Archive of Our Own

Whitaker does not have daddy issues. He loves his dad, calls him three times a week to talk about school, his rotations, how the farm is doing. But between all those phone calls, he’s never mentioned his… proclivity for men. Whitaker just can’t find the words, nor does he want to. It’s fine, really. He never mentioned he was homeless, either, and that turned out okay. It’s a secret he’s willing to die with, his sexuality. The first three years of medical school helped him realize that having sex, messing around, is natural. Everyone does it. That doesn’t mean his dad has to know what he likes, or who he likes. It’s not like he wants to marry a man, anyway. That feels like a step too far. It makes the silver cross around his neck feel like it’s burning. 

So, no, Whitaker does not have daddy issues. But he knows his type, and Dr. Robby fits the bill perfectly. Dark hair, dark eyes, tall and strong. Old enough to be his dad. Freud would have something to say about it all, probably, but Whitaker will die on the hill that Freud is full of shit. Wrote a paper about it in undergrad using more academic terms. Dr. Robby doesn’t even look like his dad. 

Near the end of his ED rotation, Whitaker fucks up. He doesn’t kill anyone, doesn’t give the wrong med, doesn’t drill an IO into a conscious patient. No, it’s something worse, mortifying, embarrassing enough that he considers dropping out, going back home, and joining the seminary. 

He has a pediatric patient with croup, and under Dr. Robby’s watchful eye, he manages to give the racemic epi to the screaming toddler with Ms. Rachel playing on one of the COWs. Dr. Robby nods at him as he instructs the patient’s mother to just hold the mask near the child’s face, since he didn’t tolerate the mask directly on him. As they leave the room, Dr. Robby puts his hand on Whitaker’s shoulder, thumbing rubbing over his scapula, and says, “Good job in there. Good distraction.”

And butterflies flutter in Whitaker’s stomach, and without thinking, he replies, “Thanks, Dad.” 

He waits for the earth to swallow him up, for lightning to strike him, for the ceiling to cave in, for a psych patient to knock him clean out. None of that happens, and he’s left with trying to pick up the pieces of his massive fuck up. “Uh,” he stutters. “Um, sorry. I- It wasn’t- I mean-”

Dr. Robby laughs, squeezes his shoulder, and drops his hand. “Not the first time that’s happened, Whitaker. Go see your next patient.” 

Whitaker would rather shoot himself in the mouth with a twelve-gauge, thank you very much, but he doubts that would go over any better. So he nods and runs away with his tail between his legs. 

Later, when Santos coerces him into telling her what’s got him so quiet on the ride back home, she laughs so hard she has to pull over. 

Whitaker doesn’t slip up like that again during his ED rotation. At the end of his four weeks there, Dr. Robby gathers all the med students and congratulates them on a job well done. He pulls him and Javadi aside after the other students have dispersed and offers them his number, so they can text or call him if they ever need help with something. “As an attending, I’m not supposed to pick favorites,” he tells them, hands in his pockets as he rocks forward to meet their eyes. Whitaker feels pride swelling in his chest and hopes it doesn’t show on his face. It probably does, though, because he can feel his cheeks heating. 

Mistake number two is simply saving Dr. Robby’s number under “Robby”. 

Santos convinces him to go out with her to celebrate the end of his rotation, even though he should be reviewing the section in his textbook on neonates since he’s going to the NICU next. She’s the only other person on God’s green earth who knows he’s gay, after she walked in on him jerking off to gay porn. Also not his proudest moment. 

She takes him to a gay club downtown, not far from PTMC. He worries at first that someone might recognize him; a classmate, a staff member from the ED, a former patient, but the lights are dim and the bartenders pour heavy. He doesn’t think he’d be able to recognize his own brothers in a place this crowded. Whitaker has never enjoyed clubs or bars, but Santos is a force to be reckoned with and promised to buy his drinks for him. He’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s fun dancing with her and doing shots, and getting way too drunk for a Wednesday night when they both have to go back to the hospital in the morning. Whitaker even meets someone, gives a stellar blow job in a bathroom stall, and gets a mediocre hand job in return. Med school isn’t easy, though, and mediocre hand jobs could hold him over for the rest of his life if he’s always this busy and stressed. The guy, Rodolfo, puts his number in his phone and tells Whitaker to text him whenever he wants. 

Mistake number three comes when they get home, and Whitaker is so drunk he can barely see straight. He has to be up in four hours, but instead of going to bed, he grabs his phone and decides to text the guy from the club. He spits in his hand and jerks himself until he’s hard and leaking and sends a picture of his cock, with his face in the photo. He immediately falls asleep after sending the text, dick still hard against his belly.

In the morning, he wakes up late and has to sprint out the door with Santos, who doesn’t even stop the car when she drops him off at the pediatric entrance of PTMC. He stumbles through the hospital, sweating pure alcohol and regret, and manages not to throw up all over his new attending. It’s not until nearly three o’clock that he realizes he left his phone at home. By seven, he’s still hungover, exhausted, and fragile from doing his first intubation on a preemie. 

Santos picks him up, and she doesn’t look much better, but she did grab some banana bags from the supply room so they can start IVs on each other at home. They set up shop on the couch, Chinese food steaming on the coffee table, and Whitaker locates his phone so he can text his dad about his first day at the NICU. He has a few notifications, but the one that stands out is a text from Dr. Robby. He frowns, flinching as Santos slides the IV into his vein, and opens the text. 

He nearly vomits.

Instead of texting his drunken dick pic to Rodolfo, Whitaker had somehow sent the message to Dr. Robby. He’s never drinking again. He’s never having sex again. Tibetan monks live happy, full lives and don’t have to worry about sending pictures of their cock to their former bosses.

“Earth to Whitaker!” Santos snaps. 

He drops his phone in his lap. “What?”

She already has the IV catheter in her arm. “Screw the loop on the end, would you?”

“Oh! Yeah.” He gets her set up with her banana bag on autopilot and distributes their food as she finds a show for them to watch. He tentatively unlocks his phone again, hoping he was hallucinating, but nope, there it is, in all its glory: a dim, horrible picture of his leaking cock with his smiling face right above it, sent to Dr. Robby. At two in the morning. 

[05:15] Robby: When I gave you my number, I didn’t expect you to send me unsolicited dick pics. 

What the fuck does he even say back to that? Sorry, can you tell me if it looks like I have the clap? Are you willing to shoot me in the head? Do you like what you see?

He has to say something. 

[20:01] You: i am so sorry dr robby, that wasn’t meant for u

And because he can’t help over-explaining himself, anything to communicate to his former mentor that he would never do this under normal circumstances, he double texts. 

[20:03] You: santos and i went out last night to celebrate the end of my ed rotation and i got really drunk and a guy at the club gave me his number and it must have been saved right under ur contact and i hit it by mistake and then we were running late this morning and i left my phone at home i am so sorry dr robby that was incredibly unprofessional of me it won’t happen again

He even triple texts. 

[20:04] You: i can delete ur number

The text goes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. Whitaker chews his thumb as he waits for the message. 

[20:05] Robby: It’s okay, kid. Mistakes happen. You don’t have to delete my number. What rotation are you on now?

It’s a lifeline, a chance to change the subject. 

[20:05] You: nicu
[20:05] You: i intubated a 27 weeker today

[20:06] Robby: It went well, I presume?

[20:06] You: it took me two tries but my mentor was nice about it
[20:06] You: i miss working in the ed with u tho

He immediately locks his phone and drops his head into his hands, resisting the urge to scream. 

“If you vomit on this couch, I will make you pay for a new one,” Santos warns. She’s still looking a little green around the gills, but he wouldn’t put it past her to just swallow it all back down to avoid showing weakness in front of anything that breathes. 

“I’m not gonna puke,” he mutters. His stomach clenches and roils. He chokes down a burp. 

“You look like you are.”

“I’m not!”

He might. 

His phone buzzes. 

[20:08] Robby: It was weird not having you around today. Who else is going to help with our rat problem?

Whitaker chuckles despite himself. 

“Who’re you texting?” Santos asks, leaning into his space to get a glance at his phone. 

Ever the smooth operator, Whitaker launches his phone across the living room and hears the distinctive sound of his screen cracking. Maybe there’s a flip phone in his near future. 

Santos blinks at him. “What the fuck,” she says dryly. “Did you dent the fucking wall?”

“Um.”

She pauses the show she had put on, some inane reality show she enjoys but Whitaker finds too dramatic, and tucks her legs up on the couch to face him fully. She keeps her left arm straight to avoid occluding the IV. “Spill.”

While Santos may be abrasive and arrogant at work, at home she’s a little softer, the edges rounding out in a place she feels safe. And Whitaker isn’t a threat, couldn’t be one if he tried. Santos would lay him flat on his ass before he could blink, and that’s not a theory he wants to put to the test. There’s no possibility of either of them wanting a sexual relationship with the other, and he finds their tentative friendship and roommate status almost sibling-like in nature. He never had sisters growing up, only brothers whose weapons of choice were fists and who can’t have a single serious conversation without adding some innuendo. Santos can be like that sometimes, but she can also be what Whitaker dubs “girl mean.” Her words cut right through him sometimes, twisting the knife in places he didn’t realize already hurt. But she calms down much faster, quick apologies rolling off her tongue or simply giving him space and asking if he wants to watch a movie after he’s calmed down a little bit. In the little over the month they’ve been living together, carpooling, working, eating, breathing together, Whitaker has grown to trust her, something he couldn’t have imagined on his first day in the ED. Don’t get him wrong, she proved herself as a physician at work, but at home she’s also proven herself as a friend, one Whitaker doesn’t feel wary about sharing his current predicament with. And she’s the only one who knows he’s gay. There’s no one else to talk to about this. Even if Dr. Robby is her boss, and she sees him nearly every day. 

“I accidentally sent a dick pic to Dr. Robby last night and he has been… remarkably cool about it,” he finally admits. Even though he’s only been dealing with this situation for all ten minutes, it feels good to share it with someone. He’s never been good at handling these things on his own. 

To her credit, Santos doesn’t react. 

For about three seconds. 

“You what?” 

“After the club, I tried to send a dick pic to that guy, but I was so drunk and- and I sent it to Dr. Robby instead.”

“And he… isn’t going to report you?” 

Fear floods him immediately, and dissipates just as quickly. Dr. Robby wouldn’t have responded to the message at all, if he was going to report it. He would have gone straight to HR and Whitaker would have been sent packing before he could even step foot in the NICU this morning. Probably for the best he left his phone at home, otherwise he would have spiraled all day and killed a baby or something. “I don’t think so? I told him it was an accident. And he just- He just asked how my shift in the NICU went.” 

Santos looks a little dazed. “I… You’re turning out to be a more interesting roommate than I thought.” 

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno. Hay bales as decoration. You buying a tractor. Chopping wood. Certainly not a gay twink with daddy issues.” 

“I don’t have daddy issues.” 

“Whitaker, you’re a poster child for daddy issues. Farm raised, religious, and probably a whiny bottom? The joke writes itself. Besides, I snooped after I caught you watching porn. You really need a password on your laptop.” 

“You went through my fucking search history?” His recent PornHub searches include fine terms like “dom daddy” and “twink railed by bear”. Tamer than most stuff, but incriminating nonetheless. 

“I wanted to know if you like priest and altar boy stuff.”

“Blasphemy,” he mutters, and Santos laughs. 

“You’re carrying a torch for Robby, huh?”

He lets out a deep breath. There’s no universe in which he wouldn’t find Dr. Robby attractive. The glasses, the little bit of gray in his beard, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. The way Whitaker has to look up at him, feeling small but valued. He rubs his forehead. “Against my better judgement.” 

“Lemme see the texts.”

“Uh, no? My dick is there?”

“I’m a doctor. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Oh, so you’d be okay if I saw one of your nudes?”

“You’d be lucky to see my nudes. I’d probably make you switch teams.” 

“Unlikely,” he deadpans. His OBGYN rotation had been his least favorite. “There are too many similarities between pig vaginas and human vaginas for me to ever consider going for a girl.” 

“First of all, ew. Second of all, you ever compare my cunt to that of a pig’s again and I’ll feed you to one.” 

“I’m still not showing you the messages.” 

“Boo. I know your password anyway. I’ll look at them when you’re sleeping.” She flops back on the couch and squeezes her IV bag, tapping at the chamber to get some bubbles to rise to the top. 

“You don’t know my password.” 

“6532. The last four of your social.” 

He blinks. “What the fuck, Trinity.”

“You really need a password on your laptop, man.” 

Whitaker sighs and grabs his banana bag so he can get up to collect his now shattered phone. The crack in the screen isn’t bad, but it does arc over his front camera. At least he won’t be sending dick pics with his face in them anymore. He stares at the message from Dr. Robby, debating on how to reply if he should at all. With a deep sigh, he hands his phone to Santos. 

“Aw, he misses you,” she coos. 

“Shuddup,” he mumbles. “What do I say back?”

She ponders his question, finger tapping her chin. “You could just not reply. Leave him wondering.” 

“Wondering what?” 

“Are you trying to flirt with him or no?”

“No! He’s my mentor, or he was, or- whatever. And it’s not like he could ever like me back. He’s straight.” 

“I don’t think a straight guy would be so chill about a dick pic. If he’s gay, he probably goes for twinks like you.”

“He’s a doctor. He sees dicks every day.”

“You know what I mean. I think-”

His phones buzzes with an incoming text. Santos’ eyes go wide as she reads it and then she gives the phone back to him. 

[20:21] Robby: Given any thought to what specialty you’ll be going into?

The answer comes unbidden: emergency medicine, of course. No other rotation has been as fulfilling, so wholly fun and chaotic and unpredictable. Internal med had been boring, rounding on patients for the first half of the day, and charting and answering calls for the rest. Family med had been the same, sniffles and sprained ankles and tetanus shots. ICU had been too intense, OBGYN a nightmare, psych too close to home with the religious psychosis he ran into surprisingly often. Working the rural hospitals in central PA had been fun and he was able to meld well with the farmers and the sheer amount of Amish people, but it felt almost dream-like. Like he was home, but not. Emergency med just clicked with him, and he can’t picture himself doing anything else. 

[20:22] You: emergency med

[20:22] Robby: Really? After the shit show that was your first shift here? 

[20:22] You: is it weird if i say it was fun? 

[20:23] Robby: You can’t work in the ER without being a little weird. 

“What’s he saying? What’re you saying?” Santos pries, trying to scoot impossibly closer to him despite being nearly in his lap. 

“Stop it! Lemme think!”

[20:24] You: just a little? 

[20:24] Robby: Maybe more. I could write a letter of recommendation for you. I won’t say you shouldn’t finish out the rest of your rotations; you’ll learn invaluable stuff you can bring back to ER, but if you really want to do emergency med, I can write that letter for you.

His heart hammers in his chest. 

[20:25] You: think i’ll match to ptmc for my intern year?

[20:26] Robby: I could make that happen. 

Whitaker shoves the phone at Santos, breathing a little fast. Perhaps he’s having a STEMI. 

“Oh, my god. He likes you!”

“He likes working with me!” And isn’t that enough to send him spiraling? Four short weeks, a blip in time, really, and that was enough to make Dr. Robby like him as a soon-to-be physician? “That doesn’t mean he likes me likes me.” 

“What are you, twelve?” 

“I’m a year younger than you.” 

“Semantics. Do you even remember the towers falling?”

“Do you?”

She flaps her hand at him. 

“He’s old enough to be my dad. There’s no way he likes me.”

“Maybe that’s what he likes about you.” She waggles her eyebrows at him. 

“He’s not a creep.”

She extends her legs over his lap, crossing her feet at the ankles. “Yeah, he’s probably kicking himself right now for even letting the dick pic fly under the radar. Stupid morals. If you’re both consenting adults, what’s the issue?”

“The power imbalance?”

“That can be sexy.”

Whitaker knows that intimately. And because Santos stalked his search history, she knows he knows. He really should put a password on his laptop. 

“None of this matters. He doesn’t like me like that, or even see me like that, so it’s a moot point. He’s just being a good mentor.”

“Yes, because a good mentor says it’s water under the bridge when his former mentee sends an unsolicited dick pic. Not a very good one, either. Why the fuck was your face in it?”

“Why did you look,” he says, resigned. 

“It was right there. In all its glory.”

“Well, I’m glad a lesbian thinks my dick is glorious.”

“I didn’t say that.”

[20:28] You: thank you, sir

It seems the conversation is over after that, as Dr. Robby stops replying even though it says he read the message. Whitaker counts his blessings; he sent a dick pic to a man who is essentially his boss, and wasn’t hanged for it. 

His shift at the NICU the next day is surprisingly uneventful. There are no new admits, no babies decide to stop breathing or shitting or being alive. One baby from a set of triplets admitted before Whitaker started in the NICU goes home during his shift, and he cries a little bit. It’s nice, to see a somewhat chunky baby leave the floor as a NICU graduate, and he has a pep in his step as he walks to the ED to meet Santos. 

Dr. Robby gives him a nod as he passes through, which Whitaker returns, and the world doesn’t implode nor does Dr. Robby announce loudly to the whole staff at shift change that Whitaker sent him a dick pic. 

They don’t text anymore that day, or the next. 

His fifth shift in the NICU is a disaster. He’s checking on a 34 weeker, only there for observation because he de-satted after birth and the doctors wanted to keep an eye on him. Of course, it goes to shit. 

The mom is bedside, talking animatedly about taking her son home at last, it’s her first kid, her husband is deployed and doesn’t even know he’s been born yet, no access to cell phones or a laptop to see her email to him. She painted the nursery yellow, bumblebee themed with a blanket her mom crocheted for the baby. 

The baby starts seizing. 

Whitaker has seen plenty of seizures, both adults and pediatrics, but never on a baby so young, a baby about to be discharged. So close to discharge that his IV has been pulled and Whitaker can’t do anything but stare. 

It’s unnatural, the way the baby tenses and shakes, his little limbs contracting and back arching, deep blue eyes rolling to the back of his skull. It’s violent, too, so much so he worries about shaken baby syndrome. Whitaker hesitates for three seconds, the mother already screaming and trying to grab her baby. He stops her with a hand around her wrist. 

“Don’t! Holding him during a seizure could hurt him!” And then he’s darting to the door and screaming, “CODE BLUE!”

The rest is a haze, the seizure lasts 62 seconds, but he doesn’t start breathing and his heart rate is in the 40s when they get him hooked up to the monitor. It’s a rapid rush of CPR and intubation and trying to get another IV, poking at his arms, his feet, the veins in his scalp, trying for an umbilical IV that fails and won’t flush. Whitaker doesn’t think they make IOs small enough for a baby his size, but it doesn’t matter in the end. The baby doesn’t make it and the mother has to go home to an empty house, a nursery without a baby, without her husband. 

He pictures the smallest coffin, baby shoes, for sale, never worn, a crocheted blanket around a cold, stiff body, blue eyes that will never see again, a mother with an empty womb and heart. 

It’s never easy, losing patients, but this hits harder. Worse than Mr. Milton’s death, because at least he lived a full life. This baby never even learned to smile. Never met his father, who still doesn’t know he was even born, let alone died. 

His feet lead him to the chapel, the smell of incense and the creaky plastic chairs offering no comfort to him. Whitaker knows death, probably better than the average person, knows the thin line everyone toes between a beating heart and an achingly still one. It doesn’t make it better, not even the deep seated belief that this baby will go to Heaven, too young and pure and innocent and too fucking small for any place else. Not even Earth. 

Whitaker collects himself eventually and makes it back to the NICU. Seven hours left of his shift. 

He walks to the ED at 19:15 in a haze, feet scuffing on the linoleum floor, bones feeling too big and brittle for his body. He stumbles and his shoulder crashes into a wall, but he hardly notices. 

Whitaker can’t remember the baby’s name. 

By some cosmic joke, he finds himself in an ED pediatric room, happy animals smiling at him. Is this the same yellow the mom used for the nursery? The same yellow as his marrow, left to rot in tiny bones in a tiny casket?

He doesn’t hear the door to the room open, but he hears Dr. Robby’s voice. “Hey, you can’t be in here. Who are- Oh, hey, Whitaker.”

His lungs are filled with rocks, sludge in his veins, bugs in his head. His abdomen bloats and bloats until it splits clean down the middle, like a cow found dead in the August heat. 

“Whitaker?” 

A gentle hand on his shoulder and Dr. Robby is in front of him, crouching to meet his eyes. Warm brown on light blue, the dirt under the sky. He blinks, his mentor coming into focus but his eyes blur with more tears. He turns and wipes at his face. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll- I’ll leave. I’m sorry. I was just- Is Santos-”

“Slow down. You’re okay,” Dr. Robby says. His thumb rubs soothingly over his collarbone. 

He nods mutely. 

“Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head. 

“You gotta work with me, Whitaker. What happened?” His voice is low, gentle, like talking to a spooked horse, as if Whitaker will turn tail and run, only to be found days later stiff and cold on the side of the road. There are bags under Dr. Robby’s eyes, dark and heavy and so present it makes Whitaker’s chest ache.

“I lost a patient,” he says, and feels stupid immediately. He’s going to be a doctor, he will lose patients and sometimes there’s nothing he can do. But it was a kid. A baby. With a nursery and a mom who loves him and a dad who never got to hold him. “Do they make coffins that small?” he asks timidly, the only thing he can think of. 

“Oh, kid,” Dr. Robby breathes, and Whitaker breaks. 

The sob wrenches out of him, feeling like razor blades in his throat, tearing his esophagus to ribbons. He hyperventilates to the point of light headedness, unsure of which way is up, knees buckling. But Dr. Robby is there, guiding him to the cot in the room and making him sit, grabbing his hand and pressing it to his chest, telling Whitaker to match his breathing, calm down, he doesn’t want to sedate him. 

That makes him take a deep and shuddering breath, the fear of being knocked out and saying something he shouldn’t, and fuck, a baby just died on his watch and he’s worried about admitting to his tiny crush on the chief attending of the ED? That sends him spiraling again, crying so hard he thinks he may vomit. 

“Whitaker, you gotta calm down. Breathe with me now, come on, kid.” Dr. Robby tucks Whitaker’s head into his neck and cradles the back of his skull. He smells like saline and hospital antiseptic. His skin is so warm, his carotid pumping just under Whitaker’s cheek. 

It takes a while but he gets there, his breathing slowing but the tears not stopping. Whitaker pulls back and stares at a point just over Dr. Robby’s ear. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. He flexes his hand over Dr. Robby’s chest and feels his heartbeat, counting in his head. 

“Don’t be. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He wraps his hand gently around Whitaker’s wrist, not forcing him away, but grounding him. He thumbs at his pulse, the thin skin over his bones. 

When Whitaker has finally stopped crying, and he feels like he can breathe on his own again, he draws his hand back and Dr. Robby grabs a box of tissues from the cabinet. He cleans his face and blows his nose, setting the tissues on the bed next to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Whitaker. You’re okay.” Dr. Robby sits next to him, their shoulders just barely touching. It feels like miles between them. “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

“My patient, a baby, he was going home today.” His little body shaking, the mom screaming, so many failed IVs. “He had a seizure and we couldn’t get him back.” 

“Oh, kiddo, I am so sorry.”

And there’s really not much he can say that Whitaker hasn’t heard already. It wasn’t his fault, no one could have known, and there’s nothing he could have done. 

“I hesitated,” he whispers. “I- He started seizing and I-”

“Shh. It’s alright.” Dr. Robby puts his hand on the back of Whitaker’s neck, squeezing gently. “You have to see everything for the first time. You’re still a student. You won’t be perfect. No one is.”

He sniffles, leaning into the touch like an addict even though it burns. “I’ve- I’ve treated seizures before. With you. I know how to stop seizures. But he- Dr. Robby, he was so little.”

“Yeah, I know. I know,” he soothes. “Now you know.”

Now he knows. He knows what went wrong, what he could have done differently, and he has a long career ahead of him to ask forgiveness for his mistakes. 

“I am still really sorry I sent you a picture of my penis,” Whitaker huffs, completely unprompted. 

Dr. Robby laughs, short and sharp. “Oh, kid.”

He walks Whitaker and Santos to Santos’ car, giving her strict instructions to make sure he eats something and gets plenty of restful sleep. 

Whitaker jerks himself off hard and fast in the shower. He can still feel Dr. Robby’s hand on his neck. 

[08:22] Robby: How’re you doing, kid?

Whitaker is probably more than fucked in the head that it makes him squirm when Dr. Robby calls him kid. There’s something so taboo about it, fisting his cock or getting himself off with three fingers in his ass, his mentor's rough voice repeating “kid” in his ear. 

[08:24] You: i’m alright
[08:24] You: it still sucks but now i know 

[08:25] Robby: Now you know. Did you eat breakfast?

Whitaker frowns. 

[08:26] You: no?

[08:26] Robby: You should eat something. Do you have bread and peanut butter?

[08:26] You: i ate dinner last night, sir, i don’t usually eat breakfast it makes me feel nauseous 

[08:27] Robby: Do you have bread and peanut butter? What about bananas or apples?

Whitaker lugs himself out of bed. He has a lecture to attend in the early afternoon, and thus has a rare morning off from the hospital. His plan was to lounge around, maybe play some stupid phone games or watch a few episodes of Letterkenny on Santos’ old roommate’s Hulu. Nonetheless, he shuffles to the kitchen and finds they do actually have bread, only two days past expiration, but they keep it in the fridge and he doesn’t see any mold so it’s fine, and there’s a half empty jar of peanut butter near the back of the pantry. And exactly one banana left. 

[08:31] You: we have bread, pb, and one banana 

[08:31] Robby: Make yourself some peanut butter toast and add sliced bananas on top. You need the protein and carbs. 

[08:32] You: we don’t own a toaster

[08:33] Robby: Do you have a stove and a pan?

[08:33] You: yeah

[08:34] Robby: Toast the bread in the pan. 

Whitaker sighs and does as he’s told, slathering the bread in the peanut butter and cutting up the banana. On a whim, he takes a photo of it and sends it to Dr. Robby. 

[08:40] Robby: Good boy. Rest up today, kiddo. 

Whitaker does not; he fingers himself until he’s gaping, imagining Dr. Robby calling him a good boy in bed. 

Near the end of his NICU rotation, a call comes from the ED. Imminent delivery at only twenty-nine weeks gestation. The NICU doctors need to meet the ED physicians to work the baby so they can work the mother. Whitaker takes the red backpack full of tiny baby equipment and runs to the ED with the NICU attending and some residents. 

It’s a shit show when they get down there. The mom is in Trauma 1, screaming over the cacophony of everyone in the room. “I’m not pregnant!” the mother screams, thrashing as they move her from the ambulance stretcher to the bed. “I can’t- This isn’t happening!” She can’t be older than eighteen, and the first set of her vitals on the monitor makes Whitaker’s heart drop. 

“Well, it’s happening,” Dr. Collins quips. “Two large bore IVs, start the mag.” 

The baby is crowning, skull compressing to force its way through the birth canal, and fuck, did Whitaker hate his OBGYN rotation. A vaginal birth is a natural part of life; it’s how almost everyone enters this world. It’s still fucking disgusting. The baby’s head pops free, but it doesn’t cry. The umbilical cord is wrapped around its neck at least twice. 

“Whitaker!” the NICU attending, Dr. Klein, barks. “Clamp and cut the cord, now!”

She guides him through carefully clamping what he can, telling him not to tug too hard, and he gently uses a scalpel to saw through the cord. They unwind the cord from around its neck, but it still doesn’t cry. He takes the suction bulb and suctions the mouth, but the baby still doesn’t cry. 

“Shoulder dystocia,” Mel observes in that quiet way, alerting but not alarming. 

“We need this baby out now,” Dr. Klein orders. Blood drips onto the bed. 

“Mom’s pressure is 193/101,” Mateo interjects. 

“Santos, suprapubic pressure,” Dr. Robby says, and Santos begins pressing just above the mom’s pelvis, hard. She screams in pain, begging them to stop, and somehow against all odds the shoulder pops free, and the baby slides directly into Whitaker’s hands. It’s slimy and gross and covered in viscera. It still isn’t crying. It’s a girl. 

The mom begins to seize; pre-eclampsia, probably, now full blown eclampsia. But the mother isn’t Whitaker’s patient, the baby is, and she still isn’t crying. An APGAR of zero is never good. 

Whitaker lays the baby down in the incubator, the NICU team crowding around the little girl. He manages to find her brachial pulse and even though he’s not counting the beats exactly, Whitaker can tell by feel it’s not high enough, and begins compressions immediately, two finger on her tiny chest. The team works around him, hooking the baby up to a monitor, attaching the BVM to the O2. Whitaker calls out his last five compressions, two breaths, and he’s back on the chest. Dr. Klein prepares to intubate and another resident begins an umbilical IV. 

It takes ten minutes, but they get a normal rhythm, pulse still not as high as Whitaker would like, but better than before. The NICU team rushes the baby upstairs, but Whitaker lingers, curious about the mom. 

After more mag sulfate her pressures come down, the seizing stops, and despite being post-ictal she’s asking about the baby. Although it’s too early to tell, Whitaker feels hopeful about both mom and baby’s prognosis. 

The mom is transported to the ICU (a rare bed open) and Whitaker and the ED staff are left standing in an empty, dirty trauma bay. The placenta oozes in a collection pan. “Well, that was fucked,” Santos says drily. 

Whitaker snorts. 

Dr. Robby claps once, getting everyone’s attention. “Good job, everybody. That was some amazing teamwork and communication. Whitaker, you really held your own there with the baby from what I could tell.” 

He beams with pride. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Okay, everyone take a minute if they need to, but the ED isn’t getting any less crowded. Back to work ASAP.” 

The ED team shuffles out, Whitaker and Dr. Robby taking up the rear. Dr. Robby stops him with a hand on Whitaker’s waist, there and gone. “Really,” he says low, directly into his ear, beard scratching his cartilage, “that was amazing. You didn’t waste any time starting compressions. That probably saved that baby’s life. You saved that baby’s life.” 

The praise goes to his head, suffusing him with endorphins. “Thank you, Dad.” And he promptly wants to crawl out of his skin and slither down the drain with the after birth slop.

Dr. Robby chuckles, dark. His eyes track over Whitaker’s face and down his neck before snapping back up to his eyes, pupils dilating just slightly. “Of course, kiddo. Go back up to the NICU. Check on your patient.” 

“Yes, sir,” he breathes, heart hammering in his chest. 

As he leaves, Dr. Robby whispers, almost like he doesn’t want Whitaker to hear it, “Good boy.” 

[13:47] Robby: How’s the baby doing?

[14:59] You: she’s stable for now but has a long fight ahead of her
[15:00] You: any updates on mom?

[15:28] Robby: Stable with pressures in range from what I’ve heard. 

[16:04] You: why can’t all cases go this well

[17:18] Robby: LOL. If only. You really did such a good job back there. 

[17:19] You: thank you sir
[17:19] You: i had a pretty good mentor in the ed u know

[18:37] Robby: Oh, yeah? Who?

[19:05] You: lol

Santos reads the messages on the couch, pink undereye masks on and Whitaker’s legs in her lap as she drips nail polish over his foot. “Dude, he’s so flirting with you.” 

“Are you gonna paint my nails or just keep re-reading my borderline inappropriate texts with your boss?” 

“I can do both.” 

She can’t. More polish drips on his foot. “Trin, seriously, my whole foot is gonna be blue if you don’t lock in.” 

“Whatever. You’re such a priss. Paint your own nails,” she snaps, still not handing over his phone. 

“You asked to paint them.” 

“And I’ll get there. Wait, did he seriously call you a good boy?”

“Stop scrolling back in our messages!”

“Come on,” she moans, finally tossing his phone back to him and actually focusing on painting his toenails. “This is so much more entertaining than Grey’s.” 

“I dunno why you watch that shit,” he grouses.

Santos shrugs. “I like to keep track of all the medical inaccuracies. The record per episode is, like, twenty-seven.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s all it is. It’s certainly not Sandra-”

“I will dump this whole bottle of polish on your foot.”

He cringes back. “Please, don’t.”

“Hold still, damn,” she orders, gripping the arch of his foot hard enough to hurt. “Has Dr. Robby sent you any dick pics, solicited or otherwise?” 

“Hah.” He fucking wishes. God, it’d probably be JO material for a year. 

“I’ve been wondering, actually,” Santos muses. 

“About?”

She drags the brush over his pinky toenail, getting polish on the surrounding skin. For as steady as her hands are in emergency situations, she fucking sucks at nail painting. “You grew up religious. I know the… guilt that can come with that.”

“And you’re wondering how I didn’t have a big, God-fearing breakdown about liking and having sex with men?” 

She shrugs. “I guess.” 

“I did when I was younger. With medical school and everything, I realized we’re all just bodies in the end. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Life already sucks enough, and I tried dating girls in high school. That sucked. It’s just… I know I can’t change this part of myself, and if God is all-knowing, he knows I’m gay. He wouldn’t have- wouldn’t have made me this way if it was wrong.”

Santos stops painting his pinky toe to look up at him. “That’s remarkably well-adjusted of you.” 

“I spent a lot of time thinking about it, during undergrad. Only you and Dr. Robby know I like men.” 

“Your family doesn’t know?”

He shakes his head. “I’m close with them, but I know their views. I’m already the black sheep, running away to med school instead of staying on the farm. I don’t see any reason to add more fuel to the fire.”

“But what if you start dating someone? You’d never want to bring them home?” 

“Of course I would, but if I don’t feel secure enough to tell them I’m gay, it wouldn’t be right to bring an innocent bystander into that mess. The last thing I would want is for my family to stage an intervention, for me and my hypothetical partner.” 

She hums, thoughtful. “You’re full of surprises, Dennis.” 

He knows there’s a story, somewhere. Santos doesn’t talk about her family much; not at all, now that he thinks about it. But that’s the thing with Trinity. If he pushes, she’ll pull back. She’ll tell him when she’s ready, and he’s fine waiting. Until then, she can paint his toenails while The Bachelor plays in the background. 

Whitaker’s NICU rotation ends with no fan fare, but he did learn one valuable lesson: babies are fucking scary from a medical standpoint. Pediatrics is not for him, which sucks because his next rotation is the PICU. Nothing like sick babies to heal the broken soul. 

He and Dr. Robby still text, toeing the line of flirtatious but still keeping up the facade of plausible deniability. It’s a fun game of cat and mouse; one of them will throw out an innuendo and the other will fall for the trap, only to be yanked back to the reality of mentor and mentee. 

It all makes Whitaker so fucking horny he stops contributing to the hot water usage of the apartment. 

And then there’s the first big snow storm of the season, and a massive pile up on the highway with confirmed fatalities. Whitaker has already finished his PICU rotation, working his way through endocrinology, and has a lucky day off from both class and work. The buses are barely operating as is with the storm, so he’s more than content to stay inside even if he’d rather be in the ED helping with the influx of traumas. 

Seven PM comes and goes, and Santos isn’t home. Probably taking the roads carefully, or still dealing with traumas. Around 10PM his phone buzzes, waking him up from where he fell asleep on the couch waiting for her. 

[21:58] Trin: i know the roads are shit right now but can you please please get over here and drive me home 

Whitaker doesn’t ask questions, because Trinity never asks for help, and he knows this is serious. He bundles up and spends twenty minutes trying to force the frozen over door of the apartment building open.

They don’t live far from the hospital. Realistically, it’s a feasible walk; maybe only a mile or so if they cut through some parks and backyards. But it’s all mostly uphill, and not worth the effort when the buses are usually on time and Trinity’s car isn’t being a diva. 

It’s worse in the snow. The flakes are fat and wet, clinging to his eyelashes and stinging his cheeks. He falls at least six times, bruising his knees and very nearly braining himself on a fence post, but he gets to the hospital in an hour. The ambulance bay isn’t empty, but not full either. And Trin wouldn’t have texted him if her work wasn’t done, so he knows the last of the traumas from the pile up are probably finished up. 

He finds Trinity in the break room, looking like shit warmed over, a cup of water and some crackers on the table in front of her. He eases into the chair next to her. “Bad?”

She nods. “Really bad.” 

“Worse than Pittfest?” 

Trinity bites her lip. “About on par.”

Whitaker should have sucked it up and come in, but what’s done is done and he can be here for Trinity now without his own feelings on the MCI affecting him. “Come on,” he says and helps her out her chair, leading her to the lockers. “Let’s go home.” 

He gathers her things for her, snagging her car keys from her purse and keeps his arm around her waist as they walk to the parking garage. As they near the car, Trinity says quietly, “Robby is taking it really hard.” 

Whitaker looks up, ready to ask what happened exactly, when his eyes land on a car idling in the garage, headlights on, and a shadowy figure in the driver’s seat with their head on the steering wheel. “Hold on just a sec,” he mumbles, depositing Trinity next to her car and rushing over to the idling vehicle, making sure to avoid ice patches. 

As he gets closer, he peers through the windshield. The person is breathing, which is good, but it could be an OD or a heart attack or a stroke, or any number of things. He taps on the driver’s side window. 

Dr. Robby looks at him through the glass and Whitaker’s breath catches in his throat. He looks horrible. Exhausted and scared, just like Pittfest in their makeshift morgue. “Dr. Robby?” 

He rolls the window down, sluggish from the cold. “Hey, kid. What’re you doing here?” he asks, voice low and hoarse, like he screamed his vocal cords raw. 

“Uh, I came to pick up Trinity. She didn’t think she could make it home on her own.”

“Smart girl.” 

“Do you- Do you have someone coming to pick you up?” 

Dr. Robby shakes his head. “No. No- I was just- I’m just waiting for my car to warm up.”

His windshield has long been defrosted, and hot air pours through the open window. “Do you- Let me drive you home.” 

“Whitaker, I’m fine. I promise. Just- Need a minute.” 

“Please, sir,” he begs. “I want to help.” 

Dr. Robby just looks at him with those sad brown eyes, like a cow going to slaughter. The bags under his eyes are impossibly dark, and there’s a slight tremor to his hands. A rogue snowflake lands on his nose and immediately melts. 

“Let me help,” he pleads. 

And by some miracle, he does. 

They take Dr. Robby’s truck, more likely to be able to make it through the snow than Trinity’s 2008 Kia. They all work tomorrow anyway, and Dr. Robby insisted the two of them stay the night at his place, since it’s just a little closer to the hospital and he doesn’t want them driving more than they have to. 

Whitaker plugs Dr. Robby’s address into his GPS, not wanting his mentor to waste energy on giving directions, and takes off with Dr. Robby in the passenger seat and Trinity nodding off in the back. 

Even though Dr. Robby lives three minutes from the hospital on a good day, it takes them nearly half an hour to get there, and they still almost skid into a snow drift. It’s only because he grew up in Nebraska, where the snow piles high enough to cover cars and sometimes houses that he manages to avoid getting them stuck in a ditch. It’s slow going and tense, and Whitaker can feel the tension in the air like a rubber band, ready to snap. 

Whitaker gets them both settled on the couch in Dr. Robby’s townhome and goes about the impossible task of taking care of two very strong people in a place he has never been. He gets them glasses of water, and then finds the alcohol stash, and gives them a glass of whiskey each. He wraps them up in blankets, puts on an inane YouTube video about the life cycle of polar bears on the smart TV just for background noise, and goes back to the kitchen to see if there is anything he can feed them. 

There isn’t much in Dr. Robby’s fridge or pantry, and he wonders how the man still functions if he really lives like this. Nonetheless, he finds crackers, cheese, and deli meat that doesn’t smell off, and makes a shitty charcuterie board that he sets on the coffee table. 

Whitaker is in crisis mode, which is apparently where he thrives. He locates the guest bathroom and starts the water for a hot shower, ushering Trinity in first and throwing her scrubs in the wash so she can wear them tomorrow. He hesitates for only a moment before rifling through Dr. Robby’s drawers in his bedroom to find some basketball shorts and a t-shirt Trinity can wear. His clothes are also soaked through from the trek to the hospital, so he grabs another set of clothes for himself and interrupts the wash cycle to add his clothes. He doesn’t think about the fact he’s wearing Dr. Robby’s clothing. 

As he muddles his way through a house he does not know, he finds a spare bedroom with a queen bed and deposits Trinity’s stuff in there before heading back to the living room to check on Dr. Robby. 

He’s finished the whiskey, but hasn’t touched the food or water. 

“Dr. Robby,” he whispers, afraid of breaking whatever spell he’s in but knowing he has to eat. “Please eat something.” 

Dr. Robby seems to look right through him, the ghost of something in his place. 

“Sir?”

He blinks, as if he’s surprised Whitaker is still here. “Huh?”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” 

Whitaker feels woefully out of depth, and wishes painfully that he had Dr. Abbot’s, or even Dana or Dr. Collins’ numbers. But he’s here, and he’ll do his best, because it’s better than the alternative. 

He stacks cheese and salami on a Ritz cracker and hands it to Dr. Robby. “Please eat. For me?” 

Miracle after miracle, he listens. Whitaker assembles the crackers, cheese, and meat, and Dr. Robby eats them on autopilot, eyes never straying from where they’re glued to the wall. He even gets some water in him, and at that point feels comfortable leaving Dr. Robby alone for a minute to check on Trinity. She’s just opening the door to the bathroom, looking a little better than before. 

“Go eat. I found a guest room you can stay in and some clean clothes.”

She nods, stops in the guest room to change, and follows Whitaker back to the living room. She’s able to assemble the poor excuse of a meal herself, and Whitaker takes on the daunting task of getting Dr. Robby into the shower. 

“Sir, you should shower.” 

“Yeah,” in that same monotone he’s had since Whitaker took his car keys from him. He looks so small on the couch, a far cry from the demanding presence he has in the ER. He looks simultaneously twenty years older and twenty years younger. 

“Come on. Up you get.” He helps Dr. Robby to his feet and into the master bathroom, arm looped around his waist. “Do you need help showering?”

That seems to snap him back a little, and he shakes his head. “I- I got it.”

“Okay. I’m- I’ll be out here, if you need anything.” 

“Thanks, kid,” and he shuts the door. 

Whitaker feels like he can breathe a little easier. He got Dr. Robby to eat and shower, and Trinity already looks better. He collapses on the couch next to her, and she immediately curls up into him, arm around his middle. 

“I had a- I missed smoke inhalation, somehow. It wasn’t- I don’t-”

“Now you know,” Whitaker says, pressing a kiss to her hair, because Trinity doesn’t respond well to platitudes. She always does her best, and telling her something she already knows won’t help. So he focuses on the future. 

She breathes deep, curling her fingers into his shirt. “Yeah.” Another shuddering breath. “Yeah.” 

“And Dr. Robby?” he asks haltingly. 

“Two teenage patients. Think it reminded him a lot of Jake and Leah. The boy didn’t make it, and the girl will be paralyzed from the waist down.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters for lack of anything else worth saying.

“Yeah, it’s all fucked.” 

She eats one last cracker with cheese and meat before brushing her fingers off on the borrowed shorts. “I’m gonna go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah. I’ll be out here if you need anything.” 

Trinity nods, and then pulls Whitaker to his feet and into a hug. Her head comes up to just below his chin, cheek tucked against his collarbone. She’s so small, he realizes, and young, too. Not indestructible as she sometimes seems, but barely holding it together. He squeezes her tight, cheek resting on the top of her head. She pulls back first, and wipes at her eyes. “Thanks.”

He swallows. “Yeah, of course.” 

He hears the guest bedroom door click shut behind her and sits back down, head in his hands. Exhaustion weighs on his shoulders, and he takes a minute to gather himself before standing once more to start cleaning up. He hears the shower still running in the ensuite. Concerned, he pads to the master bedroom and knocks on the bathroom door. “Dr. Robby?”

He doesn’t get a response. 

He knocks again, louder. “Dr. Robby? Are you alright?” 

Still nothing. “Dr. Robby! If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.” 

Whitaker counts to five before trying the knob. It’s unlocked, thankfully, because he would have kicked the door in. The sight that greets him is horrifying. 

Dr. Robby had managed to get his shirt off, but he still has his pants and socks on. He’s huddled in the corner of the shower, water pelting down on him. He’s shaking horribly, skin pale and almost blue, dark hair matted to his forehead and brown eyes wide open, glittering in the warm glow of the light, miles away from where they are right now. Dr. Robby’s face is shattered. He looks worse than the mother of the baby in the NICU; he’s so far past burnt out and exhausted and has barrelled straight into catatonic. 

Whitaker has seen something like this once, during his time with psych. The patient had been given a slew of diagnoses, ranging from major depressive disorder to complex PTSD to mania and psychosis. 

And fuck, why shouldn’t Dr. Robby look like this? In the last three months alone, the anniversary of Dr. Adamson’s death came and went, he discovered his favorite senior resident had been skimming from their drug supply and showing up to work high, for months, PittFest happened, the biggest mass shooting event since Vegas, and not only was he chief attending for a MCI with over two hundred patients, his quasi-step-son was there at PittFest, and his girlfriend was shot right in the chest and Dr. Robby worked on her and lost her and Jake blames him and-

Whitaker’s knees buckle as he lunges forward to turn the water off, and he grabs the first towel he sees to wrap around Dr. Robby’s shoulders. “Come on, sir. Stand up.”

Dr. Robby doesn’t resist as Whitaker hooks his elbows under his mentor’s shoulders and lugs him up, but he doesn’t aid in the process either. He gently guides Dr. Robby out of the shower and has him drip onto the bathmat. There’s no hesitation as he sinks to his knees to guide his scrub pants over his hips and down to his ankles. Whitaker places only a slightly trembling hand under Dr. Robby’s knee to lift his foot up and shimmy the pants off the rest of the way. It doesn’t even occur to him that he is eye level with Dr. Robby’s soft cock, nor does he have any desire to look any longer than it takes him to do a quick assessment, checking Dr. Robby from head to toe to check for any injuries he could be hiding, if he could have hurt himself. Thankfully, he finds nothing, just pale, cold skin and trembling muscles.

He dries him as quickly as he can, and then helps Dr. Robby into clean, dry clothes before having him lie down on the bed. He doesn’t fight back, just goes where Whitaker guides, like a puppet. 

This is so wholly out of Whitaker’s wheelhouse, and he has to take a shuddering breath to avoid vomiting all over the wooden flooring. He cannot handle this alone, nor can he wake up Trinity when she’s in a fragile state as well. 

Whitaker finds Dr. Robby’s phone in his bag by the front door and rushes back to Dr. Robby, holding the phone in front of his face so the FaceID will unlock it. He doesn’t snoop as he breaks into Dr. Robby’s phone; he just immediately drags down from the top to open the search feature, finds the contacts app, and searches ‘Jack Abbot’. 

The phone rings as he holds it up to his ear, breathing hard and fast in the hallway. Please please please pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-

“I’m glad you called, brother,” Dr. Abbot greets on the other end. 

Whitaker’s breath leaves in one deep exhale. “Dr. Abbot. It’s Dennis Whitaker? I was a med student in the ED a few months back?”

“Whitaker. I remember.” There’s a brief pause. “Why are you calling me from Robby’s phone?”

“It’s- Dr. Abbot- It’s not- I don’t-”

“Sitrep, Whitaker!” Dr. Abbot barks, and Whitaker snaps his spine straight so fast his head spins. 

“Dr. Robby is in what seems to be a catatonic state, and I don’t know what to do.” 

“Okay.” Dr. Abbot sighs. “Okay. Where is he right now?”

“In his bed.”

“Asleep?”

“No, sir.”

“Find the guest room. In the side table on the left, in the top drawer, you’ll find a prescription bottle with my name on it. It’s Ambien CR. Each pill is 6.25 milligrams. Make him take two. Tell me when you’ve done that.”

“Yes, sir,” Whitaker says and follows his instructions like a soldier. Once Dr. Robby has swallowed the pills, Whitaker pulls the covers out from under him and tucks them back around him. He shuts off the light and closes the door. “I’m done, sir.”

Dr. Abbot groans, long and suffering. “Start from the beginning.”

And so Whitaker does, from walking uphill in the snow to drive Trinity home, the state she was in, finding Dr. Robby in the car, whiskey and meat and crackers and blue skin and soaked scrub pants and- and-

“Easy, Whitaker. Easy. You handled everything so well. You took good care of them. Thank you.” 

Whitaker nods, remembers Dr. Abbot can’t see him, and says hoarsely, “Yeah.” 

“You shouldn’t have been put in this situation, but I’m glad it was you.” 

He doesn’t want to unpack that. “Dr. Abbot?”

“What?”

“Does this- Has he done this before?”

Whitaker hears creaking, wonders if Dr. Abbot is sitting at his kitchen table, drinking a handle of liquor. That’s what he wants to be doing. “Yes. After Dr. Adamson. That’s the only time.”

“How did you fix it?”

“I didn’t fix it, Whitaker. I patched him up and hoped it would hold. Only Robby can decide to get help. You can’t do that for him.”

The fucking crux of it all. Whitaker, healer of the sick and the broken, servant of God, has not fixed a goddamn thing. He has done the equivalent of trying to heal a GSW to the head with thoughts and prayers. 

He swallows thickly, and he really may throw up now. 

Dr. Abbot gives him a moment before continuing, “I can’t drive over to him right now. The roads are still absolute shit. I’ll cover Robby’s shift tomorrow and pick Santos up on the way. You need to stay with him until I get off shift. If you’re supposed to work tomorrow, make up an excuse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t tell you what sort of state he’ll be in when he wakes up, but make sure he eats and drinks, and do not let him have alcohol. A cigarette is fine.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Call me if you need me, Whitaker.”

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Nah. Thank you, Dennis.”

Whitaker doesn’t sleep; instead he spends the night manic cleaning Dr. Robby’s place until it’s sparkling. He does the dishes, wipes the counters, sweeps the floors, even does Dr. Robby’s laundry. Trinity wakes up at five-thirty, and he relays what Dr. Abbot told him last night. There are bags under her eyes, and he knows she’s far from being okay about all of this, but she still nods sternly. 

“Good plan. You’ll call if shit goes sideways?”

“Yes, Trin,” he swears. “You and Abbot.” 

Her eyes skate over his face, looking for something. “Okay, Huckleberry.”

He rolls his eyes heavenward. “You said you’d stop.” 

Trinity grins. “See you tonight.”

Dr. Robby doesn’t wake until eleven AM, stumbling from his bedroom like he’s not sure what happened. “What the fuck,” he mumbles. 

“Dr. Robby,” Whitaker greets, standing up from the couch and pausing the movie that had been playing but he hadn’t been watching. 

He startles, elbow connecting with the wall behind him. “Whitaker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why-” He looks around, eyes flitting across his home. “What are you doing here?”

“You were- It was bad, last night. Not- Not the MCI. You.”

Dr. Robby swallows audibly. “Oh.”

“Um. Dr. Abbot said I’m supposed to stay with you. He’s covering your shift and will be over tonight.” The silence stretches long. “Are you hungry? Dr. Abbot brought over some food when he picked up Trinity.”

“Santos was here?” His voice cracks. His hair is ruffled, plastered to one side of his face. There are creases on his cheek, eyes still hazy from sleep. 

Whitaker looks down at his hands. “Yes. But she wasn’t doing good, either, so she didn’t see.” 

Dr. Robby drags his hands over his face. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Whitaker realizes with a start that Dr. Robby is crying. He rushes over and then stops short, unsure of what to do. Dr. Robby hiccups. He’s a very ugly crier. It’s horrible to watch. Whitaker starts to cry despite himself. “Don’t- It’s okay. You’re okay.” He’s not, probably won’t be for a very long time, but he’s not sure what else to say. His hands hover uselessly over Dr. Robby’s shoulders before he says fuck it, and hugs him. 

Dr. Robby shudders out a heaving breath and squeezes Whitaker, tucking his face into his hair and getting snot all over Whitaker. He trembles, whole body shivering, interrupted by forceful sobs. But he’s warm, and alive, and crying instead of the horrible, yawning cavern of silence he was last night. Truthfully, Whitaker prefers this version of a broken Dr. Robby over the one he took care of just twelve hours before.  

Dr. Robby suddenly pushes Whitaker away. “You- Fuck, Whitaker.”

Whitaker stands there, tears drying on his face. “Sir?”

“Fucking- You’re always fucking there.” He laughs hysterically, pulling at his hair. “I have a breakdown and you’re-you’re there, looking sad and- and pathetic and trying to help and it- Fuck!”

“I don’t- Sir, I never meant-”

“You kids never mean to!” he shouts, and Whitaker flinches back. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t need your fucking help?”

Whitaker eleven weeks ago would have turned and ran, but his weeks in the ED, NICU, and PICU have taught him to stand up for his patients, and Dr. Robby has been his patient, more or less. Now, anger flares hot in his stomach, burning away the hurt at being shoved and called pathetic. He balls his hands into fists at his side. “And did it occur to you that if I hadn’t helped, you’d still be sitting in your car or- or in the shower or wherever the fuck else? If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be able to stand in front of me and- and berate me!”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“You didn’t fucking have to! I was there, and I was your only option. So I’m sorry, if I’m not who you wanted to see this morning, but you don’t have a fucking choice. I’m stuck here, and even if I wanted to leave, I can’t, because I have no car, the roads still aren’t great, and I promised Dr. Abbot I would stay. And right now, I’m more inclined to respect his wishes than yours, since you obviously can’t take care of yourself,” he spits. 

“And you can?”

His nostrils flare. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not fucking stupid, Whitaker, I know you were homeless.”

Whitaker’s jaw clenches. “Don’t.”

“If you can’t even keep a roof over your head, how are you supposed to help me, huh? Take me to your box on the corner? Show me all the good soup kitchens?” Dr. Robby’s voice is full of venom, dripping down his chin and burning Whitaker’s skin. 

He feels his face twitch horribly the way it does before he really cries. He licks his lips and turns away. “You’re a dick, sir.”

“Whitaker, wait-”

“I heard you, Dr. Robby.”

“I didn’t-” Dr. Robby grabs his shoulder and Whitaker shakes him off, looking over his shoulder to glare at him. 

“Didn’t what? Mean it?”

“I need help, Whitaker, and that’s not- that’s not an excuse. I’m- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. You were trying to help.”

“I did help,” he asserts, voice wobbling. 

“You did,” Dr. Robby says softly. “And I’m glad you did. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry I took out my anger on you when you are the last person who deserves it. Please forgive me.”

Whitaker shouldn’t; Dr. Robby crossed a line. But he’s weak to his big, brown eyes and the way his shoulders curl in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “It’s not okay,” he whispers, finally turning back around slowly. “But I forgive you.” He sticks out his hand, looking at the corner of Dr. Robby’s mouth. Their hands clasp together. 

Robby lets go first, rubbing at his face. “You mentioned food?”

Whitaker takes a breath. “Yes, sir. I can do scrambled eggs.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s- that’s good.” 

“Okay.”

Robby sighs. “Okay.”

Whitaker makes the scrambled eggs quick and efficient, and then puts How It’s Made on the TV. It’s quiet in the living room other than the hum of the narrator and their forks scraping the plates. Whitaker cleans their plates when they’re finished and sits on the couch again, unsure of what to do now. 

“You shouldn’t have had to help me,” Robby says as the show credits roll, the next episode loading. 

“I wanted to,” Whitaker admits. It’s still snowing outside, the sky a gray sheet. 

“Yeah, well. It’s not fair to you. You’re- You’re young and have a lot on your plate. I doubt you can- can spare this kind of effort.”

Whitaker sighs. “Like you said, I was homeless. Halfway through my third year of med school. I couldn’t- I can’t go back home, after all this time. Trinity offered me a place to stay. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to help before, but I can now.” He shifts closer, makes sure Robby is looking at him. “Dr. Robby, when you need help, you don’t get to choose who rises to the occasion.”

Robby nods, eyes darting away. “Thank you, Whitaker. I still wish you hadn’t seen me like that, but… I’m glad it was you.”

Dr. Abbot had said the same thing last night, over the phone. Again, he has no idea what it means, nor does he want to figure it out. Whitaker adjusts himself on the couch, drawing his legs up to his chest, chin resting on his knee, and looks at Robby. He’s leaning back on the couch, legs spread, and head resting on the cushion behind him. His eyes aren’t closed, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

“Dr. Robby?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you… religious?”

“Define ‘religious’.”

“It’s just- During PittFest, in the pediatric room, you had- You wear the Star of David.”

Robby looks over at him. “Is that an issue for you?”

“No! No, it’s- it’s not. I, um- I studied theology in undergrad. I was gonna- I was gonna be a pastor. I grew up Evangelical.” He groans in frustration, rolling words around in his mouth. “I’m not- I’m not even a doctor yet, so I won’t pretend to know everything about- about fixing whatever is going on with you. But… Do you ever go to the Temple?”

He huffs a laugh. “I haven’t since- since my grandmother died.” 

Whitaker nods. “That happens a lot, people leaving their religion after losing the person that- that embodied their beliefs. Did you ever- Did you ever think about going back?”

“To the synagogue?”

“Yeah.”

Robby looks down at his necklace, tracing over the Star. “Sometimes. But other times… It’s hard, to believe in God with everything we see.” 

Whitaker knows that sentiment well. Doctors play God, constantly racing the clock to find the answer, like they’re competing with Him. “I don’t know anything about healing your mind, but maybe I could help with- with healing your soul.”

“My soul?”

“Can I- Can I tell you something? Something only Trinity knows, and she doesn’t even know the half of it.” 

Robby frowns, but nods. 

“I’m- I’m gay.”

He snorts. “Oh, kid. I know that. You sent me a dick pic and told me it was meant for another guy.” 

Whitaker flushes down to his chest. He tugs at the collar of the shirt he stole from Dr. Robby. It’s too big on him, exposing one side of his collarbone. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, I- Sorry.” He takes a deep breath and plays with the hem of his shirt, fingers shaking. “When I told my parents that I had changed my mind, that I was going to med school, it wasn’t- it wasn’t good. We got into the worst fight we’ve ever had. My parents, my whole family, really, they don’t- they don’t really trust medicine? Me and my brothers were never vaccinated as kids, we were told depression is a sign of the Devil, and that doctors want to poison our minds and try to stop God’s plans.” He squeezes his hands into fists. “It took a lot to- to move past that. They’re still not- They’re not happy with me, but I heard my dad telling my mom, the day before I left to come out here for school, that at least I’m not- I’m not a faggot.”

“Fuck, Whitaker.” 

“It’s not- I mean, yeah, it hurts, but- But what they don’t know can’t hurt them. I’ve always known I was- I was different. I thought being a pastor, actually studying the Bible in an academic context would- would fix me. Obviously, it didn’t, but I learned that- that there’s nothing wrong with me. I struggled so hard with my faith when I was younger. I truly thought I was broken, and no amount of prayers was fixing me. It was really bad, Dr. Robby, when I started college. But- But I realized during my last year of undergrad that if it’s been this long, and I’ve been trying as hard as I could to fix myself, at that point, nothing was going to change.

“My classes focused mostly on the Bible and the Abrahamic religions. We read a lot of different translations. I couldn’t- I saw God all wrong. I grew up being told to fear him, and nobody ever told me that that meant to respect Him. God isn’t- He isn’t hateful. He’s not malicious. And He’s- He’s full of forgiveness. He would forgive me, if being gay is wrong, but if it isn’t… He would forgive me for hating myself, too, for hating what He created. I don’t think He put us on Earth to suffer; I think He put us here to- to live. He wants us to live in His Creation, to enjoy and love what He made. And if He made me to love- to love the men in my life then… Then why would I fight that?” Whitaker feels tears stinging the backs of his eyes, and he looks up to blink them away. “I didn’t go to church for three years, but I told my parents I was going every week. When I became homeless, I realized I needed- I needed support. And I found it back in church, of all places. I don’t think- I don’t think God expects us to believe everything we’re taught about Him. I think He wants us to take what we need, and leave the rest. And I take what I need from Him, not from anyone else. If I believe God loves me as I am, that’s enough.”

“And… And your family?” Robby asks quietly. 

“I’ll never tell them. As complicated as it is, I love them. I don’t want to lose them. It fucking sucks that I can never- I can never tell them this huge part of myself, but I imagine there are things they probably hide, too, that would destroy how I view them. Maybe it’s wrong, to not want them to know and to keep this secret, but I tortured myself enough. I made it this far, and I’m okay with that.” 

Robby looks back at the TV, where they show the process of making a computer chip. 

“I guess what I’m trying to get at is whatever your reasons for leaving, you can have your reasons for going back, too, if you want. He won’t- He’ll welcome you back. And I think your grandmother would, too.” 

“Religion won’t fix this.”

Whitaker nods. “It won’t. But maybe it could help. If it did in the past.” 

Robby stares at him, dark eyes shifting over his face. “Maybe.”

He leaves it at that, having said his piece. Whitaker won’t ever believe he can fully understand what Robby is going through; it’s not his battle to fight. But he wants to help. 

Dr. Abbot thanks Whitaker profusely when he shows up, and tells him Trinity is waiting outside for him. “How’s he doing?” she asks when he slides into the passenger seat of her car. 

“Better, I think. He- He needs serious help, but I think he sees that now.”

She nods once. “Good.”

And it is.

[21:19] Robby: Thank you. 

[21:22] You: of course, sir
[21:23] You: im here if u ever wanna talk

[21:25] Robby: No. If I can help it, I will not be involving you in my issues again. But Jack did convince me to go to therapy. 

[21:25] You: thats good

[21:26] Robby: It’s a start. And if I ever wanted to go back to the synagogue, would you come with me?

[21:28] You: id love to, sir

Whitaker has been to a Temple before in undergrad. That was under an academic perspective, though, and nothing like this. He and Robby stand outside the synagogue, looking up at the architecture as other people flow around them and through the doors. It’s a Saturday in January, the wind nipping at them, the sun bright. Whitaker had dressed in black slacks and a white button down, winter coat over his shoulders. Robby is dressed similarly, but his shirt is black and he’s wearing a kippah. He keeps touching it, as if he’s afraid it’s sitting crooked or has fallen off. He clutches his tallit in his hands and Whitaker is overcome by the urge to feel the fringes at the corners. He shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“Are you ready, sir?” he asks quietly, afraid to break the sanctity of the Temple grounds. 

Robby looks over at him, and then at the Temple. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.” 

They step inside, warm air rushing over them, and an usher offers Whitaker a tallit. He respectfully declines, explaining quietly that he’s not Jewish. The usher nods and moves on to the next person. Before they step into the Temple proper, Robby dons his tallit, murmuring the blessing under his breath. He adjusts it until its laying properly, smoothing down the fabric. “Okay,” he says. 

The service is beautiful, even if Whitaker can’t understand the Hebrew prayers. Robby chants along quietly, stumbling over the words a couple of times, but as was the case with Whitaker, coming back to religion is like riding a bike. The rituals are like second nature, the flow of the service familiar and calming. 

At the end, Robby seems lighter, almost. They part ways outside, Robby squeezing his shoulder and wishing him luck in his next rotation. 

He doesn’t invite Whitaker to a Saturday service again. 

Whitaker checks his phone again. 9PM. He sighs and texts Trinity.

[21:03] You: where r u
[21:12] You: are u dead????
[21:23] You: if u dont reply im coming to the hospital

[21:25] Trinity: fuck sorry
[21:25] Trinity: dont be mad

[21:26] You: …what

[21:26] Trinity: im at a bar with yolanda
[21:26] Trinity: garcia
[21:27] Trinity: the surgical resident?

[21:27] You: trin
[21:27] You: im glad ur getting ur dick wet but wtf am i supposd to do

[21:28] Trinity: wellllllll
[21:28] Trinity: u could ask robby

[21:29] You: i havent seen him since i went to the temple with him
[21:29] You: two weeks ago

[21:30] Trinity: and?

[21:30] You: he hasnt even texted me
[21:31] You: what if i was super disrespectful and now he hates me

[21:31] Trinity: i doubt it
[21:31] Trinity: i heard him talking to abbot at shift change
[21:32] Trinity: he was saying it was nice to go back and he was glad u went with him

[21:32] You: really

[21:32] Trinity: yes really
[21:33] Trinity: so fucking text him yolanda thinks im ur babysitter or smth
[21:33] Trinity: not a good look for me

[21:34] You: have fun
[21:34] You: use protection

[21:35] Trinity: ;)

Whitaker taps his phone against his forehead. He has an exam next week, focusing on emergency med and geriatric care, and he wants help studying. Trinity had offered to help after her shift, but… 

It’ll be fine. 

[21:40] You: are u free rn

[21:45] Robby: What’s ‘rn’?

[21:45] You: right now

[21:46] Robby: I was about to go to bed, but what’s up?

[21:46] You: i have an exam next week and i need help studying
[21:46] You: trin was supposed to help but she got tied up

[21:48] Robby: I can’t tonight but I’m free tomorrow. 

[21:49] You: that’d be perfect
[21:49] You: i finished my last rotation two weeks ago and have spent all my time studying or going to reviews but i wanna do well, esp on this exam

[21:51] Robby: I’m sure you do well on all your exams, kid. 

[21:51] You: i mean usually
[21:52] You: i know im probs overthinking it but id rather study more than assume i’ve got it

[21:54] Robby: I understand. You can come over to my house around eleven AM.

[21:55] You: thank u so much sir ill see u then

[21:56] Robby: Of course. Good night.

[21:56] You: good night <3

Is two stories high enough to kill yourself?

[21:58] Robby: What’s less than three?

[21:59] You: its like a little heart

[22:00] Robby: Oh, I see. 
[22:00] Robby: Good night. <3

Whitaker flips over on the couch and screams into a pillow. He cums two times before he falls asleep. 

Whitaker adjusts the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. He has his laptop, three textbooks, and his binder full of lecture slides and scrambled notes and questions. With the little money he has in his bank account, he bought Robby a bottle of bourbon to thank him. It sits heavy in the side pocket, reflecting the sun. He takes a steadying breath and knocks on Robby’s door. 

Robby opens it only a few seconds later and Whitaker’s breath leaves him all at once. He’s dressed in light gray sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt, Star of David resting slightly crooked on his chest. His hair is messy, falling onto his forehead, his glasses resting on top of his head. Fleetwood Mac filters outside, and Whitaker smells pancakes. 

“Hey, kid,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. 

“Hi, Dr. Robby. Um, thank you for helping me.” He fidgets on the front porch, looking anywhere but at Robby’s dick in the pants. He’s gonna pass out. 

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.” He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Come on in.”

Whitaker steps inside and toes off his shoes. The TV is open to Spotify, the song switching to Over My Head. Two plates of food sit on the dining table, steam curling above them. 

“I made you breakfast. I remember you saying you don’t eat in the mornings, but it’s important, especially if we’re going to be studying,” Robby explains. He takes Whitaker’s backpack from him and drops it on the couch, guiding Whitaker towards the dining room with a hand on his lower back. 

“Oh! Thank you, sir.” The food does look good. Pancakes, over-easy eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns are piled high on both plates, and butter, strawberry jam, and syrup are set in the middle in the table. He can’t remember the last time he had someone make breakfast for him that wasn’t after a one-night stand. “It smells really good.”

Robby gestures of Whitaker to sit. “Dig in. I’m gonna grab some orange juice.” 

Whitaker takes the seat near the window and unravels his scarf from around his neck, shedding his jacket as well to lay it over the back of the chair. He spreads butter and jam over his pancakes and then drenches them and the bacon in syrup. Robby returns with a carton of juice and two glasses and places them on the table. He pauses before sitting.

“Dr. Robby?”

“What’s this here?” he asks, fingers grazing over the front of Whitaker’s neck, just below his Adam’s apple. 

Whitaker flushes and tugs the collar of his shirt up to hide the fading bruises. “Nothing, sir.”

Robby gently tugs his collar back down and presses lightly on the bruises. Whitaker swallows a moan. “Is someone hurting you?”

He coughs. Thank God he hadn’t started eating yet or he would have spewed food all over the table. “No, sir.”

“Whitaker, be honest with me. If a boyfriend or a classmate or anyone else is abusing you, you can tell me. I can help you.” 

He’s so earnest, dark eyes filled with concern. Whitaker looks up at him. “Sir, no one is hurting me.” His eyes dart back down; he can’t look at Robby when he says this next part. “Not without my consent.” 

Only the music breaks up the silence. 

“Oh, kid, if they’re choking you properly it should never leave bruises.”

And how the fuck does he know that?

“Um,” he mumbles dumbly. 

“Is it your boyfriend?” He finally sits down across from Whitaker, but his eyes never leave him. 

“No! No, uh, I’ve never- I’ve never had an actual boyfriend. It’s always been one-night stands.” He cringes. “Not that- Not that I wouldn’t like to have a boyfriend, it just- No one ever feels right.”

“So you’re letting strangers choke you? That’s incredibly dangerous, kid.” 

Whitaker flushes and shoves a bite of pancakes into his mouth. He can’t help the groan that leaves him. Fuck, that’s good. “I know it is, but- I dunno.” 

“I can give you a list of BDSM clubs in the area. That way you can have sex with people who actually know what they’re doing,” Robby offers.

The earth must stop moving. Whitaker feels like he’s going to go sailing right off the surface and straight into space. He asks the stupidest fucking question. “Why do you know about the BDSM clubs in the area?”

Robby stares at him. 

“Right, inappropriate. Sorry, sir.”

“No, I crossed the line first, by asking.” He drizzles syrup over his pancakes and takes a bite before continuing. “I’ve been part of the scene for a while now. It’s a good stress reliever.”

The image Whitaker conjures of Robby in a club, spanking some twink as he begs to cum, lights down low and the scent of sex and sweat all around them, has him rock hard in seconds. He drinks half of his orange juice in one gulp. “Right.”

“Just let me know. How have your other exams gone so far?”

Robby is an expert in redirecting, otherwise Whitaker would have lunged across the table and started humping his leg like a dog. He clears his throat and talks about his less-than-stellar score on his OBGYN exam, how respiratory conditions and labs always confuse him, but he’s the best in his class at intubation. He mentions what he’d learned in his rotations after the ED, and how no other rotation has topped his ED one. As he finishes his meal, he asks, “Would you still be able to write a letter of recommendation for me?”

“Of course. I already have it written.”

“Oh.” His heart feels too big in his chest, swelling and swelling like it’s going to pop. 

“I can’t guarantee the board at PTMC would take my word as bond. They have some… gripes with me, so to speak, but I can do my best.” 

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re going to be a great doctor, Whitaker.”

His breath catches in his throat. All this time, no one has come out right and said that. He’s gotten plenty of ‘good jobs’ and ‘nice works’ and ‘way to keep your cools’, but no professor or attending or classmate or even his family has come out right and said, “You’ll be good at this. This is what you’re meant to do.” Even when he was in the ED with Robby, high on adrenaline after a close call, arms shaking from CPR, fingers trembling after a chest tube, heart hammering after watching the monitor finally kick back into normal sinus after two doses of adenosine, Robby never pulled him aside and told him he was where he was meant to be. But he’s saying it now, in his dining room in the late morning, pancakes soaked through with syrup, pulp floating in the orange juice. And Whitaker didn’t even do anything special. He’s just existing, asking for help to study for an exam that Robby probably took decades before. 

It all makes him lightheaded. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice a little hoarse. 

Robby claps him on the shoulder as he stands, cleaning their plates. “You’re welcome, kid. Come on, show me what you’ve got.” 

They study until almost eight o’clock. Halfway through Robby orders take out for dinner, and they watch a few episodes of Pawnstars, because of course Robby likes that show, and Whitaker watched it with his dad and brothers growing up. Robby quizzes him on cases he’s personally had, asking what Whitaker would do, the steps of doing an intubation, of popping a dislocated hip back into place, how much sedation to give to someone who needs a cardioversion. He gently corrects him, references his notes when Whitaker brings up some new research Robby hasn’t had a chance to read yet, and works with him like a colleague. Robby treats him like an equal, like it’s a sure thing he will pass all his exams and become a doctor, like nothing will go horribly wrong and Whitaker won’t have to go crawling back to Nebraska. 

Robby laughs, bright and happy, when Whitaker hands him the bottle of bourbon. He touches his shoulder, thumb rubbing over the bruises on his neck, when Whitaker leaves. 

He’s so royally fucked. 

Graduation looms over Whitaker, and his stress is off the charts. He’s finished all his exams, refreshing the gradebook waiting for the final grades to be posted. Applications for his intern year opened a week ago, and he’s been mass applying to every emergency department within an eight hour drive to Pittsburgh. 

PTMC is still his number one choice, and he knows the medical board keeps students preferences in mind, but it can’t be helped. It’s not even a guarantee that he’ll match into emergency med. UPMC Presby and Westbridge are his next two picks, followed by the Clinic in Cleveland and St. Luke’s near Trenton. He has a letters of recommendations from Robby and Dr. Abbot, a few from his professors, and a character witness from Trinity. He lists every certifcation he could ever have (BLS, ACLS, PALS, ITLS, his NIMS, more acronyms than he keep track of); he talks about how he ended up pursing medicine, how growing up with parents who distrust medicine helps him communicate better with families like his, how being homeless lead him to working with the street team. 

Trinity holds his hand when his grades are finally posted. A 3.8 GPA, on the dean’s list, and set to graduate. He cries happy tears and the first person he calls is Robby, who tells him, sounding a little breathless, “Great job, kid. I knew you could do it.”

He calls his parents next and they tell him they’ll book flights to come out to watch him walk across the stage. That makes his stomach tighten. His parents have never left Nebraska. They don’t even know he’s living with a woman, let alone a queer one. He’s been telling them he’s rooming with some classmates. 

Luckily, his mom says she will not step foot in a house inhabited by four young men, no matter how much she trusts him to have kept it clean. One problem solved and he didn’t even get a chance to panic about it. 

“We’ll get a hotel,” his mom states. “Everyone is coming.”

“Everyone?” he asks, chewing his thumb. Trinity raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Your brothers wanna see you. Your nieces and nephews, too.”

“Oh.” 

His dad chimes in. “Any chance you’ll get to work in a hospital near us?”

Whitaker swallows, looks out his window that faces a brick wall. “Um, I applied to a few out there,” he lies. “No guarantee I’ll match there. They could keep me out here or send me to the west coast. I don’t know.”

“Well, tell those people you need to be out here. We could use your help on the farm again.”

He doesn’t mention that he’ll be working almost ninety hour weeks during his intern year, that he’ll barely have enough time to even eat or shit outside of work, let alone help with the crops and the animals. “Yeah, maybe,” he croaks. 

Other than his family, he invites Trinity and Robby to his graduation, and Robby asks if Dr. Abbot can come. There will be thirteen people there for him at graduation, more than he ever expected. 

On graduation day, Trinity ties his tie for him, smoothing it down his chest. “Anything I should know about your family?” she asks quietly. 

All of them had gotten in the night before, and told Whitaker they were exhausted from traveling and would meet him at the university. They have to fly right back the same night. He feels guilty for being happy about their visit being so short. “Um, don’t- don’t mention we live together. Or that- that you’re gay.” He flinches as he says it. Trinity has never hidden her sexuality, and in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t ask her to. But he grew up hearing his parents spit vitriol, and he doesn’t want her on the receiving end. “I’m sorry. They’re-”

“Hey, I get it,” she interrupts. “Don’t want me fucking your mom.” 

He laughs, shoulders loosening just a bit. “Right. You ready?”

“Yeah. I steamed your gown while you were in the shower. Everything’s in the car.” 

Whitaker loves her. He never expected this, but he’s glad he has it. Trinity is his best friend, quickly edging his brothers out of that spot with her quiet acceptance of him, the way she never judges him on the things that matter. 

He hugs her, holding her tight even as she slaps at his chest to get him to let go. “Thank you.”

“Shut the fuck up. We’re gonna be late if you keep being weird,” she mumbles.

The stadium at the university is packed, classmates and professors and families milling around outside. He and Trinity find an open bench by a statue of the founder, and Whitaker texts his dad and Robby to let them know where they are. 

Robby finds them first. He’s dressed in black slacks and boots, a black button down with a light, patterned tie. It looks like he’s styled his hair. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he spots Whitaker, nudging Dr. Abbot to follow him. “Lookin’ good, kid,” he greets, hand finding Whitaker’s shoulder like it’s magnetized. 

The blue gown is stuffy in the late spring heat, and sweat prickles at the back of his neck. Robby’s warm hand doesn’t help, but he doesn’t shake it off. “Thank you, sir.”

“Congrats, brother,” Dr. Abbot says, shaking his hand. “You worked hard.” 

Whitaker grins. “Thank you! And thank you both for coming. It means a lot to me.” 

Robby opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Whitaker’s older brother, Daniel, screaming, “DENNY BOY!”

Whitaker flinches and barely has time to brace himself before he’s found himself in a headlock, the second youngest Whitaker boy before him giving him a noogie. “Daniel, please!” 

He lets go, but keeps him close. “Look at you! You look all east coast. The fuck is this?” Daniel tugs at his tie. 

“Daniel, language,” their mother, Maria, chastises. “Denny,” she coos, hugging him tight. “I missed you.”

He sighs, kissing the top of his mother’s head. “You, too, Mom.” 

She pulls back and looks over at Trinity, Robby, and Dr. Abbot. “Hello. I’m Maria Whitaker, Dennis’ mom. Who’re you?”

Trinity steps forward first, offering a hand. “Dr. Trinity Santos. I’m friends with Denny.” Trinity shoots him a shark-like grin. 

“Just friends?” David, the second oldest, leers. 

“Just friends,” she says sternly. 

Abbot steps forward next. “Dr. Jack Abbot. I’m an attending in the emergency room Whitaker worked in a few months back. You got a great kid here.”

“Oh, I know he didn’t cause you any trouble,” Maria laughs. God bless Dr. Abbot and his endless charm. 

“And I’m Dr. Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby,” Robby says. “Dennis really is an amazing kid. He made a great first impression.” 

Whitaker flushes and hopes his family didn’t notice. Douglas, his older brother, does. “Getting hot under the collar there, Denny?”

“The gown is heavy,” he quips, hoping to keep some of the hostility out of his voice. He and Douglas have always had a somewhat strained relationship since Whitaker decided to pursue medicine. He knows that if it comes down to it, Douglas would pick their parents over him, and get Danny and David to do the same. 

Whitaker introduces Trinity, Robby, and Dr. Abbot to the rest of his family: his dad, Donald, Douglas and his wife Chloe, and their three kids, Abraham, Josiah, and Isabel, David and his wife, Ana, and their kid Eva, and Danny and his wife Hester.

Douglas crosses his arms over his chest at he looks at the four of them. “You been going to church, Denny?”

“Every Sunday,” he lies again through gritted teeth. 

“He even got me to go back,” Robby says, stepping forward to stand beside Whitaker. His hand brushes his lower back, there and gone. 

“Oh!” Maria gasps. “Are you Christian?”

“Jewish,” he corrects. 

“Still time to convert to the one true religion,” Douglas adds. 

“I didn’t think you were here as a missionary, Doug,” Whitaker says quickly. 

Douglas doesn’t look away from Robby. “I can never pass up an opportunity to guide people to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

His oldest son, Abraham, who’s seven, tugs on Whitaker's sleeve. “Do you poke people with needles, Uncle Denny?” He’s a spitting image of Douglas, with a personality to match. Whitaker doesn’t believe in calling children assholes, but Abraham is close to changing his mind. 

He crouches down to meet his eyes. “Not all the time, but sometimes.” 

Abraham gasps. “That’s mean! That makes them sick!” 

“I heal people, Abe. I make them not sick.” 

“Have you gotten poked by needles?”

“A few times. I had to take some medicine before I could start school.” 

“Mommy never makes me take medicine. Jesus heals me. Are you Jesus?” the kid asks with accusing eyes. Whitaker wants to melt into the floor. 

“I am not Jesus, no.”

“What’s Jewish?” Isabel, four, asks. 

“Jesus was Jewish,” Douglas’ wife says. 

Isabel frowns. “So why aren’t we?”

“Because the Jews crucified him, and Jesus started Christianity,” Chole explains. 

That’s not it, at all, Whitaker wants to say, but it’s an argument not worth having here and now. He hears Robby take a breath and he reaches for anything to make it all stop. 

“I think we should head in,” Dr. Abbot says at the same time Trinity interrupts, “I think it’s starting.” 

“Um, I have go in through the back. But, I’ll, uh, see you guys after,” Whitaker says. His family shuffles away first, and Whitaker tugs at his hair, looking at Robby. “I am so sorry.”

“You can’t pick your family, kid.”

“I hope you’re not offended if we don’t sit with them,” Trinity snaps, arms crossed over her chest. 

He laughs. “Fuck, no. Uh, I’ll see you guys after, too?”

“Long as your family is gone,” Dr. Abbot jokes.

“Yeah. Yeah, don’t blame you there.” 

Whitaker follows the crowd of his classmates in their cap and gowns towards the back entrance. His phone vibrates against his thigh. 

[14:42] Robby: See what you meant about your family. 

[14:42] You: im really sorry
[14:42] You: my dad and doug are the worst when it comes to stuff like that
[14:43] You: danny can be a bit better
[14:43] You: not an excuse tho

[14:44] Robby: Even if they won’t say it, I will: I am so proud of you.

Whitaker clutches the phone to his chest and heads inside. 

The ceremony is long and filled with speeches, and Whitaker doesn’t walk until near the end. The announcer had instructed everyone to save their applause for the end, and no one listens. His family does, but Whitaker hears Trinity, Robby, and Dr. Abbot cheering anyway. It makes him cry, and he hopes it doesn’t show on the jumbotron. 

Trinity texts him after he walks across stage, diploma in hand, letting him know that she and Dr. Abbot have to head out for their shift, but Robby is staying. 

[18:32] Trinity: i think he wants to protect u from ur family

He doesn’t- can’t- read into that. 

All of them meet by the statue again. Robby is there before his family, probably stuck wrangling the kids. “Hey, Whitaker,” he says, pushing himself off the base of the statue. 

“Hi, sir. Again, I’m so-”

“I understand. I remember what you told me about your family.” He smiles softly. “It’s amazing you turned out how you did.” 

He rubs the back of his neck. “Going off to school really helped.” 

Once more, Robby is interrupted by the arrival of his family. “Hey, Den-Den,” his dad greets. “Our flight out got delayed. Are you interested in having dinner?” His eyes skate over to Robby, standing close to Whitaker with his hand hovering over his shoulder. “Dr. Robinavitch can come, too.” 

“Uh-”

“As long as I’m not intruding,” Robby laughs. “I’d love to join.”

“I’m craving Applebee’s,” Hester, Danny’s wife moans, rubbing her pregnant belly. 

“What the pregnant lady wants, the pregnant lady gets,” Danny jokes. “Everyone cool with that?”

Whitaker finds an Applebee’s not far from the university and calls to see if they can accommodate a party of fourteen. Luckily, they can, and Robby offers to drive Whitaker so he’s not crammed in the back of the van his parents rented. Danny jogs over. “Is it okay if Hester and I ride with you guys?”

Robby looks at Whitaker, who nods. “Of course. My truck is over here.” 

“Lemme tell Mom and Dad,” and Danny rushes off. 

“Anything I shouldn’t mention?” Robby asks, low in his ear. 

“That I’m gay and I was homeless.”

Robby nods, straightening up as Hester and Danny walk back towards them. Robby starts the truck, a classic rock radio station playing in the background. Whitaker sits up front, Danny and Hester in the back. “Whitaker mentioned you guys grew up on a farm,” Robby says as he eases into the line of cars trying to leave the parking lot. 

“Yeah. Man, it was so much fun,” Danny laughs. “The first time Dennis saw a cow give birth he passed out.”

Whitaker flinches. “Still not fond of it.”

“Yet you had no trouble snapping a rat’s neck on your first shift,” Robby chuckles. 

“Oh? What’s the story there?” Hester asks. 

Whitaker tells them about the unhoused man, and the rats that went scurrying when they cut open his clothes, how the exterminator couldn’t come right away. 

“Unhoused?” Danny frowns. 

“Homeless. There’s a large unhoused population in Pittsburgh, and we try to use that term rather than homeless. Home isn’t always a house; sometimes it’s the people who care about you,” Robby explains. 

Danny nods, pondering. “Say, Dennis, what’s it like living out here?”

“It’s nice,” he admits. “It’s more culturally diverse than Broken Bow. I’ve met a lot of interesting people.” 

“Even a Jew,” his brother quips. 

“Daniel,” Hester warns.

Whitaker has always liked Hester; she grew up Evangelical like they did, but her family was more liberal than his. Danny waves her off. “So what’s your deal, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“Just Robby is fine. What do you mean?”

“Why’s an old guy like you hanging ‘round my baby brother?”

“He’s not old, and I’m only fourteen months younger than you,” Whitaker sighs. 

Robby just laughs. “I’m a little old. But your brother was one of my favorite med students I’ve had this last year. When he told me he was thinking about pursuing emergency med, I offered to write him a letter of recommendation and to help him study.” 

“Are you guys dating?” Danny asks, completely out of the blue and straightforward as he always is. 

Robby adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “No, we’re not.” 

Danny shrugs. “Other than the weird age gap, I’d be okay with it.”

Whitaker turns around in his seat so fast he gets whiplash. “What?”

Hester takes Danny’s hand, thumb smoothing over the back of his palm. “You remember my friend Oliver?” he asks. 

“Yeah?”

“He killed himself last year after he came out. The church kicked him out and so did his family. I asked Mom and Dad if he could stay with us, but they said no, that he was an abomination. He was… unhoused for a long time and then the police found him behind the bar he was working at. He had shot himself.” Danny bites his lower lip and looks out the window. “Oliver was family, you know that. And he was the sweetest guy on the planet, not a mean bone in his body. Hester and I- We always thought that if we had just moved out, asked Oli to live with us, that it wouldn’t have happened the way it did. Like you said, there’s a difference between homeless and unhoused. He was both.” 

“Danny…”

“And anyway what the fuck does it matter what people do behind closed doors, or even out in the open? It just stirred up a lot of stuff, especially with our first kid coming soon. What if she comes out as gay and Mom and Dad reject her? I can’t have my own kid going through that. I haven’t even met her yet and I love her so much. I don’t think she could do anything that would make me hate her as much as Oli’s family and our family hated him.” He rubs at his face. “So I’m just saying, that if you guys were dating, I wouldn’t say anything, and I wouldn’t cut you off, either.”

Whitaker takes a deep breath. Robby glances at him from the corner of his eye. “We’re not dating, but I- I am gay.” 

He waits for the sky to fall on top of them, for the Devil to reach up from hell and drag him down. For Danny to say it was all a joke. None of that happens. 

“I figured, Dennis. I think I’ve known for a while.” 

“You can’t tell Mom or Dad, or Douglas and David, please,” he begs. 

His brother shakes his head. “Nah, bro, I won’t. I think I get it. Not- Not the whole liking men thing, but… Not wanting them to know. There are some things Hes and I don’t want them knowing either. Like the fact we’re thinking of leaving the church and moving somewhere else, maybe out here.”

Whitaker looks at his brother, the hand he has rubbing Hester’s stomach, her fingers wrapped tight around his. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, bro. I should have tried harder with Oli. I don’t wanna lose you the same way.” He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad. We’ll tell them eventually that we’re moving. I’ve already started looking for jobs, and Hes and I are staying for a few days anyway so I can go to some interviews. I won’t tell them we might be leaving the church. They really would disown me, then.”

“I didn’t go for three years,” Whitaker admits. “I go to services sometimes, but not every week, when I need the familiarity and the- the comfort, I guess.” 

“Thanks for telling us, Dennis. And Mom and Dad won’t say it, but I will. Hes and I are so proud of you for getting out. Like you said, there’s a whole world out there. We might even vaccinate our daughter.”

“She’s getting every shot under the sun,” Hester growls. “I’m not losing a kid to fucking polio.”

That startles a laugh out of Robby. “Good on you guys. As a doctor, I always recommend vaccines, but it’s nice when parents come to that conclusion on their own.” 

Danny asks about the grossest things they’ve seen working in medicine, and a weight is lifted off Whitaker’s chest. Even if his entire family won’t accept him, at least he’s got Danny is his corner. When Danny and Hester are distracted by a unique looking house, Robby reaches over and squeezes Whitaker’s knee. “Good?” he whispers. 

Whitaker nods. 

Dinner doesn’t go as well as the ride over. His mom shoots him and Danny a glare when they both order beers, and she eyes Robby warily when he does the same. Douglas and their dad each sit at the ends of the table, holding court. Mom makes them say a prayer, which Robby, thankfully, refrains from. Once the appetizers arrive, the grilling begins. 

“So, Dr. Robinavitch,” Donald starts.

“Just Robby is fine,” he corrects for the millionth time. 

“Your name is Robby Robinavitch?” Ana asks, spoon feeding Eva baby food.

“No. My first name is Michael, but everyone calls me Robby.” 

“So, Michael,” Donald continues, and Whitaker wants to bang his head on the table. “How long have you been a doctor for?”

“Going on twenty-nine years now. I’ve been working in the ED the whole time,” he answers. His knee presses warm against Whitaker’s under the table, keeping him grounded. 

“Are you married?” Maria asks. 

Robby shakes his head. “No. I never really found the time between school and then working. Everyone I’ve dated never felt right, either.” 

“No kids, then?” Douglas tacks on. 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Chloe makes a face. “That you’re aware of?”

Whitaker watches Robby’s eyes roll to the ceiling and then focus back on Chloe, so quick it could barely be considered an eye roll. “No children.”

“Is that common among doctors in the ED?” Douglas continues. “Does that mean Dennis is going to be single forever?”

“Hey!” Whitaker snaps. 

“I’m just saying, bro. You haven’t dated since high school and if Dr. Michael here is still single…”

“Plenty of my coworkers in the ED are married and have children. I’m just not one of them,” Robby explains. “Whitaker is a nice kid; he’ll find someone.”

“Hopefully not in the hospital,” Maria mumbles.

“Mom, come on.”

“I’m just saying, Denny. The last thing you need is to date another doctor. You need a woman who can stay home and take care of the kids,” she says, pointing her fork at him. 

“Can we not talk about this right now? I just graduated,” he whines. Robby’s knee presses into his harder. 

“And you’re not getting any younger. Danny and Hester already waited way too long to have their first.”

Danny interjects, “I’m only twenty-eight, Ma.”

“And your father and I had Doug at twenty. It’s easier to have kids when you’re younger. Hester wouldn’t have to go to the hospital to have my granddaughter if you guys had had kids younger.” 

“We’re going to the hospital to have the baby because it’s where we feel safest. Ma, the midwife you recommended is, like, ninety. I don’t trust her to be able to tell the difference between holes down there.” 

“Daniel!”

“I’m just saying, Mom.”

Maria sighs, rubbing her forehead. “You and Dennis are my most complicated children. Always rocking the boat.”

“Why? Because Dennis was the first in our family to go to school and Hes and I are the first to have a child in a hospital?” Danny edges. “Times are changing, Mom.”

“Modernity is the sign of the Devil,” she grumbles. “I’m just protecting you two.” 

“So, Dennis, when do you find out what hospital you’re working at?” Donald says, shooting Maria a look. 

“Not until next week.”

“Well, hopefully it’s one in Nebraska. It would make it easier to send us money for the farm,” his dad says like it’s already been discussed. 

“Uh, what? Send money?” Whitaker asks. 

Donald shrugs. “Well, yeah. You’ll be making that doctor money. We need a new tractor.”

“Dad, I need to pay back my loans. And I won’t be making money until I’m an attending, after another four years.”

“Interns don’t make much,” Robby tells them, “and neither do residents. With all the hours they work, it averages to less than the federal minimum wage. It’s a messed up system, but currently that’s how it works.” 

Donald frowns. “So you won’t be making money until you’re thirty!?”

“Yeah, Dad. And I have at least one hundred and fifty thousand in loans.”

“When we let you go to med school, it was under the assumption you would be making money to send to us.”

“Let me go to med school? When did you decide that?”

“Your mother and I decided after we let you go to med school. It’s not up for discussion. Is there another specialty you could go into where you’d make money faster?” 

“Dad, my future as a doctor isn’t up to you. And my finances are not yours to take as you please. Seriously, did you think I would agree to send you half of my paychecks?” He feels his face flushing, and the beer has made his tongue just that much looser. 

“What else would you spend the money on anyway? You don’t have children.”

“Uh, rent? Utilities? My student loans? A car? Literally anything else!”

“We didn’t raise you to be ungrateful,” Maria hisses. 

“I’m not being ungrateful! I’m confused that you guys think you’re entitled to my hypothetical money. It’s like Robby said, I won’t be making shit for another four years, and even after that I’ll be paying off my loans for the rest of my life.”

“Language!” Douglas chastises. “There are children at the table.” 

“We’ll discuss this later when you’re not inebriated,” Maria sniffs. 

“It’s one beer, Mom. I’m not piss drunk.”

Douglas slams his hands on the table. “I said watch the language! We get enough of it from Danny.”

“The hell did I do?” Danny grumbles. 

“Are you guys even proud of me?” Whitaker questions suddenly, mouth feeling like sandpaper. 

“What?” Maria asks. 

“I said, are you guys even proud of me?”

Donald huffs. “Of course we are, Denny. You kept going to church all this time and never gave into the temptation of sin, even if you’ve been tested.” His eyes skate over Robby as he says that and what the fuck does that mean?

Whitaker carefully avoids telling the truth. “I meant, are you even proud that I finished med school? That I moved across the country alone when our family hasn’t left Broken Bow for generations? Or that I survived on pennies for four years because you guys couldn’t support me and I couldn’t work between classes and rotations? Aren’t you proud that I’m the first person in our family to be anything other than a farmer?”

Donald and Maria stay quiet; not even Douglas fills the silence. 

Whitaker laughs, short and watery. “Right, okay. Great. No, that’s- that’s great. Robby, can you please take me back home?”

“Dennis!” Maria shouts. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I’m your fucking son!” he roars, standing up and drawing the attention of the other patrons. He spots one of his classmates at a table with his family, and he looks at him with wide eyes. “Because you’re supposed to love me no matter what and this whole time- this whole time you let me go to med school under the assumption I would support you after! What would have been your plan if I told you that wasn’t happening from the start? Would you have chained me in the barn like a rabid dog?”

“We never asked because we didn’t think you would be so difficult about it!” Donald returns, face red. His left eye twitches. 

“What happened to honor thy mother and thy father?” Douglas finally adds. 

“Why the fuck should I honor them when they don’t even respect me?” He drags his hands through his hair. “Fucking forget it.” Whitaker pulls out his wallet and drops two twenties on the table. “Here. This is all the money I have left. Fucking take it. Robby, please.”

Robby stands slowly, picks up the bills Whitaker just threw down and hands them back. He then pulls out his own wallet and lays down three hundred cash. “It was… interesting meeting you guys,” he says coolly.

And then Douglas interjects again. 

“Of course the Jew gives us cash.”

Whitaker is halfway around the table ready to punch his brother in the head, and to keep hitting him until his face is nothing more than a mess of blood and teeth and muscle and viscera, when Robby grabs him around the waist and physically drags him out of the Applebee’s. 

He shakes Robby off once they’re outside, paces the sidewalk, and then punches the wall hard. His fingers don’t break (he knows how to throw a punch, surprisingly), but it’s a near thing. His hand will be bruised and it will hurt to extend his fingers fully, but it’s nothing some ibuprofen and ice won’t fix. He is a doctor, after all. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have- They shouldn’t- Fuck!” he shouts, tearing at his hair. 

“You think your brother is the first to say something antisemitic to me? You think he’ll be the last? Whitaker, your family does not define you.”

“I should have warned you. I should have told you to just drop us off and go home. I shouldn’t have even put you in a place where someone could- could say that to you.”

“There are a lot of bigots in the world, Whitaker. Your brother just happens to be one of them. Besides, I’d rather have been here getting the fourth degree from your family so I can take you home safely, than have you try to get home on your own right now,” Robby says. 

“But it wasn’t just them asking you invasive questions! It was everything! They were so fucking rude and- and bigoted and it’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

Whitaker crouches on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and screams into his hands. “Whitaker,” Robby says in a low voice. When Whitaker doesn’t say anything, he sits next to him on the curb and lays a hand on his back. “Dennis.”

“What.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that was for you, but I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself. And standing up for me.” 

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Seems you’re the only one who is.”

“My grandmother was the only family I had left, and she died when I was in undergrad. Even if it’s just one person, it’s enough.”

Dennis sniffs. “It’s enough if it’s you.”

Robby squeezes his nape. “Come on. You’re staying with me tonight. Let's go.”

Dennis rests his head on the window on the drive over to Robby’s. His phone is blowing up with texts and calls from his family. The only thread he opens is one Danny started with him and Hester. 

[20:03] Danny: proud of you baby bro
[20:03] Danny: can’t believe mom and dad said all that shit
[20:03] Danny: i know they’re crazy but didn’t realize they were that crazy :/

[20:04] Hester: know any good pediatricians in pittsburgh? i think we’re officially moving out here now if you’re staying

[20:04] You: i’ll look some up for you
[20:05] You: thank you guys

[20:06] Danny: of course bro
[20:06] Danny: would have spoken up in there if i didn’t think mom and dad would burn all our shit before we could pack it

“Danny said he’s proud of me,” he announces to the quiet car. 

“I like him,” Robby admits. “He’s funny.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

Robby smiles at him, the lights from the street casting his face in shadow. 

Dennis might love him.

Danny and Hester “miss” their flight back to Nebraska, and Dennis isn’t sure where they told Mom and Dad they’re staying, but Trinity agrees to let them stay with them for a few days. Dennis has to show her the texts he got from Danny and Hester for her to be okay with them staying.

“I just wanna make sure they’re not gonna hate crime either of us,” Trinity says, tapping her fingers on the kitchen counter. “I trust you, but family can be….”

Dennis shakes his head. “I get it. Danny surprised me, Trin. He didn’t try to perform an exorcism on me when I came out to him and-”

“You came out to him?” she gasps. 

He waves his hand. “It’s a whole thing. Not my story to share. I promise we’ll both be safe. My parents don’t even know they missed their flight on purpose.”

So Danny and Hester stay for three days, and it’s nice. Hester cooks all four of them dinner to say thank you and Danny regals Trinity with stories of a younger Dennis. One night, when Hester is asleep in Dennis’ room, Danny is done with job interviews for the day, and Trinity is working a night shift, the two of them sit on the couch and talk. 

“Mom and Dad have been struggling with payments for a while. They can barely afford to pay the migrants, which is saying a lot because they don’t pay them jack shit. Dad and Doug are fighting a lot more, too, about Doug taking over the farm.” Danny sighs and stretches on the couch. “Hes and I have wanted to move out for a while. She’s got some money from her great-aunt dying, and I’ve been doing odd jobs in the next town over. We’ve got a secret bank account and everything.”

Dennis nods, chewing on his lower lip. “The thing is, if they had just told me they were struggling, if they had been honest, I would have sent what I could. But because they assumed… I dunno, bro. How could they expect me to want to help when they didn’t even- when they aren’t even proud?”

Danny looks at him. “Mom and Dad are difficult. Always have been. I just never realized how horrible they can be until Oli. I should have, with how mean they were to you when you started applying to med schools.”

“I never hated them, or you and David and Doug. I was perfectly fine with none of you guys knowing I was gay.”

“I don’t blame you. I do have some questions, though.” His brother grins, sharp and feral. 

“Jesus, man. Please don’t ask what I think you’re gonna ask,” Dennis whines and covers his face with a pillow. 

“How does it work?”

“Gay sex?”

“Yeah.”

“I am not explaining this to you. Do some research.”

“I did! After Oli and then some more last night after Hes and you were asleep. Do you take it or give it?”

“Danny!”

“Too personal?”

“Yeah, dude. Way too personal.”

Danny laughs. “Alright. I figured. But, what’s your deal with Robby?”

“My deal?”

“Your deal. You like him, don’t you?”

Dennis drops the pillow and looks at his brother. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Does he like you?”

“I don’t even know if he likes men, Danny.” 

His brother snorts. “I may be new this whole… gay thing or whatever, but from what I saw, I think he does.”

“You don’t know him,” Dennis argues. 

“Nah, I don’t. But after Doug tried, very poorly, to convert him and Abe parroted all that shit Mom, Dad, Doug, and Chloe spout, he still came to dinner. With you. No way was he there for anyone else. Trinity didn’t even come.”

“She had work!”

“And you think she would have come even if she was available? I’ve known her for, like, two seconds, and she’s definitely not someone to muscle through a dinner like that in the name of friendship.”

“She would have strangled Doug.”

“You almost did.” 

“I should have. Fuck, what is wrong with him?”

“Too much, bro, way too much. It’s a miracle we turned out okay.”

“We are so far from okay, Danny.”

Danny huffs. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Anyway, none of it matters. If I get matched to PTMC, he’ll be my boss again and there’s no way he’ll do anything. Besides, he was graduating med school when I was born.” That little fact makes Dennis hot under the collar. 

“Something tells me that’s not an issue for you.”

Dennis groans. “I so do not want to talk about my type in men with you. Or about Robby, so can we please drop it?”

“Sure, man. Whatever you want. What streaming services do you and Trinity poach?” 

Danny and Hes leave the next day, Trinity driving all four of them to the airport. Her and Hester get along surprisingly well, and exchange numbers before they disappear through TSA. 

“They’re alright. Considering,” Trinity says thoughtfully as they walk back to the car. 

Dennis snorts. “Yeah, they are.” 

As match day approaches, Dennis’ stress sky rockets. He manic cleans the whole apartment, and Trinity has to stop him from disinfecting all her sex toys. “Too far, Dennis, too far,” she mumbled as she shook her head. The university is throwing a party for all students to attend to find out where they matched, but Dennis doesn’t want to go. Too many people, too much stress, and he can’t guarantee he won’t have a breakdown if he doesn’t match with PTMC. 

Trinity offers to invite some of the ED staff over to their place for a party on match day, but he declines. He’d rather just find out with Trinity, who he trusts not to judge him if emotions run high. But then she gets called in on the day of to cover a shift, and Dennis is alone and stressed and pulling at his hair and-

And the email comes through at five o’clock on the dot. He stares at the email from the university, the subject line, the first sentence of the body of the email before it trails off. Dennis teales a breath, takes a shot of shitty vodka, and opens the email. 

Congratulations, Dr. Dennis A. Whitaker, M.D., on completing medical school at the University of Pittsburgh with a 3.8 GPA and on the Dean’s list. We are happy to announce that you have matched into Emergency Medicine at University of Pittsburgh Medical Center (UPMC) Presbyterian for your intern year. You are to report to Chief Emergency Department Attending Dr. Penelope J. Vargas on 1 July 2026 at 7:00AM. Below you will find-

He didn’t match to PTMC. 

Tears flood his eyes, and he tries to blink them away but they fall, tracking down his cheeks. He didn’t fucking match. Robby said-

Robby. 

He’s grabbing his keys and phone before he can think and sprinting to the bus stop. 

Robby said he’d put in a good word. He promised. And after all this, after everything Dennis did for him, after everything Robby did for him, Dennis still wasn’t good enough. Robby doesn’t want him in his ED. He lied about everything, about liking working with Dennis, about talking to the board, about saying Dennis is a good doctor. Anger burns in his veins. Robby had said he was proud and he lied about that, too. 

It doesn’t occur to him that Robby could be at work until he’s pounding on his front door, hard enough that it rattles in the frame. Robby opens the door, looking ruffled like he just woke up, rubbing at his eyes. “Whitaker?”

Dennis shoves past him and stomps inside. He spins around when he hears the door close and pokes Robby’s chest. “You fucking liar!”

Robby blinks. Fuck, he’s so goddamn handsome with those stupid eyes and the stupid crow’s feet and his stupid fucking mouth. “What?” he asks dumbly. 

“You lied! You said you could get me to match to the Pitt for my intern year and I didn’t! You fucking promised!” Dennis shoves Robby and his back hits the front door. 

“You didn’t match with me?” he repeats. “What?”

“No, I didn’t! Did you even talk to the board? Your letter of recommendation had to stay sealed, so I never got to read it. Did you say I don’t belong there? That I’m not good enough?”

“What? No! Whitaker, I-”

“I don’t wanna fucking hear it! You bastard! I trusted you! I thought- I thought you wanted to work with me.” He starts crying again, angry and ugly. “What is it, huh? You don’t wanna work with some repressed faggot? Is that it?”

“Dennis!” Robby shouts. “Enough!” 

Dennis’ nostrils flare, tears salty on his tongue. “Am I not good enough?”

Robby pulls him into a hug, one hand around his waist and the other on the back of his head. Dennis fights back, but Robby is strong and holds him until he stops struggling. Dennis’ fingers curl into Robby’s thin t-shirt and he shakes, trembling down to his toes. Sobs rip out of him violently, but Robby doesn’t let go, just presses his cheek to Dennis’ hair and shushes him. He can feel the Star of David pressing into his cheek, cool against the warmth of Robby’s body. “Where did you match?”

Dennis sniffles and presses impossibly closer, muttering into his chest, “Emergency med at UPMC.” 

“You’re staying in Pittsburgh?” he asks, carding his fingers through Dennis’ hair. 

“I guess.” 

Robby lifts Dennis’ chin with his finger, forcing him to make eye contact. “I wrote the best damn letter of recommendation of my life. I spoke to Gloria and the board. So did Jack. I did everything I could.”

“So why didn’t I match with you?”

“I don’t know, kid.” His hand rubs up and down Dennis’ back. “I’m glad you get to stay in Pittsburgh, though.” 

“You are?”

“Yeah, Dennis, I am.” Robby’s eyes dart to a point behind Dennis, before focusing on him again. “And it’s selfish since I know you really wanted to come back, but part of me is glad you didn’t match with me.”

“What? Why?” Dennis demands, feeling fury rise up in him again. 

“Because I get to do this.”

“Do what-”

And Robby kisses him. He leans down and cradles Dennis’ head in his hands, brushes his lips over his. It’s soft, and his lips are a little dry, and he tastes like a cigarette and mint. But Dennis melts nonetheless. Robby pulls back after only a second, thumb rubbing under his eye. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes and clutches Robby’s shirt to pull him back in. This kiss is deeper, wetter, Robby’s tongue poking out to lick at his lips. His beard scratches at Dennis’ cheeks and his chin, and he feels like he’s burning up from the inside. He opens his mouth and bites at Robby’s lower lip, hard enough to break skin. 

“Fuck,” Robby moans. “Fuck.” He fists his hand in Dennis’ hair and pulls, hard. The moan that slips out of him is pornographic, pleasure zipping down his spine. Robby kisses across his cheek, over his jaw, and down to his neck, biting as he goes. His mouth is so warm and wet. Dennis ruts against Robby’s thigh, cock straining in his sweatpants. “That’s it, baby, that’s it,” Robby coos. 

See, Dennis doesn’t have daddy issues (he definitely does, now), and he can’t help the words that pour out of his mouth, desperate and depraved and wanting- “Please, Daddy.”

“Oh, fuck,” Robby gasps, and bites down on Dennis’ pulse point, tongue soothing over the broken skin. His hands are everywhere; under Dennis’ shirt, on his ass, in his hair, down his chest, across his abdomen, leaving trails of fire behind. His dick throbs, leaking way too much precum into his boxers. Robby pulls back from Dennis’ neck, one large hand wrapping loosely around the base, not enough to choke, but enough to remind Dennis it’s there. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” 

“I want-” He whimpers, hips stuttering. His brain has turned to goo, every fantasy coming to life as his cock twitches in his pants. “I want you to- to fuck me, please.”

“Please what, baby?” he murmurs, muffled by Dennis’ mouth on his. Robby’s teeth scrap over his lip, his tongue pressing against Dennis’ incisor. 

“Please, sir, please. Please fuck me, I want it so bad, I swear, I’ve been thinking about it forever, been jerking off thinking about you, imagining it’s your fingers inside me, please, Daddy, please, please, please-”

“Okay, Dennis, okay. You need to tell me if you want me to stop,” he tells him, holding his face in his hands and making him listen. 

Dennis nods, licking his lips. Robby tracks the movement like a hunter tracking prey. “Yes, sir, I will. I won’t want you to,” he pants, hips still moving. He’s so close to coming in his pants like a teenager. 

“Good boy,” Robby praises, and Dennis’ orgasm hits him so hard his vision whites out. He throws his head back and groans, hands clutching at Robby’s shoulders, nails digging in. His boxers immediately feel sticky and wet, uncomfortable, but Robby’s hands never leave him, his mouth hovering over Dennis’. “Oh, baby. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cries. He bites at Robby’s collarbone, pulls at his waist. “I didn’t-”

Robby cups him through his pants, shocks of overstimulation making him twitch away, but Robby pulls him close again. “I didn’t even have to touch you, baby. You’re just that desperate?”

“Yes, yes. Please, sir, please. I can go again.” He already feels his dick chubbing up again and despite the pain of overstimulation, pleasure burns through him, setting his nerves alight.

“I know you will. And again. And again.”

“Oh, fuck, please, sir,” Dennis sobs. “Tell me what to do, please, I’ll do it, whatever you want, Daddy, please just touch me.”

And Robby guides them to the couch, pushes Dennis down to sit, and sinks to his knees. “You made a mess, baby. Now I gotta clean it up.” He helps Dennis get rid of his pants and boxers, shoes tossed aside, and cock springing up to slap against his stomach. He’s still fucking leaking. 

All words other than please and yes and daddy have left his brain. He’s not even sure what order he’s mumbling the words in, just that they keep pouring out of his mouth as Robby licks at the head, cleaning up the cum, hands tight on Dennis’ thighs. Dennis’ hands fly to Robby’s hair, pulling. 

“Un-uh, baby, no touching,” he admonishes gently, pulling his hands away, holding both wrists in one hand and pressing them to Dennis’ chest. 

Dennis shivers and clutches at the collar of his own shirt to keep from grabbing at Robby again. “I can be good. I’ll hold still,” he whimpers. 

“I know, baby. So good for me.” Robby slides his forearm down to brace it against Dennis’ pelvis, pinning him in place. He licks up and down his cock, eating his cum like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, tongue lapping at Dennis’ balls. Robby sucks the tip into his mouth, one hand wrapped around the base. 

Dennis moans, voice cracking and shattering. “Please, Daddy.”

Robby hums, the vibrations running down Dennis’ cock, and takes him deeper, tongue curling around the underside, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the soul out through his dick. Dennis tries to buck his hips forward, not even realizing he’s moving but Robby holds him still, iron across his abdomen. He sinks down all the way and stays there, big, brown eyes looking up at Dennis, mouth stuffed full of his cock and he’s not even gagging. “Oh, fuck,” Dennis gasps. This picture is going to be seared into his brain forever, even when he’s old and decrepit and dementia sets in; he’ll never forget the way Robby looks on his knees, pretty and demanding and in control. 

Robby draws back up, just as slow, dips his tongue into his slit, and then slides back down. It doesn’t take long for Dennis to begin reaching his peak again, thighs trembling as he squeezes the couch cushions. Robby grabs his hips and pulls him to the edge of the couch and gets him to hook his knee over his shoulder, spreading him open just a little bit wider. He pulls off his cock, but jerks him slowly with his left hand, raising his right to Dennis’ mouth. “Get ‘em wet for me, baby.” Dennis takes three fingers into his mouth. Robby pets over his tongue, presses down on his canines until his jaw opens more, spit pooling in his mouth. He pushes back further, and Dennis gags but doesn’t pull away. “Good boy,” Robby says, and Dennis’ cock twitches in his hand. “You like it when I call you that?”

He nods, licking between his fingers, sucking at them like it’s Robby’s cock.

“You wanna be my good boy, Dennis?”

“Yes, yes, please, sir,” he slurs around his fingers. His hands cramp from where they clutch the fabric of the couch, thighs shaking and breath heaving. 

Robby pulls his fingers out and trails them over Dennis’ perineum, presses briefly on his prostate from the outside. Dennis’ cock spits out a glob of precum. His hand still moves over his cock, eyes focused on Dennis’ face as he sinks one finger in, and then two when he finds Dennis is practiced enough to take them before he’s ready.

“Fuck,” Dennis sobs, dick twitching and leaking all over Robby’s hand, precum trickling over his fingers. Robby scissors his fingers, pets over his walls, and very purposefully avoids his prostate. “Please, Daddy.”

His ass aches; it has been a while since he last got fucked or played with himself, too busy with studying and exams and applications, but he loves the ache, the sting of being stretched slightly too much, too soon. He rocks back on his fingers and tries to angle his hips to get his fingers where he wants them most. Robby swallows down his cock at the same time he shoves three fingers in and presses hard on his prostate, rubbing in steady circles, knuckles pressing on the other side of his walls. 

Dennis comes again, ass clenching, cum pouring down Robby’s throat. He keeps stroking over his prostate and swallowing around his cock even when his orgasm ends. He cries from the overstimulation, but doesn’t ask Robby to back off. His cock stays achingly hard through it all. Only once Robby seems sure Dennis won’t go soft does he pull his fingers out and stand up, dragging Whitaker up into a filthy kiss. 

He can taste himself on Robby’s tongue, the musky tang so hot it makes his head spin. He pulls Dennis to his feet and then cups the back of his thighs, hoisting him into the air. He carries him down the hall and to his bedroom. Dennis bites along his neck as he walks, leaving marks of his own, laying claim to his territory. He can feel Robby’s cock, pressing insistently against his belly through all the clothing. Robby lays him down on his bed, hands trailing over his chest and stomach. “Take your shirt off,” he demands. 

Dennis whips his shirt off so fast he’s sure he’s set a world record. Robby is still infuriatingly fully clothed. “You, too. Please, sir. Wanna see you.”

Robby grins, shark-like, and takes off his shirt. Dennis doesn’t care that he’s ogling. He immediately gets up to his knees to press close, to drag his fingers over the thick, dark chest hair, over brown, peaked nipples, the happy trail disappearing under his pants. His muscles jump under his touch. His arms are thick, not bulging with muscle, but strong nonetheless. Dennis kisses down Robby’s chest, biting and sucking as he goes. Robby grabs the nape of his neck and squeezes. “Take my pants off for me, baby.”

Dennis slides his belt through the pant loops and then looks up at Robby. He doesn’t toss the belt aside, but lays it on the bed. His jeans and boxers get sent flying to the corner of the room. 

Robby’s cock stands up proud from a nest of dark curls, the tip red and leaking, balls drawn up close to his body. Robby is hung, eight and half inches of fucking cock, and Dennis is so turned on he’s lightheaded. Dennis presses his nose in his pubes and breathes deep, panting against his skin. He smells so fucking good, like sweat and soap and everything Dennis has ever dreamed of. Robby’s cock smears precum in his hair. He cards his fingers through Dennis’ sweaty hair. “Still want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, Daddy, please,” he begs, eyes never leaving Robby’s cock. Precum oozes from the tip, and Dennis can’t help but lean forward and lick at it, desperate for a taste. 

Robby moans and then pulls Dennis away by his hair. “On your knees, Dennis, show me.” Dennis turns around and leans on one elbow, looking over his shoulder as he uses his free hand to pull his ass cheeks apart, exposing more of himself. “Fuck.” Robby palms his ass in two large hands, both thumbs dipping into his loose hole. “Fucking gorgeous, baby.”

“For you, all for you,” Dennis moans, pushing back into his hands. 

Robby drags a hand up his back and presses down on the nape of his neck. “Stay here. I need to find a condom.”

“I’m- I’m clean!” Whitaker protests. As a doctor (he’s a doctor, now!), he knows the risks of unprotected sex, but fuck, he needs to feel Robby finishing inside him. “I get tested every time I hook up with someone. I promise I’m clean.” 

“Oh, baby. You’re a cumslut, aren’t you? Want me to fill you up?” he teases.

He nods into the sheets, hands flexing over the mattress. 

“Okay, Dennis. I trust you.” 

And that’s so much hotter than anything they have done or will do. 

Robby grabs the belt and loops it around Dennis’ wrists, sliding one finger under the restraint to make sure it’s not too tight. He fumbles in his side table and emerges with a bottle of lube, using it to coat his cock and then drizzling some over Dennis’ hole. Dennis collapses fully onto his front, arms too weak to keep holding his weight up, spreading his knees wider. Robby taps the head of his cock over Dennis’ hole, spreading the lube. He thrusts between his cheeks until the tip catches on his rim, and then he sinks in slowly, bullying his way into Dennis’ ass in one smooth motion, not stopping until his hips are pressed to Dennis’ thighs. He’s so big and thick, fills him so fucking perfectly. His nails bite into his ass. 

“Please move. Please, sir,” Dennis whimpers, squeezing around Robby’s dick. 

Robby does. Long, hard strokes, pulling out until just the tip is tucked in his ass, and then he slams back in. Dennis howls, hands clenching and unclenching, pushing his ass back to meet each thrust. His cock nudges over his prostate, sending sparks up Dennis’ spine. “That’s it, baby, lemme hear you.”

Dennis sobs, cock bouncing and leaking, untouched and heavy between his legs. “Pleasepleaseplease, Daddy, please.” 

“What, baby? What do you need?” he asks breathlessly. He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding his hips in little circles, making Dennis see stars.

“Touch me, sir, please.”

Robby uses the belt to pull Dennis back, arching as he’s pulled nearly upright, and then squeezes around his throat. He presses on Dennis’ carotid and jugular, not blocking airflow but blood supply. Dennis has never been choked like this, just enough to make spots dance around his eyes despite his breath coming easily. His eyes roll into the back of his head, mouth hanging open as whimpers and moans trickle out of him. Dennis feels delirious. He’s never going to recover from this; there’s no going back for him. “You’ll come on my cock or not at all.”

He cries out, tears leaking down his cheeks. “Daddy!” The new angle makes him feel that much deeper, rearranging his guts, cock making a home for itself inside him. He thinks that if he could manage to look down at him, he’d see the tip of Robby’s dick pressing against the inside of his stomach, making him bulge. He shivers, whole body shaking like a leaf, not enough blood going to his brain.

“Come on, baby, you can do it.” Robby uses gravity to get Dennis to meet his thrusts. Dennis’ knees slide on the sheets, held in place by Robby’s cock and his hand around his throat.

He shakes his head. “No, no, Daddy, I can’t.”

Robby thrusts into him hard, grinding his cock against his prostate. “You can and you will,” he growls. And then he lets go of Dennis’ neck and all the blood not swelling his cock goes to his brain.

Dennis screams. He’s a ball of pleasure, bordering on too much, too fast, and not enough. His cock slaps against his stomach, smearing precum over his skin. He aches to be touched, to cum. “Please,” he moans. 

Robby wraps his arm around Whitaker’s chest and groans in his ear, teeth sinking into his earlobe. “You feel so good, baby, taking me so well. Such a good boy, letting Daddy fuck you. You want Daddy to finish inside you? Want me to fill you up?”

“Please, Daddy!” he sobs, chest heaving. His skin prickles with sweat, feeling too tight over his bones and muscle.

“Been thinkin’ about this forever, you know? After that first time you accidentally called me dad, it’s all I could think about. Wanted to break you down and make you come so many times you pass out. Use you like a toy, just made to take my cock. Wanna fuck your throat, want you bouncing on my lap. Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum,” Robby rambles. 

“Yes, please, please, inside, please, Daddy!” he cries.

“Oh, fuck,” Robby groans and spills inside him, cock twitching.

Dennis comes with him, untouched and so overstimulated it hurts. He almost passes out.

Robby gently guides him down to his front to undo the belt and then rolls him onto his back. He presses a sweet, brief kiss to Dennis’ lips before heading to the bathroom to grab a rag. Dennis lays there, basking in the afterglow and feeling like he couldn’t walk even if there was a fire. 

He startles when Robby begins wiping him down, nearly asleep. “Sorry, baby,” he whispers. “Just gotta get you clean.”

Dennis hums. He moves easily when Robby nudges him, pulling back the blankets to tuck into bed next to him. Dennis curls close, fingers tracing over the Star of David on Robby’s chest. His cross necklace is skin warm against him. “I didn’t sabotage your application to the Pitt.”

“I know,” Dennis says hoarsely. He’s so fucking tired. 

“I wanted you there.” Robby kisses his hair, fingers tracing up and down Dennis’ bicep.

“I wanted to be there, too,” Dennis mumbles. His eyes are heavy, body sore and aching. “Now I know.”

Robby squeezes him once. “Now you know.”

And Dennis drifts off to sleep.