Work Text:
Dennis maneuvers his rickety rolling suitcase through the lobby and into the emergency room. “You moving in, hot stuff?” He turns to see Myrna, handcuffed to her usual wheelchair, raiding the sandwich cart. “Why don’t you use your pull with the big guy to open up a room, and we can bunk together?”
Dennis ducks his head, willing the blush away. He’s endlessly teased by patients and staff alike about being Dr. Robby’s favorite. The older man took him under his wing after that horrific first day of his ER rotation and has made it his mission to mentor him into the best doctor he can possibly be. The rumors have ranged from Dennis being Robby’s secret love child to the two having a torrid affair. Of course, the truth isn’t quite as salacious: that Robby feels obligated to Dennis because he witnessed his breakdown and didn’t announce it to the entire pit.
“Good morning, Myrna,” he says politely, not playing into her inappropriate flirting. He stows his luggage in the break room, knowing it’ll be safe since the space is hardly ever used, and heads out to check the board. In less than seventeen hours, he’ll be on a red eye to Nebraska. It’s his first trip home since starting med school, and to say that he’s excited is an understatement. There is nothing like Christmas on the farm, and he has sorely missed his mom’s home cooking.
“How did he sound?”
“I didn’t even talk to him; it was just a text asking me to cover.” Dr. Abbot stands beside Dana, nursing a comically large travel mug of coffee and looking thoroughly dazed. The two seem deeply concerned, talking in hushed tones.
“What’s going on,” Dennis asks hesitantly.
Dr. Abbot straightens, expression turning stoic. “Dr. Robby called in sick, you’ll be reporting to me today,” he says gruffly before walking away.
Dennis turns to Dana, who tries to smile reassuringly but fails miserably. “When’s the last time Dr. Robby missed work?” He’s only been here a year, but it didn’t take nearly that long to figure out that Robby is what one would traditionally call a workaholic.
“I’ve been here thirty-three years, kid. This is a first.”
Panic courses through his body, but there is nothing he can do because there is an entire emergency department of people needing immediate attention. Whatever is going on with Robby will have to wait.
***
The worry stays with him all shift, and after handover, he marches straight to Dana. “I need a favor.”
She smiles fondly and wraps her scarf around her neck. “Sure, doll, anything for you.”
“I need Dr. Robby’s address.”
She turns slowly, sizing him up in that way of hers, the one that makes Dennis feel completely flayed open and exposed. “What for?
“Please, Dana. I just want to check in on him. I can’t get on that plane until I know he’s alright.”
Dana stares at him for a few beats. Dennis could have asked any number of people, but he knows Dana won’t subject him to an invasive line of questioning. She doesn’t need to ask questions; she has a scary ability to read people, and enough decency to keep her findings to herself. Finally, she takes out her phone and taps out a text. His phone vibrates almost immediately in his pocket. “You didn’t get that from me,” she warns. Dennis nods. “You call me if it’s bad. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you miss your flight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
***
Robby’s townhouse is a short walk from the hospital, but dragging his suitcase through the accumulated snow makes it feel longer. There’s a food delivery on his stoop, chicken noodle soup that has long since frozen over. Dennis rings the doorbell several times, then tries the knob. Locked. As if on cue, his phone vibrates again in his pocket.
Dana (Charge Nurse): There’s a spare key under the mat. The boomer.
Huffing a laugh, Dennis lets himself in, calling out tentatively at first, then louder as he moves through the house. He finds Robby passed out against the back of the couch, propped upright and bundled in thick blankets. From across the room, Dennis can hear wheezing and see that he’s drenched in sweat.
“Oh, Robby,” he sighs.
Dennis loosens the blankets around him and goes in search of a thermometer. Normally, he’d feel guilty about invading the other man’s privacy, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He quickly finds, though, that while Robby is an excellent physician, he is terrible at taking care of himself. There is no thermometer to be found. The only items in his medicine cabinet are a bottle of Advil (presumably for his back) and a nearly empty pack of nicotine gum. There’s not even a first aid kit. Dennis grabs the Advil and moves to the kitchen, where he finds it is also severely understocked.
“Oh, Robby,” he repeats.
He pulls out his phone and places a rather large Instacart order, one he surely can’t afford, but he’ll worry about that later. He then calls his parents, explaining vaguely that a friend needs help and he can’t make it home, but he’ll try again in the spring. They’re disappointed, of course, but there’s a hint of curiosity in their tone that he doesn’t focus on.
Just as he walks back into the living room with the Advil and a glass of water, Robby starts coughing and gasping for air. In the ER, protocol dictates a chest X-ray to confirm his diagnosis, but Dennis has seen this enough times, he needs no further evidence. Pneumonia.
He crosses to the couch, helping Robby sit up straighter so he can take in more air. Though the other man is awake, he’s not exactly coherent and doesn’t question his intern’s presence in his home. After several minutes, when Robby has caught his breath and the coughing has died down to a low rattle, he feeds him the medicine and rearranges the blankets so he’s lightly covered. Robby almost immediately falls back asleep as Dennis takes his pulse. His skin is hot to the touch, his heartbeat bounding under his fingertips. He doesn’t need any equipment or tests to tell him that his mentor is bordering on sepsis.
“Trin,” he says as soon as the call connects. “I need your help.”
“What’s the matter, Huckleberry? Did you get randomly selected for a TSA strip search?”
Ordinarily, he’d play into his roommate’s teasing and even dish some back, but these are no ordinary circumstances. “I need you to write me a script for levofloxacin, prednisone, and albuterol, and bring them to the address I just texted you. Also, I need you to go to the pit and borrow a nebulizer machine. And get my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from my locker.”
Trinity immediately matches his urgent tone. “What’s going on, Whitaker? Why aren’t you on a plane?”
She has mocked him endlessly for his crush on their attending, but Dennis knows when push comes to shove, she’ll always have his back. “It’s Robby.”
“I’ll be right there.”
***
Trinity arrives just as Dennis is putting the last of the groceries away, letting herself in with only a cursory knock. “Jesus, Huckleberry, he should be in the hospital.”
“No,” Dennis protests. “He would kill us if we brought him in. Besides, what are they going to do that I can’t do here? I am a doctor.”
“Barely,” She huffs, eyeing him dubiously. “We don’t even have his medical record. How do you know this antibiotic won’t kill him?”
“He doesn’t have any allergies,” Dennis says casually, as if he hasn’t meticulously catalogued every bit of information Robby has given up over the last year. Trinity only glares at him. “I promise I’ll take him in if he doesn’t improve, Trin, just…let me try.”
“I expect BID status reports,” she finally concedes, slipping into the more senior resident tone she uses at work. “If I tell you to take him in, he goes in, no questions asked.”
“Deal.”
“If he dies on your watch, I was never here.”
“That’s fair.”
“As much as I’d love to rid the world of another white man, killing our attending is not a good look.”
Dennis rolls his eyes but squeezes her bicep. “Thank you, Trinity.”
After she leaves, Dennis heats up some soup while letting a breathing treatment run. He then wakes Robby, getting him to eat half the bowl before administering his first dose of medication. “Here, Dr. Robby,” he hands the older man a Gatorade. “I’m sure you need the electrolytes, and you definitely need the fluids.” Dennis doesn’t know how long he’s actually been sick, but knowing Robby, he’s been fighting it for a while. His skin is pale with poor turgor, and from what he can see as he eats, his mucous membranes are dry.
Robby silently does as he’s told, not acknowledging Dennis. His eyes are sunken and drooping, and he nods off as Dennis checks his vitals. He frowns at the temperature, still at a hundred and two even after meds. “Come on, sir,” he rouses Robby despite the older man’s grumbles. “We need to get you out of these damp clothes, and you will be much more comfortable in your bed.”
It’s a struggle, but Dennis manages to get Robby dressed in a T-shirt and a soft pair of pajama pants. He absolutely does not blush at seeing the object of his affection stripped down to his tight boxer briefs. He’s no stranger to nudity, after all. He’s a doctor, a professional. After Robby is tucked into the bed, just the thin sheet covering him, Dennis turns to leave.
“Stay.” Robby’s voice is hoarse and mumbled, but the meaning is clear. “Please.”
“Okay,” Dennis’ reply is shaky and high-pitched, and it would be embarrassing except he’s pretty sure Robby won’t remember any of this. “Let me just clean up and lock the house.” Robby nods and lets his head loll against the pillows stacked high behind him. Dennis considers crashing on the couch as he intended, as would be appropriate, but something in the vulnerable look Robby gave him before drifting off makes him want to keep his promise.
Dennis makes quick work of tidying up and setting up the nebulizer on Robby’s nightstand before digging his own pajamas out of his suitcase. He hesitantly slips into bed beside Robby, careful to keep a respectable distance between them. Even in his sleep, though, Robby is having none of it. He immediately rolls to his side (the best he can, sitting upright) and drapes his long arm across Dennis’s chest. His breath stutters, and he swears his heart stops beating, as if his entire body is afraid to spook Robby. Despite the exhaustion of a long day, Dennis finds it impossible to sleep when he’s in bed with his apparently cuddly attending, whom he’s been falling for since he welcomed him to the pit.
Sleep does eventually find him, but it’s short-lived. Dennis is jolted awake by Robby coughing and gasping and trying to get out of bed. “Whoa, whoa, Robby, settle down,” Dennis rounds the bed and gently guides his shoulders back toward the pillows, reaching for the nebulizer mask.
“Gotta piss,” Robby chokes out between attempted breaths.
“You won’t make it that far if you can’t breathe. Albuterol first, then bathroom.”
Robby groans but concedes. Soon his breathing returns to semi-normal, and he stumbles into the bathroom. Once he’s propped back into bed, Dennis hands him the incentive spirometer that thankfully Trinity thought to grab. Robby takes it automatically, looking at it as if it were a foreign object.
“Come on, Dr. Robby, you know the drill. Let’s shoot for a thousand to start.” Robby inhales a few times, barely reaching five hundred before he’s coughing each time. “Okay, good try,” Dennis says softly. “We’ll try again in the morning. Here, drink.”
Once Dennis is satisfied that he’s been properly medicated and hydrated, he settles back in bed beside Robby, closer this time. He’s insanely proud of the way he doesn’t flinch this time when Robby pulls his body against his own, grip tight around his waist. However…”Love you,” Robby mumbles against his hair.
Dennis gasps. There’s no possible way that was meant for him. Robby’s delirious. For all he knows, it’s Dr. Collins in bed with him, or even Dr. Abbot (though Dennis is pretty sure their relationship has never extended beyond friendship). There is no possible universe in which Michael Robinavitch just told Dennis Whitaker he loves him.
Even still, Dennis doesn’t get a moment of sleep after that.
***
The next two days pass in much the same fashion: a blur of coughing fits and breathing treatments, Dennis begging Robby to eat or drink just a little more and assuring Trinity that he has the situation under control.
“C’mon, sir, you gotta keep your strength up.” Dennis scoops the last of the soup into Robby’s mouth, and he obediently swallows it down. “Good job,” he says, leaning forward to set the bowl on the nightstand. At that moment, Robby begins to cough and gag violently, spraying himself, the bed, and Dennis with vomit.
“‘M’sorry,” Robby gasps out, still expelling the partially digested vegetable soup.
Dennis smiles at Robby sympathetically. “It’s okay. It’s just like I'm at work,” he quips. Not seeing the humor, Robby whines weakly, attempting to wipe his mouth with his shirt. “C’mon, let’s get you in the shower.”
Robby follows, stripping down unabashedly as Dennis adjusts the water temperature.
“Oh,” Dennis says when he turns around, averting his eyes and nearly smacking his head on the open door in the process. “I’ll, uh, give you some privacy while I…change the bedding.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
Robby watches him expectantly, swaying on his feet. Dennis sighs, knowing the other man isn’t safe to shower alone in this condition. He nods, peeling off his vomit-covered clothing but leaving his underwear securely in place, and steps into the large shower. Robby stands under the spray, looking like a sad dog caught in the rain. “Let’s get you washed up,” Dennis lathers a washcloth and hands it to Robby, who only stares at it. Chuckling lightly, Dennis takes it back and begins to wash Robby’s torso. The older man just watches him, a blank expression in his eyes. When Dennis is satisfied that almost every bit of Robby’s body is clean, he hands the washcloth back to him. “Here, you wash your…private area, and I’ll do your hair.” Robby does as told, leaning into Dennis’s touch with a groan when the younger man scrubs his scalp. “Yeah, I like having my hair washed too.” Dennis rinses all the soap off of Robby, who watches with vague interest as he quickly washes his own body.
Dennis dries them off and bundles Robby in a towel while he fetches clean clothes for both of them, then directs him to the couch. Once the bed is stripped and changed and everything is in the wash, he returns to the living room to find Robby frowning at a book. He smiles fondly. “You having trouble there, big guy?”
“M’head hurts.”
Dennis tsks in sympathy, sitting beside Robby and taking the book. “Do you want me to read to you?”
In lieu of an answer, Robby props a pillow on Dennis’s lap and lays his head down. His lungs rattle with every labored breath, but the lines of his face smooth out, and Dennis has never seen him look more content. He runs his fingers through Robby’s hair absentmindedly as he looks at the book for the first time.
“The Screwtape Letters?” He figured Robby for the strictly non-fiction type. Biographies and medical journals, maybe the occasional political text. Never in a million years would he guess he was a C.S. Lewis fan. A memory pops up, a conversation from months ago. They were discussing Dennis’s previous theology studies during a rare quiet moment, and Dennis mentioned the novel. It was an offhand comment; Dennis mentioned it was one of his favorites, but it was not discussed further.
He looks down at Robby, who waits expectantly for him to begin reading. It couldn’t be, he thinks. Surely, it’s a coincidence. He knows Robby is a voracious reader. It was only a matter of time before this book landed on his reading list, right?
For the next hour, Dennis reads while Robby drifts in and out, fighting sleep. Finally, his body relaxes completely, and his breathing becomes even. Dennis closes the book and just watches him sleep for a while. Objectively, he’s a beautiful man. Dennis imagines what he must have looked like thirty years ago, when he was the young intern. It must have been hard for people to take him seriously, given his Calvin Klein model appearance. As hot as he surely was back then, Dennis prefers him now; his dark hair and beard speckled with gray, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth, the soft lines of his muscular body. All hallmarks of a man who has lived. A man who has experienced great joy and even greater heartache, a man who has gathered all the knowledge presented to him, storing it away to pass on to the next generation. Dennis has dated men his own age, twinks, Trinity calls them. They’re exhausting. The immaturity, the games they play, Dennis has never had the patience for it. People have always called him an old soul, and he thinks what he needs is another old soul to keep up with him.
Robby turns, burying his face against Dennis’s belly. He knows it’s only a matter of time before he wakes up gasping for air, but for the moment, Dennis revels in the closeness. He runs his fingers through Robby’s thinning hair once more, following the strands to his neck, across his jaw.
“I love you,” he whispers, secretly wishing the other man would hear him, waking from his delirium and returning the sentiment for real.
***
The first thing Robby notices upon waking is how dry his mouth is. The next thing he notices is how much his abs hurt. Did he do crunches? No, not crunches. Coughing. He has the sore throat to prove it. He glances over at his nightstand, hoping he left a glass of water nearby, and is confused by what he finds. An array of drinks, a cup of tea that had long gone cold, over-the-counter cold medicine, as well as prescriptions, and a…nebulizer?
“What the hell?”
Robby goes still when there is a groan beside him, a warm body burrowing closer.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Dennis Whitaker is in his house. In his bed. He rubs his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He dreamed of Dennis (that’s nothing new), holding him, feeding him, reading to him, even showering with him. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Robby racks his brain. The last thing he remembers is texting Jack to take his shift and ordering soup. That was Thursday night. He picks up his phone, blinking several times when he sees the date. Christmas Eve. Has he been out for nearly an entire week?
Robby glances at Dennis. Dennis, who was supposed to fly to Nebraska on Friday, was excited to have finally saved enough money for a long-overdue trip home to see his family. What the hell is he doing here? There are deep, dark bags under his eyes, and he looks as pale and worn out as the day they met. Robby carefully slides out of bed.
He finds that his fridge and pantry are stocked, and his house is cleaner than it was a week ago. His laundry is washed and put away, and his mail is stacked neatly on the dining table. He hears a repetitive buzzing coming from the couch, and after digging around, finds a phone that must belong to Dennis.
Trinity Santos: You have now officially missed TWO status updates.
Missed call: Trinity Santos
Trinity Santos: Huckleberry! Answer me, dammit!
Missed call: Trinity Santos
Trinity Santos: If you don’t answer me right the fuck now, I’m going to assume both you and your boyfriend are dead and send the coroner.
Incoming call: Trinity Santos
“Santos,” Robby says hoarsely.
“D-uh, Dr. Robby?”
“Yeah, uh, Whitaker’s sleeping.”
“Oh. Um, how are you feeling, sir?”
She sounds as awkward as he feels, which oddly puts him at ease. “Much better, I think. I just woke up; I don’t remember much.”
Santos lets out a breath. “You’ve been pretty sick with pneumonia. Huckleberry insisted on treating you at home instead of dragging you to the hospital. I’ve been supervising your progress, sir.”
Robby chuckles. “Good call, Santos. I'd never want to be a patient at PTMC.”
She laughs, finally relaxing. “Yeah, nothing but whack jobs work there.” After a few beats of silence, “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Dr. Robby. And keep Huckleberry as long as you need. Just have him send me proof of life once in a while.”
“Will do.”
Robby still feels pretty weak, but he wanders into the kitchen determined to make breakfast. It seems Dennis gave up his coveted vacation to take care of Robby for a week; the least the man can do is scramble some eggs in thanks. He’s just plating their food when a groggy Dennis comes stumbling out of the bedroom.
“Dr. Robby?” There’s a slight panic to his voice, which turns to confusion when he sees Robby standing at the stove. “What–what are you doing?” The younger man crosses the kitchen to place his hand on his forehead, checking for fever.
“I’m fine, Whitaker,” Robby chuckles, passing him a mug of coffee.
“Y-you’re awake. And coherent.”
“I am.”
“Oh,” Dennis deflates, setting the mug on the counter. “I guess I'd better get out of your way then. Um, you have one more dose of antibiotic, due at eleven this evening. And you can continue the albuterol treatments every six hours as needed–but you know that–”
He begins to gather his things, but Robby stops him. “Whitaker. Dennis,” he finally stops, looking up at Robby through his lashes. “I made breakfast for the both of us. Please stay.”
“O-okay.”
The two eat in silence, Dennis shooting him nervous looks every few moments. “Dennis, I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done,” Robby starts.
“It was nothing.”
Robby smiles at him fondly. He knows damn well it wasn’t nothing. He has a few friends he can count on, but even Jack wouldn’t drop everything to stay with him and nurse him back to health. Sleep in his bed. Hold him. “You canceled your trip,” he accuses.
“Postponed,” Dennis counters.
“You were looking forward to Christmas in Nebraska.”
“You needed me.”
It’s a statement of fact, offered so casually. Robby needed him, so he stayed.
In a moment of clarity, Robby sees what he has been trying to ignore since the day Dennis offered his hand to a fragile Robby on the floor of Peds. He has fallen head over heels for this man, and he’s pretty sure Dennis loves him too.
“I have something for you,” he pushes back from the table before Dennis can respond, practically jogging into the bedroom. He returns with the sloppily wrapped box that has been sitting on the shelf of his closet for months. “Merry Christmas,” he offers sheepishly.
“What–I didn’t get you anything.”
“I don’t want anything.”
Dennis plays with the edge of the paper hesitantly. “Do you even celebrate Christmas? I think you slept through Hanukkah…”
“Just open the damn gift, Dennis,” Robby commands. Dennis’s jaw drops as he pulls out the old watch. “My grandmother gave it to me when I graduated from medical school,” he explains. He wore it for years until he replaced it with a newer model, but it has sat in his top dresser drawer, a prized memory of the woman who raised him and all she sacrificed to make him the man he is today. He had it refurbished and cleaned, intending to give it to Dennis before he flew home.
“The best of doctors go to hell,” Dennis reads the old inscription with confusion.
Robby chuckles. “It’s a Talmudic phrase. There are many interpretations, but it basically means to stay humble.”
Dennis’s eyes go red and damp around the edges. “It’s beautiful, Dr. Robby, but I can’t accept this.”
Robby holds up a hand to stop him from handing it back. “Please, I want you to have it.”
“But your grandmother–”
“Would want me to pass it along to someone I care about.” Robby takes a deep breath, bracing himself for his next words. “To someone I love.”
Dennis’s head shoots up, eyes searching Robby’s face for any hint of insincerity. “Sir, is your fever back?”
Robby laughs, a hearty belly laugh that threatens to make him cough. “No, Dennis, I’m completely lucid. And we’ve already shared a bed, and if I wasn’t dreaming, a shower, so how about we drop the formalities, huh?”
Dennis opens and closes his mouth several times, more frazzled than Robby has ever seen him. He finally decides to show the younger man a little mercy and places his hands on his hips, drawing him closer. Dennis makes a surprised noise against Robby’s mouth, but eagerly returns the kiss. Robby breaks away sooner than he wants to, his lung capacity still pitiful, and rests his forehead against Dennis’s. “Will you please stay and spend Christmas with me, now that I can actually enjoy your presence?”
Dennis smiles, pushing up on his toes to give Robby another quick kiss. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”