can't stop thinking about the concept of robby getting home from sabbatical dead dog tired, the middle of the night. jamming his keys in his door. toeing off his boots at his entrance after he shuts the door behind him, not bothering to really put them aside. shrugging his coat off to the floor.
padding to his bedroom, just wanting to pass out for the night, for forever, maybe. if he should be so lucky. stripping to his boxers on the way, grunting a little as he steps out of his jeans, leaving a trail of dirty laundry he just can't be assed about. he never used to be messy. that came with the burnout.
but in his bed, curled up and breathing soft, is a bundle of warm dennis whitaker. looking sweet, looking peaceful, painfully domestic. if robby was a good man, he'd quietly back out of the room, go sleep on the couch, let the mouse awkwardly squeak his way out of the house in the morning. but robby hasn't considered himself a good man in a long time, and he wants his comfortable mattress, and he can't pretend he doesn't like the fact that his favorite intern is on top of it.
so he lifts up the covers, shuffles underneath with a sigh, watches lazily as dennis stirs a little, yawns. cute. the air conditioner hums, a quiet white noise, too quiet for robby's taste. there's a nightlight plugged into the wall that's not his, making the room glow softly orange, just enough to be cozy, just enough to not be dark. he wonders if the kid is scared of the dark. he watches as blue eyes peek open, bleary in the dim light, and find his.
dennis must be as tired as him, exhausted, because he doesn't react. not in any startled manner, not in the way robby was expecting. the kid's usually so jumpy around him, wide-eyed, even months later, even with that new edge of confidence robby can't help but enjoy. but not tonight. his voice is a little raspy as he asks s'this a dream? and his only response is a soft hum when robby tells him no, whitaker, I'm afraid not.
are you okay? wasn't the follow-up that robby expected, but it makes sense, from earnest, sweet whitaker. whitaker who worries too much about him, but it doesn't make robby feel particularly specialā the kid worries about everyone. wants to help everyone. robby, at best, is an interesting case. haven't been in a long time, kid, is his honest reply, and he's not sure why he doesn't lie to him. maybe it's because dennis is being so intimately normal, so weirdly easy to be around. maybe it's because he's tired of saying "I'm fine."
dennis is a little hesitant in his movements. ginger and careful, cuddling up to robby's side, laying his cheek on robby's chest. skin against skin, robby remembers his discarded shirt, and is pervertedly glad for it. dennis's cheek is soft. the contact is warm, impossibly nice. dennis's arm comes up to lay itself around robby's waist, the boy snuggling closer, huffing out a breath like an exhausted little puppy. robby is endeared. he's always fucking endeared by this kid. he's stopped trying not to be.
normally he'd feel like crying. or he'd start to spiral, overthink. maybe he should. maybe he should force himself to face why the hell this is so easy, why the hell this domesticity that he's been craving his entire life came to him tonight, this random fucking night, in the form of an intern he should not be laying in bed with. but robby is tired. and sleep tugs him under easier than it has in years, warm in his bed, not alone, not alone, not alone. dennis's breaths brush softly across his skin. robby is hopelessly and stupidly attached.
it'll be a problem for tomorrow morning.
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