"tripping, stumbling" - d.w
pairing: dennis whitaker x roommate!er!reader
masterlist for this pairing here
wc: 4.1k
summary: your roommate joins you at the gym... disaster ensues
warnings: mutual pining, disgusting mutual pining, horrifying barf-worthy mutual pining, dennis loves u, u love dennis, he's so dumb and stupid
a/n: looks like i'm going full-send on a roommate!er!reader series HEHEHE | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
When Whitaker emerges from his bedroom in his workout clothes, your stomach roils, and you think for a split-second that you might throw up.
The bottom hem of his shorts hits his mid-thigh, revealing the muscular, cream-tinted skin beneath. Worse than that, he’s wearing an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing the firm biceps you suspected are always hiding under those black scrubs. You blink twice, feet melting into the carpet where you wait for him by the door.
“Is something wrong?” Whitaker’s brows knit together.
In an instant you shake your head, then clear your throat. “Nope,” you say, then pluck your keys off the hook. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah, let me just grab my water,” he extends his index finger, then follows it into the kitchen. Half a second later, he doubles back. “Did you need one, too?”
You glance down at your hands. Cradled haphazardly in one are your keys and your phone, the handle to your stainless steel water bottle in the other. “I’m good,” you nod, but the very fact that he’s asking still sends ripples of surprised affection through your veins.
You met Dennis Whitaker, fellow fourth year student doctor, two weeks ago, during your first shift at PTMC. What started out as an overwhelming first day in the emergency department —affectionately known as the pitt— turned into a traumatically overwhelming code black.
You learned a lot that day. About medicine, about yourself and how you react in crisis, but most surprisingly, you learned that your new coworker was homeless and squatting at the hospital.
Maybe it was the weight of the day’s trauma, or maybe you’re more generous than you thought you were, because you offered your spare room to Whitaker almost instantly.
He was so surprised and so grateful, and that shocked little half-smile on his face when you made the offer sent such a zap of serotonin to your brain that you kept doing nice things for him. Not that you’re unkind, of course, but certainly not this open and generous to someone you’d just met fifteen hours prior.
You find it both incredibly endearing and unnecessary that he tries to take up as little space as possible. You sat him down a couple days in and explained that he isn’t your guest. He lives here. He might not pay as much of the rent as you do —for the time being, until he gets his student loan debt under control— but this apartment is just as much his as it is yours. The relief that flooded his sea-glass eyes was enough to assure you that you did the right thing.
You mentioned at work yesterday that you wanted to get some exercise back in your routine. You’ve had a Planet Fitness membership since your first year as an intern, since they’re all over the place and not too expensive. When Whitaker mentioned something about his not having gone to the gym regularly since college, you invited him to come with you.
You thought nothing of it at the time. Your gym membership allows a guest to come with you when you work out, and he lives with you anyway, so what was the harm?
This, you think, biting your lip as he walks ahead of you down the stairs, was the harm. The worn collar of his t-shirt has stretched out so that it lays lower than it should. How could the back of somebody’s neck be so…
A chill runs down your spine, goosebumps sprouting along your arms. Your nervous system kicking in, you think, an unconscious act of self-preservation.
Quit looking at him like that. He’s your roommate. You’ve known him for two weeks. He sings 70s funk music in the shower. He’s left the toilet seat up at least three times in the two weeks he’s lived with you. There’s absolutely no good reason to be looking at him like this.
The Planet Fitness is only a couple of blocks from your apartment building, so you and Whitaker walk together. His broad frame beside you is both a comfort and a source of unease. You feel safe from the rest of the world walking beside him, but the persistent thoughts about him make you want to scream into a pillow.
You make little conversation on the five-minute walk to the gym, but this isn't out of the ordinary. Whitaker's specialty is companionable silence. You noticed this the first shift you worked together, before the aftermath of PittFest started spilling into the ER.
Even in the emergency department there are moments of quiet. You don't often take well to those times, hands fidgeting and mind racing with ideas of what to say to move the moment along, to avoid having to sit with yourself for too long. Whitaker's presence keeps it from being uncomfortable.
Even at the apartment, you've found you don't need to have the TV on all day, or keep your AirPods in while you cook and clean. Whitaker's mere being there keeps your mind from churning to that tempest of restless overthinking. He doesn't even have to say anything. He quiets you down without even trying.
Once you arrive at the gym, you scan the barcode on your phone to check in, and step away from the desk to find Whitaker waiting for you with his hands clasped behind his back. He bounces on the balls of his feet, green-blue eyes staring back at you expectantly.
A geyser of nerves bursts out of you in the form of a shaky laugh. "What am I, your cruise director?" You titter in perhaps the world’s lamest joke, then nod to the open gym around you. "Have at it, Whitaker!"
He stifles a laugh, eyes twitching at you like you have two heads. "Yeah, okay. Meet back here in, like, an hour?" He asks.
You nod, cheeks furiously flushed because what the hell was that? Whitaker dips his chin in a little nod, then heads for the weight machines.
You palm your forehead for a moment and loose a long breath. Hopefully all the weirdness seeps out of you on this exhale, because you're certainly not making any of this easier on yourself.
You tug your AirPods out of the pocket of your leggings and find an unoccupied treadmill. You haven't dedicated any time to exercising in at least a month, but it'll feel good to work out some of this tension, work and Whitaker-related.
You start off on a slow walk, giving your body a minute or two to acclimate while also stretching your arms over your head. Without much thought, your eyes scan the open space, taking in the other gymgoers before landing, much to your dismay, upon Whitaker. He's at the lat pulldown in the middle of the weights section. His biceps are modest in size but not in strength, you recall from observation on the job, and the veins in them flex as he slowly drags the weights down in repeated reps.
You jab at the treadmill's buttons to increase your speed and incline, as way of punishing yourself for staring. You tug out your phone, press play on a workout playlist, and resolve to look anywhere else but at Whitaker for the rest of your workout.
Soon you reach a moderate jog, your breath heightened at the extra exertion. You lock your gaze on the nearest television, showing some home improvement show, and succeed, by small miracle, in focusing on that for a while.
It’s impossible not to be at least a little bit in-shape in your line of work. On your feet for twelve hours at a time, sprinting from one end of the pitt to the other. You wouldn’t entirely discount yourself in that department, but you certainly aren’t going to be running any 5ks any time soon.
So after about fifteen minutes, your body is feeling the consistent jog. The bottoms of your feet start to tingle, your ankles a little wobblier than when you began. You reach for your water, and when you divert your gaze from the TV, you spot Whitaker again. Now he’s on the barbell bench, flat on his back, raising and lowering the barbell in chest presses.
From this angle you can’t see his face, but you can’t help but imagine the sweat matting his dark blond curls to his forehead. Or the sensitive, slick back of his neck.
His mouth, you can see by craning your neck, is shaped in a perfect little ‘O’, pushing through exertive breaths in a four-count rhythm. The sight recalls to you the several times in the past two weeks you’ve watched him perform compressions on a patient. His shoulders threatening to cave in, hands interlocked on the patient’s chest and pushing with the force required to stimulate blood circulation and restart their heart. He always looks so concentrated —for good reason of course— but he wears a similar expression now.
Your only focus in those moments is your patients, of course, but you always notice a fluttering, unnerving sensation in your tummy afterwards.
With your jaw hung ajar, your tongue hovers in mid-air, extended across your mouth toward the straw of your water bottle. You must look like a dumbfounded lizard. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper, ignoring the gaping, offended expression of the older woman speed-walking beside you.
You slam your water bottle back into the treadmill’s cupholder. You continue to jog, upbeat music thumping in your AirPods. But then your chest tightens at where your thoughts drift to next.
Whitaker, using that farm-trained strength of his to lift you off the ground. He could do it, you think, with little effort. Shove you up against a wall with no extra force at all. You haven’t adjusted the speed on the treadmill in minutes, yet your heart’s hammering away like you’ve just finished a sprint.
Fuck.
You tear your gaze away from Whitaker just as he finishes his reps, lifting the dumbbell back into the rack with a clank that blends in with the rest of the noisy gym. As he sits up, a woman approaches him. Younger than both of you by a couple years, if you had to guess. Platinum blonde, with her hair cut into a blunt yet striking bob just below her chin. She wears black, skin-tight bikers shorts and a matching sports bra, displaying her perfectly toned body.
Compared to your Old Navy leggings and oversized t-shirt, she must look like the patron goddess of Planet Fitness.
She speaks to Whitaker, with a dazzling, glossy-lipped smile, blinking down at him where he sits on the bench. He looks up at her with a friendly smile, his cheeks flushed a delicate shade of baby pink.
You can’t tell if it’s from exercising or this impossibly beautiful girl speaking to him.
Envy twists in your gut. You jog without much thought to what your body is doing, eyes locked on the scene playing out before you. The realization dawns on you that you have no actual right to be pissed about a girl flirting with Whitaker at the gym, but it only serves to piss you off more. You grit your teeth, pumping your arms beside you with each hastened step.
Gym Girl oozes confidence. Her perfect, clear, tanned skin wraps around pronounced muscles. On her arms, her rear, her legs. Her stomach, even, has little ridges that make you reach self-consciously to the plush squish of your own tummy. It’s not flat like hers.
She laughs at something Whitaker says, throwing back her head girlishly as he simultaneously rubs the back of his neck. She reaches a flawlessly manicured hand out to brush his shoulder, and the drumming in your heart soon gives way to a high-pitched ringing in your ears, overtaking any music from your ear buds.
Gym Girl’s hand lingers on Whitaker’s shoulder for one second, then two. Rage floods your stomach as she squeezes his bare bicep, and your feet give out beneath you. You misstep against the front edge of the treadmill, then, without the foresight to grab on to the balance bars, slide off the conveyor and wind up flat on your back with an obnoxious “oof!”
The fall has garnered the attention of most everybody in the gym, including Whitaker, who abandons Gym Girl and rushes to the spot where your tombstone will be planted.
“Holy shit, are you alright?” Whitaker asks, crouching down beside you.
“I’m fine,” you exhale instantaneously through gritted teeth. Your entire body flushes even more than it was while jogging, your face hot with pink humility. A thin sheet of sweat layers over you, eyes welling as the pain registers in various parts of your body. Your tailbone, for one, stings with the weight and shock of the fall.
“You don’t look fine,” he looks you over, eyes scanning every piece of you with clinical interest. He stands, then extends his arm. You clasp your hand in his, but the second you put weight on your ankle, you land back on your ass with a grunt.
“Shit,” you wince, reaching for your ankle, as if that would do anything to dull the throbbing.
Whitaker’s back beside you on the scratchy gym carpet in a flash, one palm stretched across your back, the other reaching for your leg. “I don’t think it’s sprained,” he murmurs, then inches closer for a better look.
Around you, the music still thumps through the gym speakers. Eyes from all over the gym watch your every movement as patrons pretend to continue their workouts. The faint, humming sound of your AirPods still playing comes from where they landed on the floor. You scoop them up and shove them into your pocket.
Whitaker’s index and middle fingers press tentatively against your shin. “Ouch!” You exclaim, expression contorting in discomfort. It’s achy, tender, and red, but there are no bones jutting out at unnatural angles.
“Shit,” Whitaker curses. “I’m sorry.” He dips his chin, searching for your eyes. He says your name, firm but quiet, so that your gaze snaps to his. Your heart stumbles in a broken rhythm. “Hey, I’m sorry. I think it’s just a twist, though. Maybe we should try to get you to one of the chairs?” He suggests, nodding to the lounge area near the entrance. “Do you think you can put a little weight on it if I support you?”
You hum in agreement with a tightly twisted mouth. Whitaker offers his shoulder, his arm snaking around your waist. You slowly rise to stand on one leg, wincing and cursing beneath your breath in the process.
“There you go, that’s it,” Whitaker whispers, his breath hot on the back of your ear, a breeze rustling through the baby hairs that didn’t quite make it into your ponytail. Goosebumps prickle up and down your arms and you pray to whatever benevolent god is listening that Whitaker doesn't notice.
When you try to bear weight on your ankle, you recoil, leaning entirely on Whitaker in response. Your hand slips and drags over where his nipple has become exposed from his shirt. “Fuck, I’m sorry, shit,” you whimper, heat blossoming between your legs in some sick, ironic joke.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Whitaker doesn’t seem to notice, or if he did he makes the effort not to show it. His eyes remain locked down pensively on your ankle. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then meets your gaze. “Can I pick you up?” He asks.
“Wh-what?” You’re floored by the question, a frozen sense of dread draining your cheeks of color. Adrenaline and embarrassment seem to be running a tight race through your every molecule.
Whitaker blinks, unphased. “I think I can probably carry you. At least to one of those chairs. And then we can get some ice on it and go from there. Would that be okay?”
You nod, and in a slow, careful scoop, Whitaker’s got you folded up in his arms. One arm loops around his neck as he carries you towards the chairs. His steps are slow, but you don’t think it’s because you’re too heavy. He’s intentionally trying not to jostle you around. Your eyes well up with tears, but you don’t allow them to fall.
Whitaker sets you down in the hard, cheap armchair, then helps you elevate your leg onto the coffee table, going so far as to drag the table closer to you.
A gym employee comes by with your water bottle and a bundle of ice wrapped in a towel. Whitaker accepts both with a nod of thanks. To your surprise, he sits right there, on the floor beside the coffee table, and gingerly sets the ice atop the swollen bump of your ankle.
“How’s that?” He asks, looking up at you from the floor with widened, concerned eyes.
You wonder for a half-second if they can be called doe eyes if they're the most striking, dizzying shade of blue.
Your chin wobbles as you nod again. “Yeah, it’s alright,” you say quietly. If you had one wish, it would be to sink through this fake vinyl chair, through the corporate patterned carpet, into oblivion. Instead you’re here, locked into place by the worried watch of Whitaker.
“What can I do for you?” He asks, then offers up your water bottle. You accept it, but shove it between your hip and the arm of the chair. Whitaker’s expression falters a little at this, as if he’s disappointed. “What’s your pain at?”
A bubble of amusement pops in the form of a brisk, breathy laugh. Whitaker cocks his head to the side, that confused puppy look usurping his expression. “You’re using your doctor voice,” you sniffle as a rogue tear escapes the corner of one eye. You wipe it away hurriedly.
Whitaker’s cheeks flush and he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. An unexpected rush of pride inflates your chest, but you ignore it. “Force of habit, I guess,” he offers, then nods to your ankle.
“Like a five right now,” you answer, then reach for your water bottle and take a drink. “Closer to a seven when I try to walk.”
Whitaker digests this information with a dip of his chin. “I have ACE wrap at home,” he says. “In my street team bag. Unless you want a second opinion. Or, rather, a third,” he exhales a bit, a shy, sideways smile blooming over his mouth. "Where's Dana when you need her, eh?"
The word home leaving his lips trips you up.
“Home?” You address it before you can think better of it, warmth radiating across your clammy skin.
He hangs his head for a second, a laugh leaking out, before tipping his gaze back up at you. “Yeah,” he agrees with a shrug. Forced nonchalance transforms into teasing. “Where we live. Ever heard of it?”
“Shut up,” you huff, then wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “You don’t think it’s sprained?”
You crane your neck to look, and Whitaker gingerly raises the towel. The ice clatters together softly as he jostles it up, giving way to a swollen ankle. Red, throbbing, and certainly tender, but no bruising.
“I don’t think so, no,” Whitaker says, watching you examine your own ankle. “You don’t want to go to the hospital, do you?”
You shoot him a sardonic, sideways smile. “On our day off? No way.” A beat passes, and you sink back into the chair. “I don’t think we need to. Just elevate it, ice it, and—“
“—slowly put weight back on it,” Whitaker finishes for you, arching an all-knowing brow. You nod in confirmation. He points to his head. “Not just a hat rack.”
You shake your head. He’s so ridiculous, going along with the bit in the middle of a crisis just to make you feel better. Just to calm your nerves.
The silence that follows is comfortable, which is not unexpected. Whitaker holds the ice over your ankle for a few more minutes, looking at the nearest TV rather than at you. Or at least, you think so, because you’re staring at your water bottle rather than at him.
After a couple minutes, Whitaker clears his throat. “Do you want me to carry you home?” He asks. “Or…”
You suppose the other options are pretty limited. You can order an Uber, which feels ridiculous considering you’re less than half a mile from the apartment. Home, you correct yourself. Whitaker called it home. Twice, now.
Or, you suppose, you could call a friend for a ride. But nobody you know that lives even remotely nearby owns a car.
“Do you think you can?” You ask Whitaker, digging your fingernails into the arm of the sofa. “I’m not exactly—“
“I can,” Whitaker cuts in. The small nod that follows, accompanied by the assured steadiness of his voice, leads you to believe him.
You swallow, and blink. “Okay,” you whisper. Then clear your throat and speak a little louder. “Farm strength, huh?”
“Yeah,” Whitaker chuffs, then moves to stand up off the ground. “Yeah, something like that.”
He squares his shoulders, then smooths out his shirt.
His waist is so small in comparison to the wide plane of his upper chest. In the perverse corner of your mind, you're squeezing his hips and sliding your hands under the hem of that stupid, worthless cutoff. Might as well have not worn a shirt, for all the good it's done him.
Whitaker helps you stand, then hauls you into his arms once again. He hoists you up, jostling you just a bit, and you wince at the heightened ache.
"Shit. I'm sorry," he murmurs apologetically, then starts for the door. As he walks, you realize he was right. He can carry you, without much extra effort. You keep your hand looped around his neck, placing your other on his chest for extra stability. At least, that's what you tell yourself.
You can feel the faint, steady thumping of his heart. The rhythm keeps you calm, nestled in Whitaker's arms, trusting that he'll avoid all the cracks and dips and holes in the sidewalk. The rhythm keeps your own noisy mind from taking over, from saying something stupid just to break the silence.
Companionable silence is Whitaker's specialty, you think again, giving yourself permission to bask in it. Like a kitten in a patch of sunlight. Like—
"That's nice," he murmurs, under his breath, yanking you directly and wholly from your thoughts.
"Huh?"
"Your hand," Whitaker says quietly, nodding to where you palm his chest. Where your fingers have been rubbing a circular motion atop his ratty t-shirt. "It feels nice."
"Oh," you swallow hard, blinking. "I didn't realize I was…" you start to pull back your hand.
"No, don't stop, please," Whitaker's voice is a low rumble. Existing this close to him, you can hear the vibration of his throat. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. It feels nice. Calming."
"I embarrassed myself," you mutter, latching on to the former half of his words rather than the latter. "Tripping over a treadmill. Who does that?"
Your hand ends back up in your lap, but Dennis doesn't ask you to place it over his heart again.
Even though he really, really wants to.
Even though a surge of panic flooded over him when he saw you fall from the treadmill.
Even though his cock twitched when your palm accidentally dragged over his nipple.
Even though he kept looking back at you the entire time he was working out, only to be hit upside the head with an anvil of disappointment and find your attention transfixed to the TV. Even though he lied to the blonde girl by the bench and said he was in a relationship when she asked for his number.
Even though there's so many different thoughts of you swirling around his head at all times, but the path from his brain to his mouth is obstructed and he can't bring himself to confess that he thinks he's thinking about you too much. That he's never thought of any one particular person so much before, or considered how his every singular movement could affect them. That your laugh and your blush and your stupid goddamn lipglosses ending up all over the apartment send projectile missiles to his head, his cock, and his heart. That when he called your apartment home earlier, it wasn't just a slip of the tongue. That he feels so fucking in over his head every time he opens his mouth around you he has no choice but to resort to silence.
He doesn't say any of that.
Instead, he just tightens his grip under your knees, one hand flexing in suppression of the urge to graze his fingers under your supple thighs. He shakes his head, feigning nonchalance. "I'm sure it happens all the time," Dennis forces the words out, then continues towards home.
