while Dennis ate the shitty Great Value mac and cheese, getting lectured by Trinity for making her worry, his smile didn’t fade. He just apologized, and explained himself. And for once he didn’t feel like he was shrinking away from himself.
