Chapter Text
Frank knows his first day back is going to be - well, difficult is a fucking understatement. He can feel the nerves of it wriggling under his skin, not so dissimilar to the itch and squirm of withdrawal. Something he now knows the feeling of all too well, familiar and uncomfortable.
He psyched up it, went to a meeting. Went to two the day before, honestly. Abby watched him with cautious eyes, the way she has now for months. Since she found out about the pills. The addiction. The unpaid leave. It's a goddamn miracle she didn't leave him and take Tanner and that damn dog. But she didn't. Stood by him like a good wife, helped him through the shakes and the sweat in the days before he could get into a clinic. It makes him feel like shit, worse now, knowing that he has every intention of getting back into Robby's bed the minute he can.
Not bad enough not to, though.
He just has to work out how to get there. Where he belongs, he knows that. The pills, they were just - a mistake, a huge mistake. Addiction is a certified medical chronic disease, even if the stigma still sticks like tar and feathers. As a doctor, he should know it's chemical, uncontrollable without help and treatment. He got hurt, he needed relief, and eventually they took him over. It's not shameful. It's a disease.
He's ashamed.
For the last 10 months, every time he closes his eyes, finds himself in a quiet moment (all too often), he can hear Robby's disgusted, hurt voice. The anger rising in him in a way Frank had never seen aimed at him before. The words cutting through him, reliving the desperation rising in his chest and his throat. Desperate to explain, to make Robby see, to understand, this wasn't his fault, he didn't need to be punished, he was still good.
Not a word from the attending, those 10 months. Not one word to check in. All the return to work paperwork had gone through Gloria and Dana. By rights, it should have been Robby's email they came from, a call to make sure he was ready. He thinks Dana took it on not just because she loves him (he knows she does, and clings a little to it when he knows he's about to walk back into the fire) but because Robby must have refused to have anything to do with him.
Well. Okay. Consequences. He fucked up by lying and stealing, he knows that. He hates it. He's going to make up for it. It's all he can do.
He's terrified when he steps through the doors. Utter terror the like of which he hasn't felt since - god, first day on the job? And even then, he had the arrogant self-belief that he was going to be an incredible doctor, that he simply wanted to jump in and prove that. Now he had to prove that he still was. That he wasn't worthless. Throwawayable.
And then, the moment. Seeing Robby through those double doors for the first time. He's scruffier than he was. Looks more tired. And he - sees Frank and turns. Away. To leave him. Again.
Fuck that. Frank's been through hell to get back to Robby, and he damn well isn't going to let the man run from him. He's not stupid. He remembers the shortcuts. Surprises Robby, and he can see the displeasure in Robby's face perfectly well, but pushes through it like pushing through a craving - just pretend it's not happening.
"Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump," Robby answers him, looking like he doesn't particularly want to share even that string of nonsensical words with him.
"Captain Crunch flying squirrel socks," he parries back, and for just one tiny second, it feels like it used to. Mentor, protege, banter. Boss, good boy. Master, brat. Their perfect dynamic.
But. Of course it won't be that easy. The quip slides right off Robby, no warmth, no acknowledgement, no attempt to play with him, even when he keeps trying.
"I guess we should talk," he says, crossing his arms and swallowing back the bile at the back of his throat. He has apologies to make. Things to explain that he's learned about himself.
"At some point, not now."
He feels the crush. Triage? No, he doesn't belong in triage. He belongs at Robby's side, picking up cases, teaching the kids. He can be a much better teacher now, he knows he can. Even with fucking Santos. Who he knows he can't hold a grudge against. Out loud. He needed the help, he knows. She got him the help. However much it destroyed his life and humiliated him and fucked him over. He can forgive her. He has, mostly.
"I just, would hate to think this is some kind of punishment - "
Robby's brows lift, and Frank catches the look of incredulity quickly. That face, he knows. That face means danger, he's treading too close to the line of acceptable push and tease and pull. He's about to get in trouble. Before, that face brought thrill and dread in equal measure. Now, he just knows to shut up.
We've been doing it for months.
Fuck. That bitterness, Christ. So he's nowhere near forgiven. He shouldn't have had that little sliver of hope.
Robby looks so tired. Lines in his face that hadn't been there 10 months ago. Lines that he knows he's had a part in putting there. But what else has happened? He doesn't even have an inkling. Mel's too good to engage in the PerlahPrincess gossip ring, and even though she visited him every week, even in the goddamn clinic when he didn't want to see anyone but Abby and Tanner she had no information for him about Robby beyond - he's fine, he seems sad about his sort-of-son. And Frank already knew that.
How has Robby been coping? His usual coping mechanism, taking out his exhaustion and fury at the world on Frank's ass, he hasn't had that. (Could have, Frank would have been more than willing). So who's been helping him? Taking care of him?
A sour taste in his mouth reminds him exactly who might have been warming Robby's bed in place of him.
Fucking weaselly little Whitaker. Bitch of a kid who thought he could worm his way in with the fake doe eyes and the farmboy act. He thought Robby would have been smarter than to fall for it. But - well, he has to admit, the kid is Robby's type. Young, a little clueless, but not spineless. Whitaker's probably been on his knees and his back with Robby's cock inside him for months.
He feels sick at the thought. Robby was his. He was Robby's. Who cared if no-one knew about it? No-one could, he was married and Robby was his boss. It wasn't for anyone else to know. And now he's lost it. Lost him.
He's already in a bad fucking mood when he encounters the little bitch for the first time. He's been trying to apologise to Louie - gentle fucker won't even blame him a little bit, and for some reason that hurts more, makes him feel more ashamed - and now he has to hand him over to the kid.
He can't help but make a jab. He's been to rehab for benzos, not his personality. Not his jealousy. And it is gratifying to see Whitaker's little student doctor badge, point it out just to show him that he's been here longer, he's the top dog, he has more respect around here.
Had.
Parting shot - overexplain the instructions. He knows damn well Whitaker's perfectly capable of the tap, even if he's not done it with Louie before. For all the animosity he feels, he saw on day one that Whitaker might be fumbly, but he was good. He'd be a great doctor. Fucker.
He also wants to make sure Louie is well-cared for. He owes the man that, and more.
It's not until hours and hours later that he finally gets the chance to check back in on them - he'd forgotten how hellish triage could be. The smell, the noise, the neverending bitching from people who wanted every resource sucked down their drain for a grazed knee.
God, he loved it. Missed it.
He finds Whitaker just leaving a patient's bed, blessedly unaccompanied by the new ducklings.
"Yo. Louie, he do okay?" he asks, brusque. Not friendly. On purpose.
"Uh, yeah, he did fine. Paracentesis was successful, he's feeling better. Trying to talk him into taking some lithium with - him. Uh."
The kid cuts off, looks up at him with a guilty looking realisation. Like he might explode at any moment.
"Relax, you can mention the damn name, I'm not gonna pull a needle and start shooting," he snaps, rolling his eyes and wishing he didn't feel so fucking exposed. "It's a hospital, benzos are everywhere, wasn't that the point? I'm fine. Quit it with the kid gloves."
Whitaker eyes him, and nods.
"Okay, yeah. Sorry. Just - I know it must be hard, your first day back. It'd be hard for me. Anyway, yeah, Louie, good. Probably gonna walk out of here and straight into a liquor store, but. I'll keep trying," he says, with a shrug that's too practiced to be casual. He cares, a lot. It drips off him.
(Frank tries not to think about what else might have dripped off him recently).
"Good. Fine. Keep me updated, he's my patient," Frank snaps again. God, his tether is short around this guy. He's been managing better with everyone else. Mostly.
"Yeah, I know that, Langdon. We all know you're back now - no-one's trying to take anything from you," Whitaker bites back, and - is that an edge in farmboy's voice? An actual show of spine? For him?
"Could have fucking fooled me. How's Dr Robby?" he spits, without thinking. He doesn't know how much the kid knows about him and Robby. Maybe Robby never said anything about it to him. Kept the secret. He might have just blown it.
Whitaker's face pales, and he recognises the twin feeling of does someone know my secret ohshitohshitohshitohshit.
"Don't know what you mean. He's fine. Great, even. Going on sabbatical, even," he says finally, swallowing hard around the words. Frank can see the air around the lie of omission.
"Uh-huh. Great, huh? Been putting in a lot of extra-credit time with the boss, Whitaker?"
And that's nasty, he knows. He knows the feeling of needing desperately to keep a secret. The shameful heat of the benzos in his pocket, the blissful hot drip of cum in his scrubs. He shouldn't be toying with Whitaker like this. And yet.
He sees Whitaker's eyes widen, just for a second, and then his little jaw set. Surprisingly sharp, actually, with that stupid little mullet.
"Listen. I don't know what you think you know, or - or what you think is going on between you and him. But we've been doing just fine without you. So. Back off," he hisses finally, stepping in to close the distance between them. He's shorter, and it should be laughable, but Frank feels his stomach clench. His hands will be next if he's not careful.
"I will fucking - " he starts, furious.
"Boys! Everything okay here?" comes the loud and suspiciously cheerful voice of Dana. Frank realises in a moment just how close he and Whitaker are, almost standing chest to chest. Faces flushed. Fuck. He can't be in a fight on his first day back.
"We're fine, Dana. Aren't we, Whitaker."
The kid eyes him, but nods. Frank can see his hackles smooth, though he doesn't quite lose the attitude.
"Yeah, we're fine. Just reminding Dr. Langdon what the ER's like," he says, and has the nerve to smile.
"Uh-huh. I don't know what the hell's going on between the two of you, but snap out of it. We're a hospital, not the dive bar down the street. Save it for after your shift. Trauma incoming, by the way, two minutes," she throws out over her shoulder as she heads back to the nurse's station.
Frank gives Whitaker one last look, before he follows her.
"I'm back, and I'm not going anywhere," he tells Whitaker quietly on his way past.
Shift's nearly over, and Robby is tired. Bone tired. Tired in his soul, which is why he needs the damn break. One more hour, and he's free for three months. Free to see no-one, save no-one. Reconnect with his God, who he's not even sure is there anymore. Maybe go to temple for the first time in years. Who fucking knows.
He's gone through two pairs of scrubs this shift, and he's changing into his third. It's almost as bad as his kid's first day, but not quite. Something light to hold onto in the midst of one of the worst days of his life.
He's in an empty (for now, til the next trauma) bay, pulling on the new pair of elasticated pants when the door opens, and Whitaker slips through quietly.
"Hey, boss. You okay?" he asks, leaning against the wall and careful not to encroach into Robby's space. Waiting for permission. Robby trained him well.
"Yeah, just enjoying the delights of a ten year old's upchuck," he says wryly, mouth curving into a weary grin as he ties the cord around his waist into a bow.
Whitaker's face crinkles into a look of disgust, and Robby has to laugh. Even after almost a year, the kid's still not used to the filth of emergency. Not the way the older doctors are.
"Oh, it's fine, I'm almost outta here," he assures him, and steps close to put an arm around his neck and squeeze the curve of the back. He feels Whitaker shudder underneath him, and then get it back under control.
"You good? You look all ruffled," he says, assessing the slight red tint in Whitaker's cheeks, the downturn of his mouth, the general air of done.
Whitaker hesitates, slightly too long, and it's only the gentle squeeze Robby gives him that gets him to speak.
"It's Langdon's first day back," he starts, and he sounds - off.
"Yeah. I saw him," Robby says shortly. They don't talk about Frank. Robby told the kid when they started fucking that he'd been involved with Frank, but that it was well and truly over. Over the second he learned the truth. He'd left it at that. Talking about Frank still made him angry. Hurt. It was hard enough seeing him strutting around the halls again.
"Robby … I know you don't - talk about it. But, he's still in love with you," Whitaker says carefully, looking up to eye Robby's reaction.
He huffs, incredulous. In love. His guts churn unpleasantly and he lets go of the kid's neck.
"He was never in love with me. We just fucked around. Besides. Wouldn't have lied to me if he loved me. Lied to everyone."
The words come out tasting bitter, harsh. Chalky the way slight untruths always taste.
"Okay, well, I'm just saying - whatever it was he felt for you, he still feels that way. He knows about us, too. Confronted me about it, earlier," Whitaker continues, clearly undeterred by the older man's displeasure.
"He did what."
"It's fine, it was fine. Nothing happened. No-one heard, either, we're fine. But … I get the impression he wants me gone, and you back," the kid smooths over, and then musses all over again.
"I don't give a fuck what he wants. He blew it. Shouldn't be screwing with you just because you - "
He cuts off, stopping himself from saying something he knows would be cruel. He's not that far gone
"Replaced him? It's fine, Robby. I know I did. And, if it means I get to be with you, then, cool. Happy to be a replacement. I just…" he trails off.
Robby's heart does something distinctly unmedically sound, a twist and a skip and a thump that hurts. He doesn't like hearing the kid talk about himself like that. He likes this kid, a lot. Likes the way he looks out for Robby out of the corner of his eye, as if he's the responsible adult. Likes the way he arches his back and keens and whines for Robby's cock.
"Just what?" he says, soft.
"I feel kinda bad for him. He fucked up, I know that! I know. But, god, he looked so sad waiting for you to talk to him, all day," Whitaker blurts out, brow furrowing. And it's true, it's less than an hour now til he's out of here for three months, and he's been ducking Frank the whole time.
"Don't get me wrong, he's a prick," Whitaker continues, with a huff. "And I don't appreciate being threatened or whatever, but jeez. He must really lo- want you." He corrects himself just in time, but Robby knows what was coming.
"Don't pity him. He fucked up all on his own. We don't - I don't - need him."
Chalk in his mouth again.
"Don't let him walk all over you, kid. I'm not gonna be around for a while, and just - steer clear, yeah? It's you and me, not him," he adds, and pulls the kid in by his scrubs for a quick hard kiss, almost a bruise-peck, checking quickly beforehand to ensure no-one would catch it.
They've been good at being careful, so far, but then - Robby's had practice.
Robby's been gone for three weeks and Dennis is drowning in want. The ER runs smoothly enough without him, and that feels like a little betrayal just admitting it, but Al-Hashimi is competent. More than. She's ruthlessly efficient, and - well, it keeps the wheels greased.
His shifts go fine. He hasn't lost a patient in months. He watches Real Housewives at home, pushed into a corner of the couch while Trinity and Garcia canoodle shamelessly. Garcia is just as vicious about the wives as he suspected she would be, but he finds himself agreeing with every takedown. He's surprisingly invested in Countess Luann's feud with Bethany.
But he misses Robby. The man checks in most nights, just to send a photo of beautiful landscapes sometimes. Once, he sent a photo where Dennis could just make out his reflection in a background mirror, wearing a yarmulke. It looked right on him. He looked - peaceful.
He knows taking some time off is the right call for Robby. He hasn't been away from the hospital since just after Pittfest, and he's been on the edge of breaking for - a while. Dennis can feel it in the way their sex has become more frantic, edgier.
He knows it's for the best, but god, he hasn't been fucked in weeks and he's on the edge himself. There's only so much a dildo can do when he's alone. He's this close to humping the next halfway-interested older man, but he holds it together. He knew three months of abstinence would be hard. Robby never exactly explicitly said don't fuck anyone else, but.
Well, Dennis doesn't want anyone else, really. Just to scratch the itch.
He's feeling especially on edge, itchy and irritable and empty, when he clocks in for his shift. Trinity had been bugging him about what was bothering him that morning over a hurried breakfast. He knew she suspected he'd been fucking someone he oughtn't, but her theory was a married man. He let her keep thinking it.
"Farmboy! Get over here, need your hands," he hears the moment he walks through the double doors, and feels his hackles rise. Hasn't even put his shit away, and -
"Jesus, you want this poor sucker to die, get in here! Compressions, go, Parker needs relief," Langdon shouts, and Parker herself looks up from pumping, a sort of sorry and a help me on her face.
He drops his bag by reception on the way, takes long quick strides into T2, and swaps out immediately with Parker, strong arms pressing in rhythm on the unconscious man below him's chest.
"43, came in with chest pain, went into v-fib about 2 minutes ago," Langdon recalls, and though he can still make jibes, Dennis can see he's in doctor mode, persistent and serious.
Dennis says nothing, just keeps pumping away evenly. He can sustain this for a long time, even though mandatorily, they're meant to swap out after 2 minutes. Years of farmwork, especially as the youngest lumped with his older brothers' scut work, have made him stronger than he looks.
After what could be thirty seconds or minutes, he always loses track in the momentum of keeping a heart going, the monitor clicks back into NSR, a reassuring steady beep. He stops, steps back a little, breathes.
"Normal sinus! Fuck, that was close. Thanks, Whitaker. Nearly lost him," Langdon says, though his mouth twists uncomfortably around the thank you.
"No sweat," Dennis replies, though he is sweating just a little after that exertion, and he doesn't especially want to be around Langdon right now. "Good work."
He picks his bag back up, ducks out before Langdon can throw some cutting remark at him, and heads for the lockers.
It's another few hours, another cardiac arrest, three head lacs (fucking coked up skateboarders) and a social work consult for a frankly disturbing amount of bruises on a teenager, that he bumps back into Langdon.
The man is sitting in the otherwise empty break room, looking down into his hands and muttering.
Dennis pauses in the doorway.
"You … okay?" he asks uncertainly.
Langdon's head snaps up, startled, and he huffs when he sees who's interrupted him.
"Close the damn door. M'fine," he grumbles, going back to looking at his hands. Dennis notices the wedding ring is still firmly on.
He clicks the door shut, steps inside, and, deliberating for a second and weighing up the pros and cons in his head, sits next to Langdon on the springy, shitty couch.
"Something happen?" he tries again, and fuck, why is he even trying with this douchebag? Langdon has been undermining him every fucking day since Robby left, making him look incompetent and small in front of his students. He owes nothing to this man, especially not comfort in the break room, but -
"Patient died. The guy we worked on. Went into arrest again, and - couldn't get him back," Langdon bites out, sounding pissed with Dennis, pissed with himself. Pissed with the world.
Dennis knows this feeling. He's felt it too many times himself to feel even a little annoyed to be snapped at.
"I'm sorry, Dr Langdon," he says, voice much softer than it ever would be usually. "It's always - it hurts every time," he adds, remembering Mr. Milton. Remembering Lil, the elderly woman whose wife brought her in for dizziness that turned out to be an aneurysm. Remembering the bus driver, Elliott, who swerved to avoid a kid on his trike and died from the impact with a power pole.
"You've been here five minutes, what would you fucking know about it?"
Dennis bristles.
"I've lost patients just like everyone else, asshole. It's not about how many. They all matter," he shoots back, heated and righteous.
Langdon looks over at him, scoffs.
"You sound just like him," he says bitterly.
Ah.
"Yeah, well. He's right."
There's a moment of tense silence between them. They've acknowledged it. Their strange connection, linked however unwillingly by the man they're both just a little obsessed with. It feels uncomfortable.
"He hasn't spoken to me in almost a year," Langdon finally says, after what felt like too long a stretch. "A sentence or two, day I came back, but aside from that, nothing."
"He's … angry," Dennis says, quiet and careful. Like tiptoeing around a scared and angry stallion. Something he's actually quite good at. "I think the way you - uh, lied to him. Hurt his feelings."
"I know that! Of course I fucking know that, I fucked up, I'm fucked up, and now he hates me," Langdon explodes. They both shoot a look at the door, wait for someone to come investigate, but nothing comes.
"I don't think he hates you," Dennis says after a moment, and Langdon gives him a look of pure areyoufuckingstupid. "Okay, well, maybe right now he does. But it's, like, a lot of hate. Sometimes you come up in conversation and I can see his face, like, completely change and get all dark and furious," he adds.
"Wow. Gee, this is making me feel better, thank you so much."
"My point is - it's a strong feeling. Really, really strong. It's not indifference. He feels something about you, a lot. That's gotta mean something," Dennis offers, and it feels a little like offering something of his own.
"Why are you trying to patch things up between me and him. You won, you got him. Only a fucking idiot would let that go," Langdon says hollowly. He's looking at his hands again. The wedding band. Dennis knows he's not even remotely thinking about Mrs. Langdon.
Dennis thinks about this. Really thinks. Does he want to lose what he has with Robby? This fledgling relationship, unlike anything he's ever had before? Sure, they started out just fucking, but they can both acknowledge that it's become something - more.
No, he doesn't want to lose that. He thinks losing it would break something important in him. Would hurt worse than the shame of sleeping rough, of the bone-aching loneliness of keeping it a secret, of having nobody to help him. The thought of not having Robby, but still having to see him at work every day, just out of reach, sounds like hell.
Which is why he can't wish it on anyone, even Langdon.
"Just seems like you really miss him," he says, after a good long while.
Langdon looks at him. For a moment, Dennis thinks Langdon might hit him. But his face cracks, and Dennis can see every bit of hurt inside.
"I do."
More silence, though easier this time.
"I gotta go hit the head. Don't - mention this. To anyone," Langdon says abruptly, standing and making for the door. Dennis recognises Robby's phrases woven into Langdon's vocabulary.
"I won't," he replies, but Langdon's already out the door.
Christ, what the fuck had he been thinking, letting the weasel see him hurting. A month and a half since Robby left. Weeks since Whitaker confused the fuck out of him, and it's still playing on his mind.
Why the kindness? To mess with his head? Make him think there was a chance for redemption when there so clearly wasn't and never would be?
His hands are shaking. He's holding a syringe and his hands are shaking.
No.
He's a good fucking doctor, and that's all he has left. His patients and his kid. That's what he knows how to do. He cannot lose this too. He just needs to - to feel calmer.
Dropping the syringe on a tray, he stalks out of the room, across the hall, toward the medicine dispenser. Just one to take the edge off. Just one to make it stop. His fingers are racing over the buttons to get it open, and it's taking too long -
"What the fuck are you doing?" someone hisses at him, and before he can react, there's a strong (fuck, strong) hand yanking him by the arm away and through the door into trauma prep, blessedly quiet and empty.
Whitaker slams him up against the wall, arm across his throat - or, well, he's trying for throat. Not quite got the height on him for it. Still, it holds him. Frank feels an involuntary kick of desire. It's been a very long time since someone held him against the wall.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Huh? You trying to get caught falling off the wagon? You fucking idiot," Whitaker whispers furiously, practically spitting in his face with the force of it.
And you know what, fuck this. Fuck being preached to by some backwater twinky whore who stole his life. He pushes back against the arm against him, and Whitaker might be stronger than he'd thought, but Frank works out. Religiously now, needing a healthier addiction. He easily flips them, shoving Whitaker hard against the wall, mirroring moments ago.
Whitaker grunts, the wind briefly knocked out of him, but Frank can see it there in his eyes. Just the same. Desire.
"Don't ever do that again, you little bitch," he snarls, grabbing one of Whitaker's skinny wrists and shoving it up above his head to join the other, grasped tight in Frank's enclosed palm. "You think you know me? Have any fucking idea what I'm going through?"
And it's then, as Frank's breath ghosts over Whitaker's ear, just close enough to feel the hot spray of it, that he hears it. Whitaker's tiny moan. He freezes, looks down at him, and - yeah. He heard right. Kid's eyes are blown wide, and looks like he heard it too, slipping out of him.
"You like this? Don't you? Is this what he does for you?" Frank goads, except it's not working quite as planned, because he feels his own anger rising, the image of Dr Robby holding the kid in this exact position. When it should be him pinned beneath the man's strength.
"Let. Go. Now," Whitaker demands. He pulls against the hand at his wrists, but weakly. Weaker than Frank knows he's capable of.
"Nah. You don't want me to." He's purring now, an angry threatened predator who's caught his prey. "You want me to fuck you like Robby does."
Whitaker looks the angriest Frank has ever seen him. He's not a pathetic ball of fluff right now. He's spitting mad. He's -
Fuck.
Frank stills in surprise for a second as Whitaker surges forward at him, catches his mouth in a kiss that's more of a punch, biting down hard on his lip and growling.
It's only the metallic taste of blood that spurs him back into action, realising the kid has broken skin on his lip. He presses Whitaker harder against the wall, squeezes tight around his wrists and lets his fingernails dig in and leave cut-crescents. Bites back just as hard, moaning into the kid's mouth even as he licks at the blood mingling with his own.
"You stupid - fucking - cunt," he snarls into Whitaker's mouth between kisses, using his other hand to roughly untie the cord of the kid's scrubs.
"Junkie - fucking - asshole," Whitaker spits back into his, and though he makes a fuss about his pants yanking down to rest on his upper thighs, Frank can feel his hips bucking toward him, the hard cock straining against his stupid patterned briefs.
Without breaking whatever violence is happening between their mouths, he wraps a hand around Whitaker's cock, barely bothering to shove aside his briefs, and jacks him hard. Whitaker stops spitting insults and whines, high and desperate, and fuck if that doesn't make his own cock twitch.
"Yeah, that's right, I know you want it," Frank murmurs, and it's been a while since he topped like this, but fuck does it feel good. His hand catches, and he pulls it back up, holding it to Whitaker's mouth.
"Spit."
Any concern in the back of his mind that Whitaker doesn't want this evaporates as the kid spits into his hand without hesitation, head falling back against the wall and thrusting into Frank's hand so easy.
"This how he touches you?" Frank hisses into his ear, low and dangerous, not letting up an inch. "He ever fuck you in a closet here and let you drip dry just to remind you who you belong to?"
Whitaker makes a sound that Frank is quite sure he's made himself over and over when Robby's had a hand around his throat and his cock inside him.
"He. Fucks me. Harder. Than this," Whitaker chokes out, and Frank sees red. He squeezes the kid's cock tight, too tight, gets a yelp for his efforts that he can't silence because notenoughhands.
"Shut the fuck up, you want to get us caught? You want the whole damn ER to see you like this?"
Wrong button to push, it turns out, because Whitaker shudders hard, groans deep and low, and cums in Frank's hand before he can pull it away. He shakes his head, pulls his handout and brings it up again, palm sticky and outstretched, waiting.
Robby must have taught the kid to do this just like he taught Frank, because he swipes his tongue through the mess of his own making easily, lapping up the cum until Frank's hand is - well, not clean, but sticky from spit, not Whitaker.
They both breathe hard, ragged. Frank is painfully hard, but he doesn't move to touch himself, nor does Whitaker move to relieve him. The tension between them, the fiery hate, has dissipated. Now, there's just quiet.
"Were you stealing pills again?" Whitaker asks, after maybe a minute of quiet, both of them coming down.
"I. No, I - " Frank begins, ready to lie. Always to ready to lie. To everyone. And that's what got him in this mess in the first place. He sighs.
"Yeah, I was gonna. Didn't get a chance to," he says, shooting the kid a look. They're still so close. Whitaker's pants still down, his cock soft against his thigh.
"Was that the first time?" Whitaker asks, seemingly unruffled by the answer. Not angry.
"... Yeah. It's just a bad day. I needed. Something. I needed fucking something."
Whitaker looks at him, and he nods.
"Yeah, Robby usually does too. He just doesn't reach for benzos. He reaches for me," he says, and Frank feels a spike of rage again.
"He used to fucking reach for me," he spits.
"I know," Whitaker says calmly. "So next time, don't go for the Pyxis. Find me."
He says it so simply, as if it's not an insane thing to say, as if it's perfectly normal to offer yourself up as sexual stress relief to the person who despises you more than anything in the world.
"What makes you think I'd fucking want you?"
He wants to lash out, hurt. Everything hurts.
Whitaker just looks at him, looks down at Frank's very obvious hard-on, and looks back up again, unimpressed.
"I think it's pretty obvious you like fucking me," he says, pulling his pants back up finally and smoothing his hair back into a semblance of i-didn't-just-get-screwed. "And I'm not doing so great with celibacy while Robby's away. Win-win."
Frank swallows, throat suddenly dry.
"Won't he - mind?" he asks, tentative. He doesn't know what the fuck arrangement those two have, how it differs from what he and Robby had. Thinking about it feels like sandpaper.
"I don't know, actually. I guess we'll find out," Whitaker says, still calm as anything.
Frank's a little impressed, despite himself.
"Well, you got fucking balls. He can get - "
"Mad? I know. He'll be fine."
Frank looks at him a moment longer, before shifting uncomfortably. His cock won't stop throbbing, and he doesn't want to get off in front of the kid.
"Get out, go. Go save a life, whatever," he says, waving a hand at the door, and Whitaker leaves without argument, looking almost as if nothing had happened to him.
Alone, finally, Frank lets out a deep sigh, hears it turn to a groan when he wraps his still-sticky hand around his own cock, and jacks. It won't take long. Embarrassingly not long, actually. He closes his eyes, pictures Robby taking him hard against the wall he'd held Whitaker against. It's good. It hurts, and it's good. He can almost hear Robby growling into his ear, and - blinkingly fast, it's Whitaker's high keen he hears instead, that brings him off, spilling into his hand.
Fuck.