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Dennis Whitaker has had a rough few weeks. He lost his bus pass. He was punched in the face by a patient. Not to mention the voicemail left by his mom, and most importantly, Dr. Robby has been avoiding him. He wasn’t sure at first, maybe their shifts were just busy, or maybe Robby was too distracted with Langdon’s return or the new interns. Except Dennis saw him purposely cut through an exam room just to avoid him. The near constant hands suddenly stopped as well. For all intents and purposes, Dennis Whitaker did not exist in the same sphere as Robby. Yet, sometimes he saw him staring, from across the hall, during a morning staff meeting, it felt as if there were constantly brown eyes boring holes into him.
Trinity has even remarked, “Trouble in paradise? Why the sudden cold front?”
Dennis didn’t have an answer for her. “Maybe he’s busy.”
Trinity might have pushed further except she’s been too obsessed with a certain surgeon who has taken to coming over their apartment at all odd hours of the night. He’d find it more annoying if he weren’t so happy for Trinity. Maybe he could be happier if his own love life wasn’t so… empty. Dennis was so certain in that parking lot that something was going on between the two. He sees now, it was just a silly, little crush on his part.
Just yesterday, Dennis had slipped up and accidentally called Robby “sir” again. The older man’s cheeks tickled pink but he said, in a clipped tone: “You’re dismissed, Dr. Whitaker.”
That rejection was the last straw, probably what led him to saying yes to Trinity’s invitation to go out to the bar tonight.
“It’s your birthday,” she reiterated, “you’re only twenty-seven once.”
He agrees to go for one drink at The Booby Trap after work. It’s a gay bar about ten minutes from their apartment. They don’t even have to Uber. Trinity lent him eyeliner. She insisted a light charcoal smudging under his waterline would accent his eyes. She insisted he wear jean shorts as well that show off his “sexy little legs,” Dennis wonders if he looks recognizable. He can’t even imagine how his father would react to him wearing make-up—he pushes the thought away.
They're sitting in front of the pin-up girl neon light sign at a dimly lit table in the corner. The Booby Trap admittedly is nice, low-key as far as bars go. They even have board games. Trinity is refilling their drinks. She’s a gin and tonic kind of girl, whereas he prefers a whiskey ginger-ale. Granted, he usually just orders cheap beer. However, Trinity insisted on covering their first round of drinks, a birthday present to him.
Then they order another round. And another.
Dennis veers just a little past buzzed when Dr. Garcia shows up. Dennis is fairly certain Trinity’s earlier bathroom break was just an excuse to sext the surgeon and tempt her to come out tonight. It worked. Even though Trinity and Whitaker are off tomorrow, he’s pretty sure Garcia’s on-call.
“Just one beer,” she insisted when she joined them at their table.
When Trinity migrates toward Garcia’s lap, he decides to take an opportune smoke break. Dennis needs a reprieve from the happy couple. He’s too sober to watch two people in love. He blames it on the lingering buzz, his next decision, reaching into his pocket and grabbing his phone. With a menthol in one hand, he uses the other to type Dr. Robby into his contacts. The senior attending had given all of the interns his number in case of an emergency.
Dennis: Why are you exacting me?
Dennis: Shit.
Dennis: Fucking autocorrect.
Dennis: *Why are you avoiding me?
Dennis: Is everything ruined?
He shakily takes another drag from his cigarette. He and Trinity (both, unfortunately) agree with the sentiment that a drunk ciggy doesn’t count.
After staring at the phone for seemingly ever, he finally sees the read notification pop-up under the text bubble. He doesn’t get a response.
Dennis ashes and wanders back inside. He knows this is a mistake, that texting your boss after a few drinks at 1 am is never a good idea. The music continues to blare in his ears, so loud, he wonders if he’ll be rendered with permanent hearing loss. Dennis’ past self, that newly minted twenty-one year old farm kid, would have never imagined his future self sitting in a bar like this in Pittsburgh. Despite his disappointment, that fact in and of itself is reassuring. He’s come a long way. So what if his sexy asshole boss is ignoring him at work?
Back at the table, Garcia and Trinity are heatedly debating the merits of wound therapy or surgical intervention for dehiscence wounds. Apparently an article came out in The New England Journal of Medicine. Dennis really admires Trinity’s ability to make coherent points even when four drinks in. It must be her tenacity, he thinks to himself.
Dennis checks his text messages again. He expects to see nothing, but in the thread, he sees Robby’s name pop up. The bubble says Typing…. Then it goes away, then it says Typing… again. Dennis is expecting to get chewed out for being unprofessional. Or possibly ignored. Apparently, Dr. Robby settles on:
Dr. Robinavitch: Where are you, Whitaker?
Dennis snorts. He shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that the older man types in full sentences with punctuation.
Dennis: At a bar.
Dr. Robinavitch: Are you safe? Do you have a way home?
Dennis is tempted to ignore the question but he feels a pang at Robby’s sincerity. It’s probably just out of concern for a young junior at work though, a response rooted in responsibility rather than want.
Dennis: Yep. With Trinity. She insisted we go out tonight.
Dennis: You ever been to The Booby Trap? It’s fun. They have boardgames.
Robby is typing for a while. Dennis wonders absentmindedly if he’s a slow texter. His finger hesitates over the call button, he’d love to hear the low timber of Robby’s voice, maybe it would block out the bass heavy music blaring through the bar. He prefers funk and blues, usually. Dennis has enough self-control not to call Robby. Except Trinity’s hands tend to fly around when she’s talking excitedly though, and it's as she’s speaking about suturing methods her arm bumps into his side hard. Dennis accidentally clicks call.
Within five seconds he’s able to click the call end button, but it’s too late. Robby’s name fills up his entire cracked phone screen. “Sorry,” Trinity mumbles as she looks at him, seemingly a little too drunk to notice who exactly is calling him. Dennis excuses himself from the table and walks toward the smoking areas. Once out of earshot of the noisy bar and a nosy roommate, Dennis clicks accept.
A voice immediately comes from the other side, “Are you okay, Whitaker?”
Dennis sighs, “Just a butt-dial, sorry…” feeling dubiously courageous, certainly because of the liquor, he adds, “but I guess it’s going to be Whitaker tonight.”
He hears Robby exhale on the line, “We can talk about that later–”
“Really?” he returns, “You’ll stop ignoring me then?”
“I’m not ignoring you.” Dr. Robby says, a little sharply.
“What do you call it then?” Dennis says.
“....Strategic space.” Robby answers plainly.
Ouch. Dennis is disappointed, certainly. More than that, he’s embarrassed to be so foolish, to have misread a situation so poorly. He curses his sheltered upbringing for his lack of social skills. He hopes he doesn’t betray how such few words could shake him so.
“Well, I’m sorry I made you that uncomfortable the other day, I guess—”
Robby cuts him off, “That’s not it. You know that’s not it. This— this can’t happen, kid.”
Dennis is quiet on the line. He leans back against the brick wall and decides to light a cigarette, “Whatever you say, sir.”
Robby’s breath hitches. Dennis wonders if his cheeks are pink this time too.
“Fucking brat.” Robby utters into the phone. Dennis thinks he hears a faint “wait, no” in the background.
Dennis feels warm and it's not from the drinks or even the muggy, summer air.
He says, “Maybe. But I’m not a student anymore.”
“No, you’re a first year resident under my command.” Robby barks back, almost immediately. The word choice throws him. Robby didn’t say “under my care” or “under my instruction.” He said command.
“Yeah,” Dennis adds, confidently, perhaps stupidly, “I thought that’s the part you like.”
He hears a crash in the background. A distant thud and fuck. Dennis wonders if Robby dropped his phone.
“It's still not a good idea. These things— they don’t end well.” Robby says finally.
Dennis wonders whether Robby is speaking from experience. It sounds like it.
“Plus,” Robby adds, “there’s the age difference to contend with. I’m double your age.”
“No you're not.” Dennis replies sharply.
He’d heard Dana call him an old man once. Robby had kindly teased her that he was technically four years younger than her fifty-four. That would make him fifty.
Dennis continues, “I just turned twenty-seven today. So you’re a little less than double my age.”
“It’s your birthday.” Robby says, ignoring the implication of the comment. “Happy Birthday, Dennis.”
“Thanks.” He says lamely.
“Is it a good birthday?” Robby asks.
“It’s okay. It would be much better if my asshole boss wasn’t ignoring me and stressing me out at work.” Dennis takes another drag. The cigarette is almost burnt down to the bud.
“Forgive me. I’ll stop. It’s just—It was a matter of self-preservation. I felt like I was going to do something stupid.”
“Stupid how?” Dennis asks.
“Like getting close to you. Something stupid. Reckless. Inappropriate. I don’t know why I’m talking about this. It’s not like you’ll remember tomorrow.”
“Hey,” Dennis interjected, “I’m not drunk.”
“Said any drunk person ever.” Robby replied. He sighs, “This is a mistake.”
Dennis may be buzzed, a little fuzzy, words fumbling just a teensy bit, but there was no way he’d ever forget this conversation. It’s like Robby’s every word just sear into him bit by bit.
“Maybe it’s stupid but I’d… I’d like that—us getting closer.” Dennis finishes awkwardly.
Robby just mutters, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Dennis hears him take another deep breath.
“Kid, you should go home. Get some rest. We can talk later.”
“Will we though? I kind of like talking to you now. Like this. Do you like talking to me?”
“..... I do” Robby quietly admits, like it’s a defeat.
Dennis watches two girls sneak out into the alley holding hands and giggling. The tall brunette grabs the blonde’s hand and drags her away from the bar. They look so happy.
“I could be good,” Dennis finally says, “I promise. I could be so good.”
A pregnant pause passes between them. Dennis actually wonders if Robby hung up. Except he is here from the other side of the line, “Dennis, you need to answer me clearly. Right now. Are you okay with talking on the phone with me like this?”
Dennis doesn’t understand the question until he does. It clicks, what Robby’s looking for.
He knows he could hang up the phone now—probably should. Dennis can say with absolute certainty that Dr. Robby is the type of person who wouldn’t punish Dennis for hanging up tonight and pretending this conversation never happened. It’s why Dennis likes him so fucking much—he’s entirely different from all the men Dennis knew growing up. Men who lied. Men who criticized. Men who could never be wrong.
“Yes, I want to talk with you.” he replies, readily giving his consent.
Robby exhales, like he was holding his breath for a long plunge under water and he’s only just now reaching the surface: “You want to be a good boy for me?”
“Yes. So good, sir.” Dennis replies.
“Hmm,” Robby begins, “that’s surprising. Sometimes I think you want to be a brat.”
“Can’t I be both?” he says in return.
Dennis can imagine Robby’s sly smile as he says, “Both is good. I like both.” Somehow the words feel like they hold a double meaning that Dennis is a little too keyed up to decipher.
“I wonder what your fingers feel like in my mouth,” Dennis says a little dreamily.
“Fuck,” Robby says, “you can’t say shit like that, kid.”
“Why?” he almost whines. Almost.
“You know why,” Robby says in a steely voice that makes Dennis harder than he’s ever been, “because I’m not there to do anything about it.”
“What would you do?” Dennis asks, “If you were here… sir.”
“I’d put you on your knees or across my lap—if you want.” Despite sounding so confident, so commanding, those last three words feel like a quiet plea from Robby.
His words make Dennis feel warm, soft, a little fuzzy, like he’s untethered, like could just float away at this very minute. He likes this feeling. He doesn’t have to think about his job, or his student loans, the empty bank account, or his fucked up-family— he doesn’t have to think about anything at all.
Dennis may not know a lot about Robby’s personal life, but he thinks he knows Robby himself pretty well at this point. Robby’s the opposite of him. He wants control, something akin to an anchor amidst the chaos. He wants obedience which Dennis is more than happy to provide.
“Please sir, I want it. I want—” Dennis says before being interrupted by a very drunk Trinity and bemused Garcia. Santos launches herself toward Whitaker who almost drops his phone, “I can’t believe you didn’t talk to anyone this entire night. We’re at a gay bar and you’re just twink-ie catnip with this look.”
She’s hanging off his arm, laughing at her own joke, eyes a little watery.
“Catnip?” Whitaker asks confusedly.
“In those shorts? Yeah.” Trinity replies. She looks over at Dr. Garcia, or Yolanda, to her now. “Baby,” she begins, “can we stop at Sheetz? I want a Carmel Fudge Brownie Blast milkshake so bad, so bad I’d eat you out right here and right now—.”
Dr. Garcia quickly interrupts, “Tomorrow. I’ll take you tomorrow. Let’s get in the car now.”
“Bummer,” Trinity deadpans. She starts smiling within seconds, though, “At least I get to go home with you.”
She’s a charmer when she wants to be, Dennis thinks to himself. Dr. Garcia corralls the 5’5 menace toward her parking spot, presumably, in the adjacent lot.
“Okay baby, let’s go,” Garcia says, before turning back to Whitaker. “You coming farm boy?”
“Uhh,” Dennis says as he looks down. It’s then he realizes the phone call is still going— Robby never hung up. He’s still on the other side of the line. He puts the phone to his ear and speaks softly into the microphone, “So, I could—”
“Go home, Whitaker.” Robby says.
“It’s Whitaker again?” he says. Sad but not surprised.
Yolanda looks tired when she calls back from the sidewalk, half-holding up Trinity, “Are you coming or staying? We’re leaving.”
Robby repeats, with some urgency, every word perfectly enunciated: “Go home. Be a good boy and go to bed.”
“I’m coming,” Dennis yells back. He pats down his pockets and once he’s sure he has his wallet and keys, he jogs towards the girls, phone still pressed against his ear.
“Are you going?” Robby asks pointedly.
“Yes.”
“Hmm, I’m pleased. Go home, take a shower, and drink a glass of water.”
“Yes s–” Whitaker catches himself before he says the full word. With Trinity and Dr. Garcia within arm's length, he’d never live down the embarrassment if he was caught saying something like that….in that way. Granted, Trinity is probably too inebriated to realize or at the very least remember his words.
Dennis is climbing into the backseat as he hears on the other side of the line, “We will be talking later, Dennis.” Then the call ends.
“Whoooo was that on the phone?” Trinity asks as soon as he pockets his phone. She’s buckled into the front seat, a perfect passenger princess as she’s claimed before. Dennis does not want to remember in detail any one of Trinity’s long monologue’s about how Yolanda looks when she drives or the way her fingers drip the gearshift—he shakes off the thought.
“No one,” Dennis mutters, “just a friend.”
Trinity says nothing and Dr. Garcia just eyes him slyly from the rearview mirror.
Yolanda stays the night and Dennis tries to block out the sound of their voices speaking in hushed, low tones. Sound carries in their old apartment with high vaulted ceilings.
He’s in the shower jerking off. Dennis pushes away the intrusive thoughts about laundry piling up, his upcoming shift on Sunday, of the interns that will follow him around with puppy dog eyes. Instead he runs a hand down his chest, across his stomach, his thighs; he closes his eyes and pretends they're not his hands. Dennis comes to the memory of him standing in the alley, phone pressed to his ear, as Robby’s voice pierced him: Good boy.