Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a silly smile on Dennis Whitaker’s face as he hurried down the stairs. The bright lights of the neuro operating room were burned into his retinas, lingering in his field of vision in the dim stairwell. His pulse was still up, fingertips still tingling with adrenaline after having rolled the suspected migraine - now confirmed stroke - first from room 19 to trauma bay 2, and then up to the OR. He jumped the last two steps, feeling light as air and ready to take on whatever the rest of his shift would throw at him. It was like a trip to another world to take the emergency elevator up to the floors above. The sterile, orderly world of neurosurgery, the theatre fully staffed with identically dressed scrub techs, nurses and surgeons, the quiet eyes following his every movement so he wouldn’t interfere with preparations for the thrombectomy. On his way out, he stole glances off to the hallway to the ICU, another another world. It looked deserted, the hallways clean and empty, but behind the frosted glass to the modules, he could see shadows moving rapidly. 

Opening the door from the stairwell, the sound level increased exponentially. The sound of dozens of hushed conversations accumulated in an ambient buzz. Slightly louder, the sound of a crying baby, and someone moaning with pain. Cutting through it all, the bing of the call light, the warning beeps of the CPAP in trauma 1, the annoying five-note reminder melody the respirator in trauma 2 played to keep everyone aware that it was in stand-by mode. In his current, almost intoxicated state, it was like a white noise machine to a baby - it made Whitaker feel at home, it calmed him, he could fall asleep to this. He belonged here. 

He headed for the hub, a grin still plastered across his face, eager to see what he had missed during his time in trauma 2 and then up to surgery. 

“Whitaker.” A hand on his neck. 

He didn’t know which he registered first, the voice or the hand, but they effectively shut out everything else. Whitaker had heard his name uttered with the whole register of tones and emotions during the last month, but still couldn’t tell if this was going to be a good or a bad thing. 

He turned quickly, still smiling, eager to please, eager for the next thing. It was even in the papers from school that he needed to get signed off before he was off to his next placement: Number 11: Does the medical student show enthusiasm and initiative? Rate from 1 to 5.

Robby was smiling, but Whitaker could immediately tell that it wasn’t going to be good. He knew that smile. It was the smile that only came out when Robby was fighting hard not to show how angry he was. Whitaker’ own smile faltered, muscles twitching awkwardly with the quick change of facial expression. 

“Do you have a minute?” Robby asked in a low, clipped tone. It wasn’t a question. He didn’t let go of Whitaker’ neck, using it to steer him back around and back out to the stairwell, like he would try to run away. It would have felt ridiculous if Whitaker hadn’t desperately wanted to run away rather than know what came next. Robby steered him towards the viewing room and gave him a sharp shove in.

Whitaker took a few shambling steps inside, struggling to find his bearings. Not ten seconds earlier, he’d been so happy. Now he didn’t know what happiness had ever felt like. He didn’t even know what he’d done wrong. Not yet, at least. But Robby seemed set on enlightening him. Whitaker still tried to rack his brain for what mistake he’d made to cause this, as though preempting the grand reveal would somehow make it less painful. 

Robby shut the door behind them. Despite there being another door in the opposite corner, Whitaker still felt like an animal in a trap. Robby folded his arms across his chest. A deep sigh. Disappointed. Angry. Whitaker felt his stomach clench painfully. He wanted to vomit. He had spent so much time and effort the last month seeking his man’s approval - now it was flushed down the drain. Whatever it was, he would never recover from this.

“What’s protocol for patient transport?” Robby asked in that deceptively calm voice, still fighting to keep the polite smile on his face. 

It was like someone had poured ice down his spine. With a startling clarity, he knew what he had done wrong - and unfortunately, exactly how badly he had fucked up. 

“Patient transport…” Whitaker mumbled. His ears were ringing. He looked everywhere but at Robby’s face.

“Yes,” Robby cut him off sharply, the calm mask cracking at the edges. “Tell me the protocol for patient transport.”

Whitaker opened his mouth and could already feel his voice threatening to crack. He stopped himself and gave an awkward cough. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t –”

“The protocol. For. Patient. Transport.” Robby pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

It was a question Whitaker knew the answer to, but it was still painful to recite. “A stable patient can be moved with transport services. A patient requiring continuous telemetry needs to be accompanied by an RN…”

Whitaker trailed off, stomach cramping in shame. His neck was burning.

“And an unstable patient?” Robby prompted. “Like a stroke patient being transferred to surgery, for example?”

Whitaker felt sure that what he was currently feeling was not all that different from prisoners being forced to dig their own graves before being shot in the head.

“Unstable patients,” Whitaker started, trying to steady his voice, attempting to transfer the tremble to the hands that he kept locked behind his back. “Unstable patients need to be transferred by three staff, preferably an emergency medicine specialist, an RN and a CNA.” 

“So you do know the protocol!” Robby said sarcastically, clapping his hands together, temper slipping. “So who transported Mrs Djacovic to the OR?”

“The neurologist… and me,” Whitaker admitted, heart beating in his throat. He might vomit.

“A neurologist and a med student.”

The neurologist had been loud, had been repeatedly insisting ‘time is brain!’, as she had started disconnecting the bed, throwing the patient’s belongings onto the bed. 

“Did you bring the emergency meds bag? The portable deff?”

Whitaker could see it in front of him, the big, red, square bag hanging on the back wall of trauma 2, where it had still been hanging in place when he and the neurologist had rolled the patient into the elevator.

“No,” Whitaker admitted, eyes locked on the floor.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Robby said, now having given up any attempt to appear calm. “What would you have done if something had happened? If the elevator stopped? Was she at least still connected to the monitor?”

“Yes.” Whitaker said, clinging to whatever mitigating factors he could find. “She was –”

“Good! How very fucking fortunate! So then you could at least see if she went into v-tach, even if you didn’t have any meds or equipment or staff to actually do anything about it!”

Whitaker still had his eyes fixed to the floor in front of him, but he saw Robby step closer, saw him count off all the things he hadn’t thought about on his fingers, like hammering nails into a coffin. Shame was burning up his neck, flushing his throat. He could feel it lick up the corners of his jaw. In minutes it would flush his face in ugly red splotches like a rash. He kept his eyes down, even if he was now no longer looking at the floor but at Robby’s midsection. 

“What were you thinking?” Robby asked again, and Whitaker wondered if this was also rhetorical, or if he was actually supposed to answer this time. 

He watched Robby fold his arms across his chest, shifting his weight impatiently. He guessed this meant he was supposed to answer. He took a deep breath, trying to sort his thoughts through the ringing in his ears.

“I was –”

The other door (Whitaker tried not to think about it as his escape path) opened a crack. “Dr Robby?”

Robby took two long strides across the room.

“Occupado!” he snarled and slammed the door shut, turning the lock with a loud click that seemed to echo through the sparse viewing room. 

Robby stepped back to stand right in front of Whitaker, too close. He bent awkwardly, patronisingly, to force Whitaker to look at him. Whitaker wasn’t a troubled teen making a scene, he told himself firmly. He’d take the consequences of his own fuck-up. He looked up, not even attempting to look calm; he knew he wore his shame and embarrassment on his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He knew that somewhere in his brain there was a secret series of words, that if he could only string it together, everything would be good again. He just had no idea where to find it. “The neurologist kept stressing the urgency, so I deferred to –”

“The fucking neurologist has nothing to do with it!” Robby interrupted him, poking him hard in the chest. “She’s not part of it! She was a consult! The neurosurgeon who is actually going to preform the procedure is probably not even in the fucking building yet! All this fucking hurrying and risks for nothing!”

The index finger at his sternum felt like the muzzle of a gun. Whitaker’ heart jumped further up his throat. He could feel his heartbeat burning on his tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” Whitaker repeated. He wanted it to have to be the only thing he needed to say to make everything better, but he knew it wasn’t. “I should have stopped, I should have thought about it, but she was so forceful and seemed to know what she was doing –”

“Do you just do whatever people tell you?” Robby asked, and now there was a hint of something softer in his voice. Pity. It was even worse than the angry disappointment.

Whitaker knew the answer to this question. Number 3: Does the medical student display critical thinking in a clinical setting? Rate 1 to 5.

“No?” he ventured. 

Robby gave a weak laugh, ran his hand through his hair and put his hands on his hips, squaring up. “Bark.”

“Woof.”

It hadn’t been a conscious decision, it was a knee-jerk reaction. 

The silence was deafening. That was not the right answer. That was not critical thinking in a clinical setting. 

Something had shifted in the room, and Whitaker wanted desperately to shift it back. He wanted to backtrack, because suddenly it felt like he had mud under his feet and he was slipping fast. Everything was so fucked up already, he couldn’t risk making it worse. Whitaker wanted to look at the floor again, but found it impossible to look away from Robby’s eyes. He was staring, eyes darting awkwardly from the right eye to the left and back again. 

Robby opened his mouth to say something, lips parted, deep breath. Then nothing. Another breath. “Open your mouth.”

This was crossing a line. Somewhere, distantly, Whitaker was aware of that. His crush on Robby was just that, a crush. Everybody had a crush on Robby. It was a running joke. A punchline. It was just something you acknowledged and moved on. You could joke about it publicly, it wasn’t gay, it wasn’t serious, it was just a joke. It was misplaced admiration, a need for approval, recognition of skill - too many things all tangled together. It wasn’t anything he’d ever act on. Not beyond the sporadic late-night masturbation sessions, but that didn’t really even count anyway either. Which was why it was all the more freeing when the decision was gently lifted from his shoulders with three little words.

Whitaker’s mouth fell open on cue. Not a dentist’s ‘aaah’, but a small parting of lips, relaxing his jaw. He had no idea where this was going, but it was clearly undeniably sexual, and he felt a twisted arousal join the churning shame pumping through his body. 

Robby reached out, face unreadable, and put his hand on Whitaker’s face, cupping his cheek, fingertips resting on his neck, right below his ear. Whitaker’s shoulders tensed. It was too nice, too tender. This was an attempt to gentle a rejection. He could tell. He was about to pull away when the pad of Robby’s thumb brushed against Whitaker’s lips. First soft, just tracing the edges; then harder, pushing, pressing, feeling the soft give of them. 

The scent of hand sanitizer was burning his nose. But under it, the smell of warm skin. He wanted to lean into the touch, lean closer to Robby, but he didn’t dare move. Not a muscle. He stood frozen, a deer in the headlights, fearing that any movement would be in the wrong direction. 

Robby angled his thumb, touching Whitaker’s teeth, running the soft pad of it along the sharp edge of the bottom teeth. Whitaker tried to keep his tongue as far back in his mouth as he could, as though that touch would be too intimate, too forward, as opposed to the thumb pushed into his mouth.

“Open,” Robby said, voice low. He pushed down with his thumb, pushing Whitaker’s jaw down. Whitaker let him. He’d let him do anything. He’d do anything to have Robby look at him like he did now, eyes dark and unreadable, rather than the anger and disappointment. He wanted to be moved, guided, told what to do so he didn’t have to worry about doing the wrong thing. 

The dry air of the hospital made Whitaker’s mouth water, and he struggled to swallow with Robby keeping his mouth open. His lips closed around Robby’s thumb for a moment, and he could taste it. Skin and salt and disinfectant and tobacco. The tip of his tongue bumped against the tip of the finger. A sound that unfortunately couldn’t be called anything other than a whimper escaped him.

Robby shifted his hand, replacing the thumb with his index and middle fingers, tucking his thumb under Whitaker’s chin, keeping his mandible steady, as he pushed his fingers farther in between the teeth. Whitaker felt something snap inside of him, and closed his lips around the thick fingers, sucking gently, tracing the rough edges, tasting Robby. For a second, Whitaker thought about asking if Robby was a smoker, before he stopped himself, judging the question far too personal. 

Whitaker wanted to touch him - had wanted to touch him for a while - wondered if he could be allowed to slip a hand in under the hoodie, under the scrub top, and feel his skin. He’d caught glimpses, flashes of skin and dark hair when Robby stretched or moved. But he kept his hands clasped behind his back, waiting, itching to be told what to do.

“Open,” Robby repeated, shifting his fingers and pushing Whitaker’s mouth, eyes moving slowly from his mouth, up to Whitaker’s wide eyes, and then back down again.

Whitaker opened wider, and felt the fingers press down on his tongue. Salt from his skin melted and dispersed, Whitaker wanted more, wanted to know if his skin tasted differently on other parts of his body. Saliva pooled at the back of his mouth, and Whitaker made to swallow it down, closing his lips, when Robby gave him a sharp look. Whitaker’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Keep it open.”

Whitaker tilted his head back, struggling to swallow with his mouth open, failing, and feeling a trickle of saliva run down the corner of his mouth. He wanted to lick at it reflexively, but found his tongue pinned by Robby’s fingers. It twitched uselessly under his fingers, saliva now running down his neck, dampening the neckline of his scrubs.

“Down.”

The pressure on Whitaker’s jaw increased minutely. Barely perceptively, actually. But combined with the concentrated look on Robby’s face, Whitaker didn’t know when he had last moved so fast. His knees hit the floor hard, pain shooting up his femurs like lightning. It amalgamated with the rest of the shame and arousal and fed into it, reminding him that he had legs, and a body and a hard-on that he really wanted to touch or get touched or just - fuck it - rub up against something.

Whitaker looked up at Robby, eyes wide, waiting. Robby pulled his fingers back, slick with saliva, a viscous thread connecting them and then breaking, landing cool and wet on Whitaker’s chin. Whitaker swallowed immediately, an awkward slurping sound breaking the silence. Robby reached for the waistband of his pants, but stopped, halting his hands with the button undone. Whitaker’s stomach clenched. Please don’t stop, please don’t stop. Just let me do this. I know how to do this. Don’t think about it - it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. But he kept quiet, hands still behind his back, knuckles white with effort of keeping them to himself. 

Robby looked at him, eyes searching. Whitaker met his eyes, trying to put as much answer as possible into them, before he instead looked down at Robby’s hands at his waistband. Whitaker could see he was hard. It was clear through the dark fabric. Whitaker wanted to press his face against it, wanted to feel the outline with his mouth, lean closer and let his tongue trace the length of it. But instead, he turned back up to Robby again, remembered the clear instruction he’d been given - and opened his mouth.

Robby took a very deep breath. Then another. But his eyes never left Whitaker. His hands trembled slightly at the waistband of his pants. Then something changed, some decision was made, but Whitaker was thankfully left out of that whole process. The button was undone, the fly was pulled down - the sound of it sent goosebumps breaking out across Whitaker’s arms. A few quick movements, and then it was right there, Robby’s cock, big and cut and hard and far too close. Whitaker almost wanted to pull back for a second, to get a better view, but another, stronger part of him, wanted to stay as close as possible, and get closer still. The smell of soap and sweat and skin and sex filled his nose, his mouth. It was big enough to droop at its own weight, the head hanging slightly lower than the base, a clear droplet of precome gathering ever so slowly at the very tip, not two inches from Whitaker’s face. 

Whitaker closed the very short distance between them, taking the head into his mouth, burning hot on his tongue. The taste of stranger, of man, of off-limits, should be familiar by now, but this was something else. A soft moan slipped from his lips as he tried to take him deeper tried to –

Robby’s hand caught Whitaker’s hair and pulled him back roughly. The moan cut off in a wince, and the thrill of the sudden pain shot down his spine, making his own cock ache in his scrubs. He was held just off-balance, hands flying out to his side to help keep him upright. Robby was still so close, close enough for Whitaker to feel the heat emanating off him, close enough that if he just stuck his tongue out, he was sure he could lick his cock. But he didn’t. He managed to tear his eyes away and looked up at Robby. 

“Hands behind your back. And you don’t make a sound,” Robby said, voice pitched low, tone almost uncomfortably serious. But the instructions were clear. Whitaker wobbled slightly as he again locked his hands behind his back, left wrist clasped in right hand. He didn’t know how to demonstrate silence. He looked up at Robby, leaning into the grip on his hair, and opened his mouth again. 

Robby took a hold of the base of his cock, placing it between Whitaker’s lips, moving it slowly deeper. Whitaker closed his lips around it, feeling the hard girth of it moving deeper into his mouth. Robby shifted his hips, pushing farther, deeper with each soft thrust. The slick mix of saliva and precome coated the skin, coated Whitaker’s lips, easing the way, making it glide frictionless and smooth. With every movement, Robby brought Whitaker’s face closer to his groin, the wiry pubic hair, the tender skin of his belly, the skin he had caught glimpses of in the gap between hoodie and pants, but never thought he’d see from this angle. 

The hand in Whitaker’s hair clenched sporadically, almost unconsciously, and every time it sent sparks of electricity down to his cock. Just the slightest friction would be enough to make him come. He had a wild image of himself rubbing up against Robby’s leg, being allowed to bring himself to climax like that, with Robby’s hand in his hair and a look of mild disapproval on his face. It made his cock throb painfully, and it made him question a lot of his life choices. 

Robby thrust deeper and deeper with each stroke, bumping up against the close of Whitaker’s throat. Whitaker could feel his entire body spasm at the intrusion, throwing him back instinctively, tearing him free from Robby’s grip. He landed with one hand on the floor, balancing only on fingertips as he struggled not to retch. As much as he relished the saliva drying down his throat, the sweat dampening his hair and running down the dip of his spine, the dirt of the hospital floor was one step too far.

Whitaker looked up at Robby, holding up a finger to signal that he just needed a second, just a tiny second. Robby had the good grace to look impassive. Whitaker didn’t know if he could take a look of concern on his face right now. He caught his breath, and straightened back up on his knees, blinking his eyes clear.

“Please,” he whispered, hoping to skirt just inside the lines of ‘quiet’. His voice was shot anyway, the sounds he made were barely audible. “More, please. Please.”

Hands carding back through Whitaker’s short hair, Robby took pity on him and pulled him back onto his cock. At first he was careful. Too careful. It made Whitaker’s skin crawl. So he opened his mouth wider, jaw starting to burn, offering himself, attempting to tell Robby to take what he wanted. The telepathy was working. The pace picked up. Whitaker could hear Robby’s breath start to catch, could feel him tense and relax his legs. As any semblance of rhythm withered away, Whitaker just let his mouth hang open, no attempt at skill or suction. He let his eyes drift closed, entire body a pleasant hum of not having to think, not having to doubt, not having to make any decisions. 

Robby made a strangled sound, bitten-off and sharp at the same time as his cock twitched in Whitaker’s mouth, semen landing at the back of his throat, then further out his mouth as Robby quickly pulled out, more of it landing on Whitaker’s tongue and lips, scalding hot. He was breathing heavily far above, and Whitaker tipped his head up, feeling hazy. He felt something in his mouth: Robby’s thumb keeping his jaw open again. It made his entire face ache. 

“Don’t swallow,” Robby said. “Touch yourself.”

Whitaker almost lost his balance in his desperation to get his hand down his pants. He didn’t pull it out, he didn’t put on a show, he just needed to find some - any - relief because it was starting to hurt. 

He had Robby’s semen in his mouth, on his lips, and as he struggled with his own cock, it was starting to run down, joining the saliva down his throat, rapidly cooling in the aggressively air-conditioned air. His own cock was leaking, damp and slippery under his fingers. He felt painfully uncoordinated, fumbling with himself in his hurry. 

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” Whitaker was trying to say, but with Robby’s thumb in his mouth what came out was closer to ‘ack ack ack’. He was so close. Robby crouched down in front of him, watching him intently. 

“I told you to be quiet,” he said, the grip tightening on Whitaker’s jaw. 

It was all he needed to push him over the edge. He clenched eyes shut, his teeth involuntarily, biting down on Robby’s thumb as he swallowed. His hand barely felt like he was the one controlling it, come spilling over his fingers inside of his underwear. He swallowed again and again, still tasting Robby in his mouth. 

The thumb was pulled from between his teeth. By the time he had managed to pry his eyes open, Robby was already standing, closing his pants. Reality settled like a stone in Whitaker’s stomach. The viewing room was too cold, too bright, too bare. Whitaker struggled to his feet, supporting himself on one of the chairs as he worked the blood back into his legs.

“I’m sorry for…” he started. He didn’t even know where to start. “For biting you,” he finished lamely. 

“I’m not going to lie, it hurt like a bitch,” Robby said and made a show of shaking the pain out of his hand, a small smile played around his mouth. “But I’m up to date with my rabies shots.”

Whitaker smiled weakly. 

“Go and clean yourself off, see you back at the hub in ten,” Robby said, straightening out his clothes. 

“I’ll – I’ll do that,” Whitaker agreed, nodding, clearing his throat. 

Robby gave him a short nod back, then opened the door, leaving it ajar behind him. The sounds of the ER came rushing in, overpowering and jarring after the quiet of the empty viewing room. There were voices outside, sounding worried.

“It’s fine,” he could hear Robby say to someone. “Just back off and give him a moment.”

Whitaker’s knees were starting to feel decidedly wobbly. He sank down on one of the chairs, feeling the uncomfortable stickiness of cold come in his underwear. Absentminded, he scratched an itch on his throat, fingers slipping in saliva and semen. He suspected that he might need more than a moment to recover.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he could guess the answer to question 9 in the papers from school. Does the medical student interact professionally with colleagues and patients? Rate from 1 to 5.

Chapter Text

The rumour had spread with a speed that was truly impressive: open skull fracture. Nobody could have missed what was happening in Trauma 1. The hush that descended over the ER during cases like this was something else. It was like even the other patients picked up on the atmosphere and quieted down. Anyone who could get away to watch the action did. Not Whitaker though. No, he had a confused 80 year old woman with a scalp laceration in front of him that he couldn’t let out of his sight. After she had been cleared from the CT, she had been found wandering the ambulance bay. The bleeding had stopped, and she was now waiting for sutures - sutures Whitaker was going to do. Only, he was not allowed to do it without a resident’s or attending’s say-so, and all of them were in Trauma 1. So he was stuck in the increasingly torturous catch 22 of wanting to watch what was happening in Trauma 1, but not being able to do that before whatever happened in Trauma 1 was over. 

“He can’t keep his airway, they’re doing an emergency tracheotomy.”

The words drifted over from the nurses station to North 3, where Whitaker had to grit his teeth not to abandon Mrs Holloran. Mrs Holloran herself was getting at least equally impatient with the wait. 

“Please sit down,” Whitaker pleaded, helping her back onto the gurney and catching her hand a millisecond before she managed to reach back and scratch at the open laceration she kept forgetting had split the back of her scalp open. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer now.”

“What are we waiting for?” Mrs Holloran asked, twisting her head around in a way that made the laceration gape in a truly wince-inducing way. 

The question itched inside Whitaker. What were they waiting for? The ER couldn’t just grind to a halt because something more exciting was happening elsewhere. He still had his evaluation paperwork burning a hole in his locker; it would look terrible to just sit around and wait for someone to tell him what to do. So what if he couldn’t do sutures unsupervised? There had to be something else he could do. Number 4: Does the medical student show a willingness to apply theoretical knowledge in clinical practice? Rate from 1 to 5.

“Look at farmboy playing field medic.”

The voice was right behind him, making Whitaker jump, which in turn made Mrs Holloran jump. He’d been too concentrated on the task he had set himself to notice someone sneaking up on him. He turned, keeping his hands elevated even though he knew that his gloves were nowhere near sterile anymore. Jack Abbot was watching with an appreciative smile. Was the night shift already here? What time was it?

“Hey Robby, come look at this,” Abbot called over his shoulder. 

There was an immediate disappointment at knowing that if Abbot was here, and dr Robby was walking around, the open skull fracture had been rolled away, either to the neuro ICU or to the morgue. There was also the constant, gnawing worry at the pit of his stomach that always grew when Robby got close. They hadn’t been avoiding each other exactly, Whitaker preferred to think of it more as a mutual reestablishing of professional boundaries.

“Hmm?” Robby already had his bag slung over his shoulder. Whitaker looked over to the clock over the nurses station; it was already seven thirty. 

For the last hour, Whitaker had very slowly and meticulously cleaned, and closed the scalp laceration by tying individual strands of hair from opposite sides of the cut together in a neat row of surgical knots done with a spare needle driver. The first couple of hair sutures were messy, but as he’d got into the groove of it, they straightened up.

“You tell him to do this?” Abbot asked Robby, backing off to let him take a look.

Whitaker tensed and glanced over at Robby. No one had told him to do it, no one had supervised, but Whitaker felt surprisingly comfortable with his risk analysis - even if he had felt it necessary to prepare a defense during the time he had been doing it.

“No one told me to do it,” he admitted, hating the nervous blush already spreading at the back of his neck. This time he hadn’t done anything wrong. “But it’s completely non-invasive and fully reversible. I even only used topical lidocaine.”

Robby leaned closer. Whitaker moved out of the way quickly, but not quick enough to not feel a gut-churning wave of… he didn’t even know what. 

“How do you feel, Mrs…” Robby asked.

“Holloran,” Whitaker supplied.

“You feeling okay, Mrs Holloran?” 

“Yes, she’s doing my hair today. But it’s taking too long.”

“Well, at least she did a good job, it looks great back here. I think you should be able to be on your way soon.” 

“Where did you pick this up?” Abbot asked, though Whitaker could already feel his attention start to drift. He even took a couple of steps backwards, physically leaving the conversation. 

 “Um… There was a veterinarian back home who kind of…” He let the rest of the sentence peter out. 

“Well,” Robby said, straightening back up. “Whatever gets the job done, and this clearly does. Might not be the strongest sutures, but you certainly made up for that in quantity. Should hold for a week or two, and that’s probably enough.”

A warm pride coated the inside of Whitaker’s chest like honey. It even soothed the constant buzzing worry, at least for a little while. He fought the urge to high five someone. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Good work, kid.”

The hand landed heavy at the back of his neck, like it was a misjudged clap on the back. For the briefest of moments, it felt nice, like a return to normalcy. Then they both remember at the exact same time why things hadn’t been normal. Whitaker’s spine stiffened, and Robby pulled his hand away quickly, but not before the touch had sent warm goosebumps breaking out across Whitaker’s shoulders. 

The day after Nothing Happened, Robby had caught Whitaker in the hallway with a quick tap on the arm. He had looked pretty much everywhere but at Whitaker. “You… You’re fine, right? You’re doing okay?”

Whitaker had done his utmost to act like he didn’t know why the question was asked. Like he hadn’t got himself off thinking about it the night before and again that morning. “Yes, of course! I’m fine. Great.”

“Good.”

And that had been the end of it. It had also been the end of everything else. The hand on the neck, the friendly smiles, and (yes, he could on some level admit it to himself) the favouritism. Before it had been taken away he would have argued to his grave that it hadn’t been there; but when it was gone, he could see it with painful clarity. It was probably for the best. Or at least, that was what he told himself - repeatedly - because it didn’t seem to want to stick. 

“Have one of the nurses put a dressing on that, and clock out. You’ve earned it. Even I’m clocking out on time tonight.” Robby quickly put his hand into his pocket, and shifted the bag higher on his shoulder. 

Whitaker forced a weak smile. “I’ll do that.”

Robby walked off. Whitaker wasn’t proud of watching him walk away. The idea of Robby existing out in the real world didn’t sit right. He seemed to be part of the building, like he’d vanish if he walked out of there. Almost as though to underscore that point, Robby didn’t head for the exit. Instead he walked over to the door leading to the administration offices, pushing it open with his shoulder. As he turned sideways, he caught Whitaker’s eye and smiled. Just a small quirk of the lip, but a smile nonetheless. Whitaker’s heart skipped a beat. Was that… was that a nod? Whitaker’s heart started again, hitting a painful pace in seconds. Did he want him to follow him? A flickering glimmer of hope ignited. 

“Um, can you,” Whitaker mumbled, mostly to himself as he headed towards the nursing station, almost tripping over his own feet as he went. “Can-you-put-a-dressing-on-Mrs-Holloran- and-have-someone-pick-her-up-because-I-have-to-chart-I’ll-be-back-in-a-moment.”

The words tumbled out of him quick enough to be near-unintelligible. He didn’t wait for a response. He’d apologise later. He didn’t quite manage to snuff out the hope that he’d apologise after. There wouldn’t be an ‘after’ because there wouldn’t - couldn’t - be a ‘before’. Nevertheless he hurried across the floor to the slowly closing administration door, reaching it only just as it clicked shut right in front of him. Heart in his throat, Whitaker blipped his badge and could see his pale fingers tremble over the keypad as though they belonged to someone else. The light turned green and the door unlocked again with a buzz. 

The admin offices were located in the windowless depths of the hospital. Rows of doors in narrow corridors no one would ever have to navigate a gurney or a bed through. The lights were still flickering a bit from being turned on by the motion sensors. They had most likely been off for hours if not days, since the staff back here never had to work weekends. The walls were white, the doors were white, the little name plates next to the doors were white. It somehow felt more sterile in here than it did out where they kept the patients. 

One single door was open. Not wide open, just slightly ajar. The lights were on inside. Whitaker took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, trying to keep hope from turning into anticipation. But he couldn’t deny that his thoughts were running away with him. Could the thing that Never Happened happen again? Could he be allowed to do it again? God knew he wanted to. Not a singular night had passed without him thinking about it, to the point where he barely knew what had actually happened and what his imagination had added to the mix. 

The name plate on the door read ‘Emergency Medicine Attending’ and a list of names. A shared office. Whitaker took a steadying breath and walked inside. It was a completely bare room. The shelves on the wall were empty, the standard issue cheap flat-pack filing cabinet/bookcase in the corner was empty, the desk was bare, the rolling chair even still had the plastic wrapped around the armrests. The only thing that wasn’t empty were the plastic trays next to the door that served as mailboxes, which were all overflowing with papers, letters and memos. Robby was standing by the desk, fishing up a battered laptop from his backpack. He turned at the sound of Whitaker closing the door behind him. 

It did not take more than a second for Whitaker realised how badly he had misunderstood the situation. The sound of the door closing still echoed through the room. Robby’s expression went from looking startled, to surprised, to worried in what by all rights was a comically short span of time, before he managed to school it back into a polite neutral. He had clearly not expected, let alone wanted, to be followed back here. 

“What can I do for you, Whitaker?” he asked, placing his laptop on the desk. His attempt at sounding casual would have been more convincing if his eyes didn’t dart to the closed door behind Whitaker. 

Whitaker’s brain stalled. Embarrassed disappointment made it difficult to think. How had he ever even entertained the notion that Robby had tried to signal something to him? It was beyond ridiculous. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. What words could come out? ‘I’m sorry, I thought you wanted me to blow you again, but I was clearly mistaken’? Any banal observation would be better. “I thought you said you were clocking out?”

Not a lot better, clearly. He cringed at himself. 

“Unless I finish this education module I’ll be locked out of Epic at midnight,” Robby said, opening the laptop. “And I’ll be damned if I do it on personal time.”

Whitaker gave a weak chuckle. Suddenly it felt like a kindness that they had avoided each other, because acting normal, like nothing had happened was clearly beyond Whitaker’s very limited scope of acting abilities. Attempting to act like a doctor apparently took up all of his effort. 

Number 6: Does the medical student correctly identify situations or conditions beyond his or her capacity and/or skill level? Rate 1 to 5.

“I’m sorry, I should leave,” Whitaker mumbled, backing towards the door. He needed to extricate himself from this situation as quickly as possible.

“No, I’m still on the clock, what did you want?” Robby half-sat on the desk, like nothing was amiss. Like the last time they had been alone in a room together, he hadn’t told Whitaker to get on his knees and put his dick in his mouth. 

“No, I really, really should leave,” Whitaker reiterated, turning around to get the door. “I didn’t think.”

“Wait.”

No. Whitaker froze, hand resting on the doorhandle. That was his concerned voice, not the fake casual one. Please, no. If he apologised Whitaker might actually die. They couldn’t talk about it. It was the only way this could get worse. 

“Whitaker, I really think I need to -”

“I’m fine,” Whitaker interrupted quickly, turning back around, panic mounting. “I’m good, you’re good; it’s all fine.”

“No, but -” Robby got up from the desk. He looked so serious. He needed to stop talking.

Whitaker took a step across the small office, screwed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth against Robby’s. It wasn’t a kiss as much as faces mashed together. It took a heartbeat for Whitaker to even register what he had done, but then it was too late, the damage was already done. The idea of dealing with the consequences of it was so unappealing that Whitaker just stood there for a moment, eyes still firmly closed. He braced for hands on his shoulders gently pushing him away, for Robby slowly turning his face away and pulling back. But nothing happened. Until he felt Robby’s lips soften against his own. Whitaker’s eyes flew open, seeing only blurry skin. He allowed himself a shaky inhale. It didn’t clear his head any, only filling his airways with the smell of old coffee, minty gum and stale cigarette smoke. It was intoxicating. 

The kiss eased into something that could more reasonably be called a kiss, Whitaker meeting Robby’s mouth with an exhilarated wonder at actually being allowed to do this. When he parted his lips, opening his mouth, Robby responded in turn, their tongues meeting hot and wet and vulnerable. The naked intimacy of it ignited a burning hunger in Whitaker and he inched even closer, pressing up against the warm bulk of Robby, shaking fingers grasping for skin between the layers of clothes. Pushing and pulling at hoodie, scrubs, t-shirt, his fingertips finally made contact with bare, hot skin, and Whitaker let out an eager sigh at the soft give of his belly, the texture of hair against his palms, his lips turning up in a smile against Robby’s mouth.

The hands landed on Whitaker’s shoulders with a heavy finality that felt like a blow to the gut. Robby lightly pushed him away with a care that was clearly intended to spare Whitaker’s feelings, but sent the ultimate message of rejection without any room for doubt. Whitaker could still feel the ghost of his smile on his lips, the rough scrape of Robby’s beard against his mouth as he let himself be guided backwards. He had managed to press so close that he needed to take two shambling steps backwards to put an armlength’s distance between them.  

The desperate need to apologise bubbled inside of him. He licked his lips nervously, finding them raw and numb with friction, still tasting Robby on them. A small, greedy part of him whispered ‘worth it’ as he tried to find his bearings. Finally he turned his eyes up at Robby. He looked… conflicted. There was no other word for it. He didn’t have the firm set of his brow that he did when dedicated to an unpleasant but nonetheless correct course of action. He didn’t have the grimly encouraging expression like when he wanted Whitaker to come to his own conclusion about an approaching mistake. It was just inscrutable. His eyes darted down to Whitaker’s mouth when he licked his lips again, only to close them immediately when he realised what he was doing.

The moment dragged on and became a space of time measurable in the number shaky breaths Whitaker took to steady himself. Four, Whitaker counted, before he needed it all to end, one way or another, caught in a paralysing bear trap of indecision.

“Tell me what to do.” Tell me to get out. Tell me to change schools. Tell me to fuck off back to Nebraska. Tell me I’m fundamentally unfit to be a doctor.

“Put your hands on the desk.”

Whitaker’s mouth closed with an audible click. Robby got off the desk he’d been half-sitting on and straightened up. He took a step to the side, watching Whitaker’s eyes follow him. He nodded back to the now empty desk. “Bend over and put your hands on the desk.”

A profound relief washed over Whitaker. Relief at the  ending, relief at not being rejected, relief at the clear instruction - and in its wake, a thrumming arousal he had desperately been trying to keep at bay. Now it coursed through him, making his legs tingle and knees wobble as he took a step towards the desk and placed his palms firmly on the still-warm surface. 

“Lower.”

Robby was fully out of his field of vision now, standing somewhere behind him. Whitaker eased himself down on his elbows instead, leaning across the desk. He had never had to consider how low a desk was before this, until he felt how exposed the position made him. It thrilled him. 

A warm hand landed on the small of Whitaker’s back. It pushed farther, heavy palm following the ridge of his spine, warm through the black scrubs, until it reached the back of his neck, fingertips raking through the short hairs, then back down again, just as slowly. Whitaker could feel himself go soft and pliant under the touch. As the hand reached its starting position, it now pushed in under his scrub top, hooking into the elasticated waistband of the pants and started easing them down. Whitaker didn’t know if Robby was doing this so slow to give him a chance to protest, or to just torture him further, but the sensation of more and more skin of his backside getting exposed to the cold air made Whitaker’s stomach swoop. He let his head fall forward on the hinge of his neck, hot breath rolling over his clenched hands. His hard-on was caught between the desk and his belly, aching as Whitaker tried to find some way to relieve the pressure. 

Robby’s hands shifted, grabbing onto Whitaker’s hips, stepping closer until he was pressed up against him, clothed erection pushed roughly against bare skin. He ground harder, pushing Whitaker against the desk, the outline of his cock slotting between his cheeks. Whitaker knew that cock; he’d seen it; he’d tasted it. He knew it was big, it had left his jaw sore for hours. Thinking about what it would be like to be fucked by it made a whimper spill from his lips. 

One hand pulled back, and Whitaker froze, tense with anticipation. He could hear a wet sound, lewd and promising. He turned awkwardly, still keeping his elbows on the desk, just in time to see Robby pull two glistening fingers from his mouth, and gather excess saliva in his palm. His gaze met Whitaker's and for a moment he stopped, and raised an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Eyes forward, Whitaker, or I walk away.”

Whitaker obeyed so quickly, so eagerly, that shame and humiliation burned his face as he instead watched his hands flex against the desk. He wondered absently, almost academically, if there was anything Robby could ask of him that he wouldn’t do.

Robby put his hand back on Whitaker, pushing against his hole, hot, wet and insistent. At first he was just pressing against the entrance, fingers slippery against sensitive skin, until one fingertip finally breached him, and then a second. Whitaker moaned loudly before leaning forward and biting his fist instead. Leaning forward only made the angle more acute, exposed more of him, and Robby exerted more pressure, easing two fingers into him, saliva only marginally helping. It burned beautifully, the edge of pain just enough to keep him from coming on the spot. The friction tugged at something at the pit of Whitaker’s stomach as Robby worked his fingers slowly in and out, spreading the rapidly drying saliva.

Despite the pleasure, despite the moans he muffled with his own hand, Whitaker could feel himself tense and stiffen instead of relaxing and leaning into it. He remembered Robby’s cock, and as much as he liked the idea of getting fucked dry and raw, the reality of rough fingers and tacky saliva made the prospect considerably less appealing. 

“Wait,” Whitaker breathed and pushed himself up on one hand. Robby pulled back, pulling out his fingers, but leaving his hand resting on Whitaker’s ass, squeezing. “Wait.”

Whitaker fumbled with his hand in the big front pockets on his scrub top. His fingers felt numb and uncoordinated, he couldn’t tell one thing from another. Instead he started emptying his pockets onto the table. Spare ECG electrodes, two saline flushes, a pad of post-its and a set of forceps clattered onto the table. A roll of surgical tape bounced across the surface and down on the floor and a couple of empty vacutainers rolled after it. Then he found it: a pocket-sized tube of OptiLube. He had picked it up hours ago to help a patient get his rings off before he was rolled into the surgery, only for Santos to have managed to get them off already by the time Whitaker got back. He now handed it to Robby over his shoulder, fighting an awkward smile. Number 10: Does the medical student display adequate preparedness for the day’s work? Rate from 1 to 5.

Whitaker leaned back on the desk, and sensed Robby moving behind him, until the fingers returned, now coated with cool lube. 

“Fuuuck,” Whitaker exhaled at the slippery pressure, letting Robby’s fingers glide smoothly into him. 

A third finger was added quickly, barely giving Whitaker time to adjust. He didn’t need much prep, he rarely had sex in situations that would allow for it anyway, and if Robby had decided to be gentle and careful and slow instead, he might have vomited. This was perfect. He listened to Robby’s breathing pick up, the one-handed fumbling with his belt and button and flies, until - finally - Robby pulled out his fingers. Whitaker gasped at the sudden empty, cold feeling, which was quickly replaced by the warm cock pushed against the furrow of his ass. 

“Yesss,” Whitaker hissed as the pressure increased, the angle changed and became more exact. 

Robby’s hand grabbed a hold of Whitaker’s neck, a firm grasp, fingers tensing and letting go in turn. Then he pushed him down. Not hard, but undeniably and inexorably, guiding him even lower, until Whitaker had the side of his face pressed against the desk. At the same time, he pushed his cock deeper, distracting from the stretching, the burn of it, while at the same time it was everything Whitaker could feel; everything he ever wanted to feel again. With a few smooth, forceful strokes, he was fully inside and Whitaker thought he might explode. The pressure of it, the size of it, the way he was pressed against the table and couldn’t do anything but feel it all made him feel raw and tender and oversensitive. His cock throbbed and ached as he was pressed harder against the table, precome wetting and sticking his stomach against the surface. He started scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, empty desk.

“I’m going to come,” Whitaker warned, voice choked and words slurred from being pressed against the table.

“No, you’re not,” Robby said from behind him, voice calm except for a bit of fraying at the edges, a slight strain to his breathing. 

“Okay,” Whitaker agreed, pulling deep shaking breath after deep shaking breath, willing with all his might that he wouldn’t, trying desperately not to think about the fact that Robby was pinning him to table and fucking him. It didn’t go well. As Robby got into a steady rhythm of long, deep strokes, the pressure only mounted. Whitaker squirmed on the table, just to feel Robby’s fingers tighten at the back of his neck. 

It didn’t take long for Robby’s movements to grow more erratic, the slow steady pace giving way to something more involuntary, something carnal, that set Whitaker on fire. The mounting urgency was contagious, it seemed to pass from Robby to Whitaker and back again. 

“Please,” Whitaker slurred against the table, not knowing what he was even asking for. 

“Go on then,” Robby said, pushing even deeper. Whitaker didn’t even think he’d been asking for permission, but being given it was so unexpectedly hot that it pushed him over the edge. With his cock uselessly trapped against the table, he came in messy, almost painful spurts. The relief was nowhere near enough to ease the tension; it barely scratched the surface. Then he could feel Robby fucking harder, grabbing his neck tighter, until finally he too came with a stifled groan. Whitaker could feel him push deeper, his cock pulsing at his very core, filling him up. He whimpered at the sensation.

The sensation. Whitaker remembered in a slow, syrupy haze that they hadn’t used a condom. He usually did; he was usually good at that sort of thing. But he had let Robby fuck him raw, and the thought thrilled him enough to clench uselessly around the softening cock still inside of him. Shit, he really shouldn’t like this, it didn’t say anything good about his character. 

Robby pulled out gently, leaving Whitaker boneless on the desk.

“Stay there,” Robby said softly, voice slightly rough, and let go of his neck. “Spread your legs.”

Whitaker obeyed without a second thought, even as he felt the come start to spill back out of him. Robby’s hand grabbed his buttock, holding him open as Whitaker could feel it start running down the inside of his thigh. He could only imagine what he looked like, but knowing that Robby wanted to watch him like this only fuelled the impotent arousal that was still burning inside of him. He knew on a theoretical level that he should feel shame, should feel exposed and vulnerable, should feel gross and disgusting - he was sure he’d feel all of that in its full force soon enough - but now he only felt the simmering thrum of a fading orgasm, and a lingering arousal as his heart rate slowed.

Robby’s warm hand rested on Whitaker’s back. “Get dressed, Whitaker.”

Whitaker was virtually fully dressed, but he unstuck himself from the table, blushing at the mess he’d made, as he pulled his pants back up. He turned to Robby, wiping saliva from the corner of his mouth. 

Robby looked flushed as he did his pants back up. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Whitaker said reflexively. “I liked it.”

Robby huffed a laugh.

“I want this to happen again,” Whitaker blurted out before he could stop himself. He managed to keep the part where he wanted this to happen again later tonight to himself.

“I think that would be a very bad idea,” Robby answered finally.

Whitaker could feel himself go cold. No, please, this was not a conversation he wanted to have, so why the fuck had he said anything. His fingers tingled as he killed the impulse to just leave the conversation by leaving the room. He watched Robby put his laptop back in his bag, straightening out his clothes. 

“Yeah, of course, it’s… Yeah that’s not a good idea,” he mumbled, like it was what he really thought. 

“Doesn’t mean it won’t,” Robby muttered, opening the door without looking at Whitaker. “See you tomorrow.”

The door closed with a click. Whitaker felt the cold panic drain from him slowly, like a glacier melting, unable to keep the silly smile off his face. He purposefully ignored question 7: Does the medical student identify, anticipate and plan for possible adverse outcomes to a chosen course of action?

Chapter Text

“A little farther.”

“No, I’m right there.” Whitaker’s hands were steady, but sweat was steadily running down the dip of his spine. 

“I didn’t hear a snap. Did you feel a snap?” Santos’ attempt at a teaching voice was closer to passive aggressive than pedagogical.

“No, but…”

“If you didn’t feel a snap, you’re not there.”

“No, but I can’t push it anymore, there’s resistance.”

“That’s the snap, just keep going.”

“No, I really think it’s the spine.”

“Dr. Santos, your guidance doesn’t seem very helpful.” Robby’s voice made Santos immediately pull back from where she’d been glued over Whitaker’s shoulder. Whitaker was sure Robby’s intention had been to lessen the pressure, but instead he now felt it double until it threatened to completely crush him. He had been begging to be allowed to do a lumbar puncture for weeks, and here he was fucking up the one chance he was likely to get. 

He minutely adjusted the needle, fingers bathing in sweat inside the sterile gloves. He wasn’t going to get it. He was going to have to give up.

“I think I’m going to have to pull out,” Whitaker admitted, deflating as the tension was replaced with the heavy weight of failure. 

“Give it one more try.” Robby sounded confident enough that for a second, Whitaker honestly thought he could get it. But he had fumbled around in Mr Carr’s subarachnoid space for long enough that he didn’t even have a solid concept of how far in the needle was placed anymore. 

“No, I’ve lost track. I’m sorry, I’m not going to get it.”

“Santos, will you help him out and show him how to do it?”

“About time someone fucking did…” she muttered in a surly tone that Whitaker had come to know as pleased and happy. “Scoot, Huckleberry.”

Whitaker shifted, let Santos’ small and steady hands replace his own on the needle and let him back off. The moment his hands were off the needle, an immense relief washed over him. He immediately started peeling off the gloves. His fingertips were pruned with his own sweat and he let the gloves fall straight down into the trash. 

“You’ll get it next time,” Robby said, clapping Whitaker on the back. Whitaker prayed he didn’t feel the way he was soaked through, scrub top plastering itself to his shoulderblade in the exact outline of Robby’s hand. 

Whitaker imagined with mounting horror the concept of putting another needle into another spine. It didn’t feel like a fun challenge as much as a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Yeah, I don’t think there’s going to be a next time.” 

“There’ll be a next time before you know it.” 

Something in his voice made Whitaker think he wasn’t talking about the LP. Before he could stop himself, he turned and stared at Robby. But Robby was looking intently at Santos’ hands, arms folded, no sign at all that there was any double meaning to his words. 

Next time, next time, next time. The idea thrummed through him, visions of skin and mouths and hands blocking out Mr Carr’s bent back in front of them. Knowing that Robby might be thinking the exact same thing at that moment, wanting the same thing, was the closest to happiness Whitaker had felt all day.

“Vial,” Santos said sharply, making a grabbing motion with her free hand without turning her head. Whitaker rushed to hand her one of the studiously marked vials. 

“Well done, Dr. Santos,” Robby said and leaned closer to take a look as the clear liquid slowly filled the vial drop by drop.

“You got it that quickly?” Whitaker blurted before he could stop himself. It had felt impossible for him.

“Next vial. Don’t worry about it,” Santos said as she handed off the filled vial. “It’s just your G-LOFT.”

“What’s that?”

“Your general lack of fucking talent.”

Whitaker let out a surprised laugh. He noticed Robby struggling not to smile at the insult.

“And that’s how it’s done,” Santos said triumphantly when the vials were filled, and put a dressing on the incision. 

“It’s not a question of talent,” Robby said, attempting to mitigate the situation. “Never underestimate the element of luck.”

“Sure, but luck will never be a match for skill,” Santos argued as she peeled her gloves off. “And anyway, Huckleberry here is shit out of luck.”

Robby gave Santos a warning look. “Thank you for displaying how we don’t talk to the med students.”

“The samples are time-sensitive and can’t go through the pneumatic tube system, so we will need to find someone to walk them to the lab,” Santos explained in an overly clear and patient voice, turning back to Whitaker.

“Better!” Robby called as he backed away from the room. 

“What the fuck did you do to have him act like you shit gold?” Santos said as she shoved the trash down the already full garbage bag. “I’d give my left nut to do spinal tap as a med student.”

“I let him fuck me in the supply closet.” It sounded as outlandish as he had intended, and Santos laughed.

“Fuck it, I’d respect the hustle. I’ll get these to the lab, and you can get the stuff from the supply closet to deal with Mrs Fungating Neck Tumor in room 8.” She paused, considering. “Gross. Do you tell the supply staff to leave, or do they stick around to watch?”

“No, I think they like it. I like to think we brighten their day.” Whitaker decided to keep the bit going, despite the mounting dread in his chest. Where once the running joke had been funny and tension-breaking, it now filled him with a vomit-inducing anxiety, but he couldn’t find a way to stop it.

The sweat grew cold on his skin, and the smell of the tumor seemed to linger on his damp scrubs. By the time his lunchbreak rolled around, Whitaker couldn’t imagine sitting next to anyone in the cramped breakroom before he’d had a shower and a change. There was a shower in the changing room, if only in the most technical sense. A corner of a corner cordoned off with a badly damaged shower-curtain, well out of reach of the motion sensors that would inevitably turn the lights off roughly halfway through. Whitaker had never seen anyone use it except in the most dire of circumstances. Instead, the ER staff had made the habit of using the burns ICU changing room, one floor down. The angry notices about how the burns ICU staff felt about this habit started at the door, and continued through the shelf with the towels, and to the doors to the individual, lockable shower rooms (the unimaginable luxury). But Whitaker had a system, in direct contravention with question 8: Does the medical student respect and value the opinion, input and consultation of other medical specialties? Rate from 1 to 5.  As long as he was quick in and out, and didn’t go at the rush hour of shift change, he’d get away with nothing more than an angry glare in the unlikely event that he’d bump into anyone. 

The water pressure was fantastic, the water was hot enough to scald, and the hospital issued hand soap was strong enough to double as paint thinner, but at least Whitaker finally felt clean. He was just finishing up when there was a knock on the door. He froze under the showerhead. He could pretend he didn’t hear it over the water. But it was more likely they wouldn’t get too angry with him if he pretended to just be a lost med student who walked into the wrong changing room. It wasn’t even very far from the truth. As he debated, there came another knock. 

“I’ll be out in a second!” He wrapped a towel around his mid-section, took a few careful steps across the wet tiles and opened the door a crack. “I’m sorry, I must have -”

Robby stood outside of the door. Whitaker broke off, words dying on his tongue. It didn’t really matter if he had come to tell him off about using the wrong showers, or if he had come for… something else, Whitaker felt far too naked for either interaction. 

“D’you have any idea how many e-mails I get about these fucking showers?” he asked.

It sounded like a joke. The rest of the staff treated the reminders about the showers as a joke, but Robby wasn’t smiling. Whitaker attempted a smile, but he was too taken aback by the whole situation for it to read as more than facial tic.

“So.” It was a single, short syllable. No inflection, no implied question mark. Robby seemed to have no intention of further explaining why he was there. 

Whitaker had done more with less context clues. He took a step back, leaving the door cracked open. Robby quickly stepped inside and locked the door with a soft click. When he’d been alone, Whitaker had thought the shower room extravagantly spacious, but with another person in there it suddenly felt crowded. Still clutching the towel around his middle, he tried to maintain some semblance of personal space, slowly walking backwards back into the shower. Imagination running away with him, he pictured Robby taking his clothes off and joining him, until he could almost feel what it would be like to be pressed against the cool wall with Robby’s wet body against his back. It ignited a tentative flicker of anticipation. He imagined the feeling of wet skin against his tongue, and swallowed hard. 

But Robby unhurriedly moved the stack of clean scrubs on the bench and sat down, plainly looking Whitaker up and down, from the sopping wet hair to the bare feet shifting awkwardly on the tiles. As the silence stretched between them, Whitaker’s anticipation was dampened by uncertainty. He had thought he knew what this was. Didn’t he? He took half a step forward, toward Robby. 

Robby visibly tensed. “Stay there.” His mouth narrowed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Drop the towel.” 

Whitaker stopped, walked back his miscalculated step, but kept his hand clamped down on the edges of the towel despite the initial instinct to immediately let it fall to the wet floor. This was what he liked, wasn’t it? Being told to do stuff he already wanted to do? It was a fun game that let him feel a tiny bit less freaked out about all the fucked up things he wanted to do. But that was the problem though. As much as he wanted to be naked with Robby, it sort of hinged on Robby being naked as well. Standing wet and bare and soft in front of Robby fully dressed wasn’t nearly as appealing. It hit him with vertiginous clarity that he’d be standing stark naked in front of his boss, like a stress dream from high school. 

As Whitaker agonised, Robby chewed his lip. Fuck. How long had this silence lasted? Far too long. He had to say something. Anything. Anything to keep Robby from thinking he didn’t want to do this. Before he managed to think about what to say, there was a sharp intake of breath from Robby, and Whitaker snapped his mouth shut. 

“I…” Robby started, clearly thinking just as hard about what words to choose. “I think about you naked.”

They had had sex twice - it wasn’t exactly a shocking admission. It wasn’t a concession that really changed anything. But at the same time the words flared through Whitaker like electricity, thousands of action potentials triggering, sending his heart thumping hard in his chest. He wondered if Robby had gotten off thinking about him, picturing him naked. More than once maybe; the carefully chosen words indicated habit. Whitaker wet his lips, wondering what those fantasies looked like. His hand relaxed slightly on the towel.

“I think about you touching yourself.”

The words settled in the small room, melting into the hot damp air, and Whitaker took a deep breath like he could pull them into his lungs. Arousal was seeping from the pit of his stomach, up his chest, down his legs, through his arms like an oil-spill he couldn’t contain. Robby’s eyes on him was like a physical pressure, like he could feel the weight of his gaze as it caught on his knees, on his chest, on his thighs, on his shoulders. It was a heady feeling. 

Refusing himself the chance of second-guessing, Whitaker let go of the towel and let it crumple on the wet floor. Half-hard and turned on it was less daunting, but Robby’s poker face was impressive. He appeared perfectly impassive, nothing more than a look of steady concentration on his face. But the sound of Robby’s breath catching for a fraction of a second was its own reward.

That was until Whitaker had to decide what to do with his hands. He fought the immediate urge to cover himself, but letting his arms hang limply to his sides didn’t feel right either.

“Show me.”

Whitaker’s right hand moved of its own accord, grabbing his dick and giving it a couple of fast strokes, feeling it thicken and harden against his palm. It was such a familiar sensation, but having Robby watching sent shivers down his legs, and made his toes curl on the wet tile. 

“Slower.”

Whitaker stilled his hand. At first completely, but then resumed with long, slow strokes. It felt unnatural, a movement only intended for an audience. But then again, he had an audience. An audience of one, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely folded across his chest. 

“Do you think about me when you’re in bed at night?”

“Yes.” The answer was out before he even considered the question. It didn’t even feel like that much of an admission at this point. Of course he did. 

“Did you think about me last night?”

The answer caught at the tip of his tongue. He’d already said that he did, but moving that admission from the hypothetical to the definite made an embarrassed blush break out across his chest. “Yes.”

“Did you finger yourself?” Robby’s voice was so very close to normal, but there was a rasp to his voice that sent a thrill down Whitaker’s spine. 

“Yes.” The word slipped unthinking between his open lips, leaving searing shame in its wake. There were too many hang-ups, too much baggage for it not to. He wasn’t going to unpack that now.

“Tell me.”

Whitaker’s cock gave a small twitch at the memory. The blush rose up his neck. It wasn’t something he wanted to share - even the memory of it made his throat constrict. It was too intimate. Words were bubbling inside of him, but he swallowed them down. 

“Tell me,” Robby repeated, a sternness to his voice that made Whitaker’s stomach clench.

“It was late. I’d been asleep,” he started, watching Robby watching him. “I had a dream, woke up hard.”

“What was the dream?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Did you dream about me?”

“Maybe. Probably,” Whitaker conceded. He didn’t remember at all. His hand slowly stroking his cock made what was true bleed into what he wanted to be true. He’d been halfway asleep, limbs heavy and clumsy. There’d been the ghost of burning arousal in his entire body, like if the dream had run its course, he would have come in his sleep. Even if Robby hadn’t been in the dream, it had been where Whitaker’s mind immediately went. “I started jerking off. It wasn’t enough.”  

Robby leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes hungrily roving across Whitaker’s naked body, taking in every detail: every choked swallow, every hitched breath, every tremble of his legs, every time his hand stuttered on his cock. 

“I… um.” Whitaker hesitated, licking his lips. This wasn’t something you said out loud. This was stuff you buried deep and pretended never happened. “I put two fingers in my mouth, then I… um. Yeah. I put them in my ass.”

He didn’t know how to make this sound sexy. It felt gross and off-putting as he heard the words leave his mouth. But at the same time, the memory of his sleep-numb body, the feeling of his cool, wet fingers pressing at his entrance tugged hard at something deep inside of him, it made him struggle for breath as drops of precome slicked his hand. He had to slow down if he didn’t want to come yet. He took a deep breath, grasping the base of his cock hard. 

“Keep going,” Robby said, inclining his head in a barely-there nod in the direction of Whitaker’s crotch. 

“Haah.” Whitaker gasped as he resumed stroking, feeling tender and overly sensitive. He could feel his orgasm simmering somewhere not too far off, and he took care not to go too fast.

“Next time I want you to call me,” Robby said, so collected that Whitaker almost felt angry. “I want you to put your phone on speaker, and I want you to put it next to you. You won’t say anything and I won’t say anything. But you’ll fuck yourself on your fingers, and I will listen to your every sound.”

Whitaker pictured it, his dark bedroom, the only light the streetlights outside and the small square of light from his phone on his sheets. He imagined the muted sound of Robby’s breathing on the other end of the line. He wondered if Robby would be jerking off as well, or if he’d just listen, present but untouchable. Not unlike right now.

“What did you think about when you came?”

Whitaker couldn’t tell the truth. He had to say something normal instead. “I thought about you fucking me on the desk in your office.”

He could see Robby swallow, his eyes moving slowly from Whitaker’s dick, up his red-blotched neck to his face, where Whitaker clenched his jaw in his struggle to not be the one to break eye-contact. “Are you lying?”

“Yes,” Whitaker admitted breathlessly. He was never good at lying, never able to double down if someone called his bluff. Robby’s look of disapproval set Whitaker’s insides on fire and he breathed out a choked-off “Fuck…”

“What did you really think about?”

The truth ached inside of him; shame and arousal sticky and inextricable running through his veins. His arm was starting to tremble. When had his pace picked back up? He had somehow managed to still not break eye contact. If he said it fast it would be over quicker. “I thought about you stepping on my back and making me lick your come from the floor shit shit shit.”

Whitaker clenched his eyes shut, humiliation burning in his chest, unable to stop his hand as he finally came. The room was so quiet that he could hear the faint sound of drops of come landing on the floor. He took a deep breath, and another. He didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to see Robby’s reaction. Why couldn’t he have thought about something normal? His breathing evened out, the orgasm subsided. Tentatively, he opened his eyes again. He caught a brief glimpse of a smile playing at the edges of Robby’s mouth before he managed to school his features back into the impassive mask he used for car crashes and Whitaker both. It was, after all, very much the same thing. 

“Would you like that?” Robby asked, voice incongruously raw. “Is it something you’d like to do for real?”

Whitaker licked his lips, a nervous smile breaking through. “No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe? It just… came up.”

“Do thoughts like that often ‘come up’?” Robby asked, something soft, almost teasing in his voice.

“Like you don’t have dirty thoughts come up when you’re jerking off?” Whitaker asked with a huff of a laugh. He aimed for teasing, but could hear that it came out defensive.

“Oh, I have plenty of dirty thoughts. But I’ve had my own dirty thoughts for long enough. It’s fun to hear someone else’s.”

“So what are your -”

“Well,” Robby said, clapping his hands on his thighs and standing up abruptly. He looked annoyingly pleased with himself. “My lunch break is over and I have to get back to it.”

Whitaker gaped. “But - but don’t you…?” Words failed him. He didn’t know what he had expected, but he had at least hoped for some element of reciprocity.

Robby crudely put a hand down the front of his pants and adjusted himself, raising an eyebrow at Whitaker’s confused outrage. “I’ll live,” he said with a smile. 

“But aren’t you -” Whitaker began, taking a step towards Robby. He stepped in his own cold come on the floor, a wave of disgust rolling through him. 

“Finish your shower,” Robby said, taking a quick look in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable. “Then go back to work. I just dropped by to remind you about the guidelines about the changing rooms.”

He left the shower room with a draft of cold air. Whitaker turned the shower back on, watching his mess on the floor disperse in the hot water. He wondered if he’d do what Robby told him and call him to let him listen, but as he thought it through he remembered that he didn’t have his number. He let the idea swirl down the drain with the rest of the remains of their meeting.