Chapter Text
When Dennis finally became a resident, not much changed. Days were still long, nights were too short, and the coffee in the break room still had a cloyingly burnt aftertaste. Another thing that remained constant was the incessant drone of his new best friend. Trinity Santos was an interesting woman. She was a spit-fire with a heart of gold and a saint and a devious agent of chaos all in one. He had been hesitant towards her and her befuddling energy since the day they met. That day ended with him solidly confirming that she was an angel walking the ED. Her ribbing had grown more and more playful, their banter more sibling-like. Far friendlier than anything he’d ever had with his own brothers. At least when Trin hit him they were harmless grasps for his attention, nothing that left him bruised the way he was used to as a kid.
Not much to complain about concerning his time at PTMC on the whole.
Except for this one thing.
This one tiny thing.
One tiny thing that was actually a huge, all-consuming, distracting him every waking second of each day, on and off the clock, thing.
He had a big fat inappropriate workplace crush on his senior attending. Yep. Just that one thing.
It wouldn't be such a thing if it weren't for his highly perceptive roommate. Trinity clocked it before the third week of his rotation in the Pitt. When she asked, Dennis could tell she already knew. There would be no point in hiding it from her. An even bigger waste of time would be if he didn’t confess and she kept watching. Reading into every interaction. He was already doing that enough for the both of them and he didn't need this thing to be any more obvious than it (apparently) already was. It would be nice to have a person to talk to about his feelings anyways, even if she did make him thoroughly uncomfortable towards the end of all of their “talks.” She was awfully creative and her innuendos knew no bounds.
Trinity was highly encouraging of his expressions of his feelings but also very cautionary in her advice. “Keep it professional, lover boy,” was something they’d agreed on. Trin was always right.
That trust is why now, as she begged for the third time this shift, Dennis was finally relenting to her most recent request of him. But not before she worked for it a little, of course.
“It’ll be fun, Huckleberry. Come on, you know you wanna. We have room for one more since Collins moved. It’s meant to be.”
“Oh so I’m just filling out your team?” He joked.
“Please, please, please! Mel already said no, she’s too busy.”
“Ohhh, so I’m not even your first choice?” That one actually hurt a little.
“You’d really be perfect. And you’re a doctor now!” She gave his arm a shake. “It’ll really solidify you as a part of our team, not just some farm boy student doing his farm boy rounds.” She was exasperated, reaching for anything that would stick. She had flattered him, she had teased him, and now she was running out of ideas. He chose to let her off the hook.
In just a second.
“You really know how to get to me, don’t you?” He tongued the inside of his cheek mischievously.
“Say it again.”
“Say…?” her eyebrow quirked up.
“Ask me again. Really lay on the ‘doctor’ thing this time.”
Trinity’s mouth hung open as her eyes dripped in sarcasm and awe at his audacity. He waited, arms crossed, stifling a smile by sucking on his teeth.
“Please, oh please, Doctor Whitaker. We need you on our softball team. Please do us the great honor of your presence and mediocre batting skills,” she droned flatly, eyes to the ceiling the entire time.
He laughed and patted her shoulder before crossing Central and waltzing into the next patient’s room. He had to admit that was fun but he had already decided he would do it last time she asked.
It had nothing to do with the fact that she had revealed that their star player also happened to have the same kind eyes and salt and pepper hair that occupied every thought in Dennis’ head.
Nothing at all.
***
Robby was checking in on his last patient of the night before heading home when he saw his coworkers swarmed around the security office. That meant only one thing here.
It had been a fairly slow day so he wandered over to check what the good people of the emergency department were putting money on now. They loved a good betting grid.
He definitely wasn’t going to get in on the action. That would be unprofessional.
As Robby drew closer, he could see the nurses and residents taming their smiling faces, whispering to one another and hushing their own laughter.
They looked like they’d been caught.
Was it about him?
He finally got close enough to peer through the window at Ahmad’s whiteboard covered in sticky notes. Many of them (probably more than half) read, “Lose- Whitaker.”
He put it together quickly.
It may as well have been about him.
They were drawing up their bets on the next softball game. Robby, along with the rest of PTMC’s team was due to play Allegheny General Saturday afternoon and apparently were projected to lose miserably. The under/over for the final scores varied but most agreed that Dr. Whitaker, R1, brand new player, would lose the game for them.
He placed his own bet, shook his head, and walked away. The quiet he had invoked in the crowd remained long after he went home.
When Robby returned to the department the next morning, he found his favorite student. His broad shoulders were slumped as he stood in Central beside Dr. Santos. He was staring holes into his poor Blundstone boots but his body was pointed towards the security office. Santos was rubbing one arm vigorously, seemingly trying to cheer him up and apparently failing to do so. His strong body was entirely shrunken by the lack of faith from his team. The confidence that had been steadily growing since he started in the ED and had sky-rocketed when he graduated as a med-student was shattered. He looked only a little less pathetic than a punted puppy now. Robby could scream, he was so disappointed. He had grown fond of Whitaker’s smart comebacks, increased faith in his abilities, and resolution in his own decision making. It couldn’t all come crashing down over a damn recreational softball game.
He sauntered over casually, like what he was willing to offer in exchange for his resident’s happiness was no skin off his back.
“Morning, Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Santos. Something on your mind?” he offered a sympathetic shoulder squeeze to the ever-shrinking young man. He winced under the touch. Just barely.
“Um, no, nothin-”
“Huckleberry’s bummed ‘cause everyone thinks he sucks and is gonna cost us the rivalry game against AG.” Santos bluntly stated. She flashed a look towards the offending stickies.
“Not everyone,” Whitaker mumbled.
“No, not everyone. Just about everyone. Over half, I think. You haven't even played yet. How is everyone so sure you’re gonna blow it?” She wondered aloud as she craned her neck to read the tiny print on the bright yellow paper. Watching the way Whitaker’s face sagged at Santos’ ribbing, Robby wondered if this kid had gotten any sleep since undergrad. The blue bags beneath his eyes matched his irises quite nicely.
“Wow. Thanks. Great.” He snapped at her impatiently. He put his face in his palms, dragging them down as he spoke, “I don’t know, maybe they heard it from my brothers.” He rolled his eyes and then answered seriously.
“I mean I guess you wouldn’t look at me and think of like- peak athleticism or anything but I can hit a ball. I haven't played in a long time but I can hold my own, I think.” Whitaker rambled on but Robby had stopped listening.
The resident was making very little sense. Robby’s mind was stuck on the whole "athleticism” part.
Whitaker did look athletic. Or at least he was in great shape. On the shorter side but strong, solid. It was something his attending had noticed in passing before but was starkly obvious when you were looking for it; Whitaker’s biceps bulged against the cuffs of his scrub top when he crossed his arms like he was now. He’d even felt it for himself when he guided the resident around by his traps. He saw how he lifted patients with impressive ease.
Information Robby only acquired through eavesdropping on the light teasing from Dr. Santos hinted at physical labor being a pastime activity for Whitaker.
A farm hand for fun. Yes, he seemed athletic as hell.
Robby had no doubt any ball he connected with the right way would go the distance. He could hit ‘em out of the park if he knew what he was doing.
By the self-conscious rambling still spewing from the younger man, he assumed Whitaker did not, in fact, know what he was doing.
It struck Robby in that very moment, watching his student who had grown so confident, so self-assured in the last year, crumble at the thought of not being good enough, that he might be of some assistance in this area. He knew the game, had some pointers he could hand out, and a willing student. Whitaker may not always know what he’s doing but he is the fastest learner Robby had ever seen. Always eager.
“If you need coaching, I’ve got your back. What’re you, infield?”
“I’m not even sure, sir.”
“He’s infield, yes,” Santos rolled her eyes so hard Robby considered if she might get them stuck and have to sit behind a patient curtain in a minute.
“It’s been a minute since I’ve played.”
“It’s just like riding a bike. Couple swings,” Robby mimed Babe Ruth’s iconic point and swing, “and it’ll all come back to you.”
Santos and Whitaker were exchanging looks that truly puzzled Robby, wordlessly communicating something he was clearly out of the loop on. Maybe they were debating, like he was, if it would be a good idea to take this on. To spend any amount of time outside the hospital with his new resident.
You know, the one who blushes and fumbles for words every time Robby lays a hand on him.
He wondered to himself if it would be taken the wrong way to offer what he was preparing to and did it anyway.
“How about after work tonight? We can head to the battling cages and just get in some hitting practice.”
The pair’s eyes bulged almost comedically before they fixed their faces. Robby dared to meet his eye. They were honest and so blue. He saw appreciation. There was a little disbelief in there, too.
When he still hadn’t said anything in reply, Santos gave Whitaker’s arm a hard pat. He flinched again.
“That’s a great idea Robby. Get him in tip-top shape for the big game on Saturday and I’ll owe ya.”
Whitaker looked at her with his mouth wide open. “I’m right here, by the way.”
She went on, not even bothering a glance at the rookie, “I will buy everyone in this department coffee Sunday morning if you can work that miracle.”
“I’m really not that bad,” Whitaker’s lip curled up as he glared at his colleague and roommate with a level of sass Robby had not yet witnessed coming from him.
“I believe you, Dr. Whitaker. We’ll show 'em.” He tapped his fist against the younger man’s bicep, not quite in a punch but solid acknowledgment that they were on the same team. Robby made the conscious decision to not let the touch linger too long. He felt Whitaker’s muscle tense beneath his hand. He really was built like a horse, lean and strong. He blinked the thought away before snapping a finger gun at his challenger. “You’re on, Dr. Santos.”
As he backed into the next patient room, he spoke directly to Whitaker.
“Meet there or ride together?”