Work Text:
—
If I don't come back, you’ve got a swinging bachelor pad.
Dennis’ heart drops to the pit of his stomach as he hears those words so easily tumble out of Robby’s mouth.
He thinks Robby says something about a key and a security code, but it’s white noise to him. Dennis stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor and badge falling in his haste. “What?”
Robby turns, eyebrows raised, he looks indifferent. As if he didn’t speak the exact words to tilt the axis Dennis’ world is spinning on. “Come see me after shift.”
“No, not—” He shakes his head. He knows he didn’t mishear what Robby said, Robby who has a track record of acting like everything is well and fine on the outside, but Dennis knows better. Dennis knows him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
At that, Robby stills, mouth falling open. “Excuse me?”
Dennis almost almost wants to laugh. Those are the words Robby chooses to look stricken by? Not his own? But this isn’t funny, nothing about this is. He steps around Robby and closes the break room door, leaning back against it as everything behind him silences. As everything in front of him comes to focus.
“You’re just what, leaving? Never coming back?”
Robby has the decency to look ashamed at that, at least. He curls his hands around his neck, tilting his head down. It’s what he does when he wants to make himself come off smaller, maybe feel smaller, which is, honest to god, hilarious. Because everything about Robby, so much as his presence in a room, is big and looming, demanding immediate attention.
“It’s not… I was kidding. I don’t know.” Robby drops his hands and shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, forced and uncomfortable. It’s a lie and they both know it.
“You have to come back. This entire place is fucked without you—I’m.” He bites his tongue. This isn’t about him, he has to remind himself. Dennis isn’t the guy that gets what he wants, he never was and probably never will be and that’s fine. But he’s not going to stand around, quite literally, in Robby’s house, and watch him self-destruct.
“You’re what, Whitaker?” He tilts his head, catching Dennis’ gaze with those impossibly big brown eyes.
Dennis has never known how not to give Robby exactly what he asks for; dropping everything to follow after him, letting himself be steered in whichever direction Robby pleases, acquiescing his needs before they’re even out of his mouth. He knows it’s a losing battle the moment he looks into those eyes. “Nothing. I just…” Dennis shakes his head, threading his hands through the hairs on the nape of neck and tugging.
Robby takes a step forward, closer, demanding but not suffocating. “No, you’re on a roll now. Don’t hold back, Doctor Whitaker.”
It’s the emphasis on doctor that makes his jaw twitch. Only moments ago was Robby telling him how proud he was of him, how he earned the right to be called a doctor, and now it sounds like an insult coming off his tongue, it feels like humiliation.
“Are you serious right now?” He huffs out a mean laugh, resolve crumbling. Maybe he is on a roll, but it has absolutely nothing to do with himself and everything to do with Robby, infuriating and heartbreaking Robby. “You preach about ethics and--and morals, having boundaries and in the same sentence you’re giving me a key to your place?”
“I didn’t ask you to move in.”
“No. But hey, you might not come back so what difference does it make?” It’s said in jest; it’s merely a repeat of Robby’s own words back to him. But he watches minutely, as Robby’s face crumples, turning away from him.
Robby picks up his badge from the floor, thumb brushing over the plastic where the word DOCTOR is laminated. He steps in next to Robby, arms brushing. Stupidly enough, he can’t help but think how their shoulders don’t touch, never will. Robby, head still bowed, peers up at him.
“Don’t be a hypocrite now,” he murmurs, voice gentle. You don’t ask just anyone to house sit for you, certainly not when the former option is your best friend of half your life. Boundaries and ethics be damned, some things are worth the risk.
Dennis isn’t the guy that gets what he wants, but he believes Robby should be.
“You wanna go all dark and run away, I won’t tell you not to.”
He watches Robby’s eyes clear, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothing away. The look of someone finally being heard. Dennis knows that look, that feeling, of simmering in your own struggle while everyone tells you everything will get better and time heals all. When all you really want is for someone to sit and listen, without the fake platitudes.
Dennis looks down at his badge in Robby’s hand, holding the difference between him being recognized as a student doctor and a complete doctor. And isn’t that just it, Dennis thinks. Robby, whether he realizes it or not, has always held all the control in the palms of his overwhelmingly caring hands. He looks back up, hoping his eyes hold even half as much warmth and honesty as Robby’s do.
“Nobody comes into this field, let alone does what you do and expects everything to be rainbows and sunshine. And you.” He pauses, heart in his throat, as Robby watches him, wide-eyed and earnest. “You’ve dealt with enough grief to carry it for a lifetime. You’re not expendable. You deserve to be shown grace.”
Robby’s face falls even more and god does Dennis hate that look—most of all because he’s the one putting it there. He doesn’t like himself for it but he would hate himself more for not saying anything at all. There's only one other time Dennis has seen Robby look this cracked open and raw.
It’s a moment he keeps tucked into the most sacred part of his heart.
“But you can’t just not come back.” Home. To the Pitt. To me.
Robby nods, more to himself than anything else, chewing the inside of his cheek. He taps the badge against his hand a couple of times before pulling the old one off Dennis’ scrubs and clipping the new one in place in one smooth motion. “Well, shit, tell me how you really feel.”
Dennis looks down at the badge but nothing changes, he doesn’t suddenly feel like a doctor. He knows he is, Robby says he is. That’s enough for him.
“Robby,” he murmurs, pleading.
Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, scruffing his beard and this time, sits where Whitaker had been. He heaves out a breath, chest rising and falling slowly. The day begins to take its toll on him as his eyes droop at the corners, overworked and under appreciated. “When did you start believing that?”
It’s an absurd question. If anything, Robby should tell him his opinion doesn’t mean anything, that he doesn’t care for what Dennis does or doesn’t think he deserves. Yet here he is, as the chaos of the ED continues to unfold outside, looking to Dennis for answers.
Dennis drums the pads of his fingers against the table, leaning his hip against it. “Come on, you know when.”
Robby’s brows furrow and then it dawns on him all at once. “Arguably one of the worst moments of my life.”
Dennis thinks back to that day, thinks about how he kept asking himself if he was even cut out to be a doctor, and then he found Robby; broken and frail, hiding away only long enough to put himself back together and carry the weight again. The answer to a prayer Dennis hadn’t even realized he was looking for.
“That’s the thing: you see weakness, I see humility.”
Robby bites down on his lip, hard enough for it to pale but Dennis catches just enough to see the slight tremble. He shakes his head, unbelieving, never liking the sound of the truth, of something good, directed toward him. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, choking up.
“I don't need - the point is you still got up, you kept moving. I’m not telling you not to go and find whatever you’re looking for.” He takes a step forward, pressing the toe of his shoe against Robby’s. “I’m just saying there's a lot waiting when you come back.” When, not if.
Robby drops his head, resting an arm on the table and then, easy as anything, wraps his fingers around Dennis’ wrist. It’s terrifyingly reassuring. It’s terrifying. “You keep picking me up,” Robby says, voice hoarse, pulled from the back of his throat. He brushes a thumb over Dennis’ pulse, beating steady and leans forward in his seat.
In all of Dennis’ life, he’s only bowed his head in the face of the Lord, in the face of something he believed greater than himself. Watching Robby do the same, shoulders hunched in, Magen David having slipped from beneath his shirt and swinging gently, cracks something in him. He never wants to hold that power over Robby.
Dennis pulls the other chair closer and sits instead. His hand twitches to tip Robby’s chin up but he stops himself, settling for letting their knees brush. “You’re worth holding on to.”
Robby finally looks up, eyes glossy but flickering with something Dennis hasn’t seen in a while, something hopeful.
Dennis twists his wrist in Robby’s hold, just enough to let his hand settle over Robby’s bare arm. Dennis remembers pulling Robby off the floor that day, but just as quick, being pushed back, as if the sight of being shown compassion burned him. But sitting in front of him now, Robby holds on.
That counts for something.
As palpable as Robby’s presence is, his absence is, too. The ED is still loud and full of mayhem but where the usual calm buzz settles somewhere in the back, in knowing things will work themselves out, it’s eerily silent instead.
Dennis opens his locker and a slip of paper falls out.
Keys, security code and address.
See you,
— Robby
Dennis’s heart lurches. For all his efforts, not only did he not get to see Robby before he left, like he promised, but he gets a see you. He folds the paper carefully anyway and tucks it in his sweater along with the keys, forgoes changing and leaves without a word.
He takes a scalding hot shower when he gets back to his apartment, forehead resting against the wall in hopes of letting the events of the day wash off—in hopes of waking up from this awful nightmare. But no, when he opens his eyes, everything is still blaringly real and dreadful.
Dennis grabs his duffle, feeling oddly reminiscent as he packs it up and hooks the strap over his shoulder.
He makes it to Robby’s place easy enough, the street lit up by lamps and casting everything in a warm yellow glow. Dennis imagines Robby walking this path to the hospital every day, standing on the small balcony to the side and speaking to his neighbours. He thinks about the sun hitting Robby’s face as he sits on the stairs with a cup of coffee. Dennis thinks of Robby coming home to him.
Dennis doesn’t let himself linger too long after that.
He unlocks the door, creaking as he pushes it open only to drop the keys the second he steps inside.
Robby’s standing in the kitchen.
Dennis doesn't think, he can’t. He kicks the door shut and tosses his bag aside, striding up to Robby who looks like a deer in headlights. He gets as far as stepping in front of him, hands reaching out to grab him, shake him, touch something and then it all comes crashing back to reality.
He pulls his hands away, shaking, heart thudding violently. This close he has to tilt his head back to meet Robby’s gaze, unwavering, now warm.
“I’m still going,” Robby starts, lip twisting up wryly.
Dennis swallows the lump in his throat and stumbles back a few feet, leaning against the counter opposite of Robby. He sighs, he’s not sure what he was expecting Robby to say but it sucks to hear the definitive anyway. So he takes his fill while he can, letting himself watch Robby, no distractions and unabashed.
Robby doesn’t look hollowed out under the warmth of the kitchen light. Dennis wants to trace the delicate lines of his crows feet, count the freckles beneath his eyes, he wants to run his tongue along the sharp angles of his nose and jaw.
Dennis doesn’t believe in perfection but he thinks if it were to ever have a face, it would be the one standing in front of him.
“But I wanted to see what I was coming back to.”
Dennis’ knuckles go stark white where they’re gripping the counter. He opens his mouth, then closes it, ducking his head. He can feel the heat spreading all over his body, cheeks flushing, he can’t help the way his mouth twitches, something settling. Maybe Dennis does get what he wants.
It should feel strange walking Robby to the door of his own house, it feels ordinary instead. Robby puts his jacket on, hand on the doorknob when Dennis reaches out, wrapping gentle fingers around his elbow and tugging at him. Robby turns, tilting his head so Dennis doesn’t have to strain his neck, it’s impossibly sweet.
Dennis takes a step forward, settling his hands on Robby’s arms and lets them slide up, tentative. He doesn’t get much of a chance to ask Robby if this is okay, before Robby’s closing the distance, arms weaving around him, fingers splayed wide and covering what feels like the entire expanse of his back.
He lets his eyes flutter shut, a hand cupping Robby’s head and resting his cheek on his shoulder. Nothing falls into place, fireworks don’t go off, ironically - it feels like alignment, like harmony.
Robby’s nose traces the slope of his neck, breath hot against his skin. He feels more than hears the vibration of Robby humming against his chest.
Dennis has to swallow a gasp as Robby just barely lifts him off the floor, teetering on the balls of his feet. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy,
Eventually they pull away, Robby setting him down achingly tender, Dennis curls his fingers into the hem of Robby’s jacket pockets, he wants to tell him to wear his helmet but he’s already asked enough of him.
Robby’s hands cover his, squeezing before he reluctantly lets go of him.
Robby, as always, surprises him - putting his helmet on before getting on the bike. Dennis watches from the door, leaning against the frame and smiles; something heady and greedy and selfish courses through him.
“Doctor Whitaker,” Robby calls over the sound of the engine, and there it is again, the conviction oozing from his voice.
Dennis nods, just once, and then Robby’s off.
Dennis shuts the door, much more gentle this time and finally lets himself look around Robby’s place. There’s a staircase to the left of him, winding around and leads to a short balcony, a dark blue towel hung over the banister. To his right, lining the wall is a built-in bookshelf, trinkets littered in between and in the middle sits the entertainment unit. There are coffee rings on the wooden table, well worn couches wrapped around it. The kitchen looks less used but equally as homey, magnets and lists stuck to the fridge, mismatched barstools.
He looks around the foyer, a messy entryway table, a dish filled with loose change and wires, mail stacked in piles. There’s a shoehorn hanging off one of the hooks—he’s immediately charmed.
It’s what’s hanging next to it that makes his breath stutter. A second helmet. He plucks the note taped to it, four simple letters. soon.
Dennis runs a hand over the visor, it looks untouched, not a single smudge on it. Oh.
He takes the note out of his sweater and lines the papers together.
See you, the first one reads, and then, soon.
Dennis waits, he hopes.