Chapter Text
It has been five days since Michael Robinavitch colossally fucked up his life. Morally, ethically, professionally. Probably biblically. He feels like he needs to scoop out the inside of his brain, scrub it clean with bleach, and pop it back in.
It’s not that he was ever exactly the poster boy for keeping workplace relationships strictly professional. Hell, he spends 98% of his waking hours in the Pitt, how else is he supposed to meet people? Weak excuse, he chastises himself as he forces himself out of his bed. The alarm clock reads 4:39 am, but he’s not going to be able to get any more sleep before he needs to be up for his shift.
Robby considers, for probably the 289th time that week, asking Jack to cart him into HR about it. He tries to imagine what he would even say. I cornered a very handsome 27 year old first year resident in an empty hospital room and propositioned him while he was practically choking on a protein bar. Please take my medical license.
“Jesus Christ.” He presses the brew button on his coffee machine and drags his hand down his face.
Robby had stolen a cigarette from Dana before letting himself out onto the roof. It had been blessedly quiet in the Pitt today, so much so that he worried fate was about to pummel the night shift so hard that he would be called back in for a double. He climbs none too carefully over the safety rail and sits, letting his legs dangle over the side. Jack is already doing rounds. No one to pull him back.
He puts the cigarette between his lips and digs around in his bag for a few seconds for a lighter. His phone buzzes and he looks at the screen absentmindedly, then freezes.
(From Dennis Whitaker, Resident 1)
What're you doing right now?
Robby blinks. Whitaker is definitely not drunk, he’d seen him signing out and leaving less than 10 minutes ago. He stares at his phone, watching the three dots below the message appear and disappear again and again. His heart hammers.
(From Dennis Whitaker, Resident 1)
We could talk maybe? I'm fully sober btw
Robby pulls the unlit cigarette from between his lips and pushes it into his pocket. He types out his reply five different times before finally hitting send. Like a teenager. Then he stands, restlessly shifting from foot to foot. What the hell is he doing?
(To Dennis Whitaker, Resident 1)
That would be great. Want to come have coffee at mine? I'm just a short walk from here. Or we could meet at a bar/cafe?
He doesn’t exactly want to go out right after a shift, but he also doesn’t want Whitaker to feel like he has to come to his house for them to talk. That would be way too much pressure. He climbs back over the safety rail.
(From Dennis Whitaker, Resident 1)
Your house works. Meet me at the entrance to the parking garage?
Robby’s legs are carrying him to the stairs before he has even thumbs-upped the message.
“So, do you want me to start?” Robby has made them each a cup of coffee, making sure to dump absolutely horrendous amounts of cream and sugar into Whitaker’s cup.
“Yes. Please.” Dennis says earnestly, wrapping his hands around the mug in front of him, obviously grateful for something to hold. He'd been fidgeting the whole walk here, picking at the barely healed scar on his hand from his accident in the breakroom. Robby pushes down the urge to tell him to stop.
“Okay. Well, I’m attracted to you.” Robby says it plainly. No use playing his cards close to his chest at this point. He's pleased to see a small smile form on Dennis’ face as he looks down at his coffee. “And I wasn’t going to make a move, because that’s not exactly simple territory what with--”
Robby gestures between them and Dennis nods.
“But after your text…well let’s just say it’s been harder to keep you off my mind knowing you might be interested too. And that maybe this could be something--” he trails off, realizing how serious that sounds. He clears his throat. Hopes he isn’t coming off lonely and desperate, even if that is exactly what he is. “---maybe we could see if we’re onto something. Jesus, sorry.”
Dennis keeps staring down into his cup. Robby takes a large drink of his coffee for something to do.
“I’m trans.” Dennis blurts out. Robby is eternally grateful that he has already swallowed, because he really wasn’t expecting that. Not that it matters. Dennis is looking everywhere but at him.
“Okay.” Robby tries to catch Dennis’ eyes. “Were you scared to tell me that?”
Dennis shrugs. He still looks like he’s on the verge of sprinting from the room.
“I don’t…” Robby trails off, trying to find the right words, “I mean obviously it matters, that’s a huge part of your identity and your life. But it doesn’t change the fact that I like you Dennis.”
“And I haven’t had sex before.” Dennis admits, his neck and cheeks flushing several shades darker, something Robby would've not thought possible. “Not that I believe any of the virginity bullshit or that we would even do that. Or. Whatever. I just, I don’t know. Feels like something I should probably tell you. Before whatever.”
Okay. That does take Robby a little aback. But then he thinks about what he knows about Whitaker. A trans, gay, farm boy from Nebraska. Hopped from theology to med school. Hard worker, a bit closed off, obviously not used to being flirted with. Yeah. It checks out.
“I mean, I think we’re skipping a few steps there,” Robby scratches at his beard and dips his head down to catch Dennis’ eye, “but that’s also completely okay. With me. If it’s okay with you.”
Dennis looks up at him, clearly relieved.
“The only other thing we need to talk about on my end is work, obviously.” Robby takes another sip and Dennis follows suit. Robby tries not to focus on the bob of his throat when he swallows. “I need you to know that if things go south you can go to HR. Or even just to Jack or Shen and switch to nights. Not that I would want that if you don’t want to. But if you do, for whatever reason. You won't be in any trouble. And if things go well, we will have to do paperwork with HR. Are you okay with that?”
He hates this. It feels way too much like when he's teaching him something at work. Practical. Step by step. Not romantic in any way, shape, or form. Clinical.
“Yeah. That sounds…yeah.” Dennis nods, rolling his empty coffee cup between his palms, eyes flicking up to Robby every few seconds. Anxious anticipation is rolling off him in waves. It’s adorable. Robby reaches for the cup, making sure their fingers touch as he takes it, sets it to the side. Dennis’ breath hitches and Robby leans towards him, heat curling in his stomach.
“One more thing,” He says as he presses his fingertips to Dennis’ jaw, tilting it up to the perfect angle. The other man’s eyes flutter shut, but he hums in answer. Robby takes in the image of Dennis like this, tries to memorize it. “When we’re not at work, call me Michael.”
And then he presses his lips to Dennis’ and lets himself fall.