Archive of Our Own

Dennis accepts the cigarette that Dr. Robby offers him—a Marlboro from a short red pack—without hesitation. The Dennis of a few months ago may have paused, brain immediately flying through a list of his future diagnoses if he even thought about touching one: embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma, histiocytosis, myelodysplasia, eventual irreversible cessation of circulatory, respiratory, and brain functions. 

Now, he just takes the damn cigarette and murmurs his thanks. Working in the Pitt, surrounded by sudden death and catastrophic injury and, most egregiously, dozens of fellow medical professionals that all smoke too, had turned him into a casual smoker (he rarely smokes off the clock; Trinity insists that drunk cigarettes don't count and Dennis has learned to just ignore her) within a matter of weeks. He understands the old adage "doctors make the worst patients" better and better every day; he's doing the exact opposite of what a doctor would recommend to their patients, really. But just one smoke break halfway through his shift gives him a nice hit of dopamine and a little boost in mental clarity for the remainder of his day. Even though he knows it's bad for him, he keeps doing it. It makes him feel good. Shamefully, sinfully good.

Almost as good as being the center of Dr. Robby's attention, even if it's just for a moment. Dennis doesn't like to think too much about that. He's worried he might come to the realization that he only picked up smoking as an excuse to spend more time with Dr. Robby, which would be an incredibly foolish thing to do. He's only had three shifts so far where Dr. Robby was off work, and he did have a cigarette those three shifts as well. He'd even bought his own pack—the same size and brand that Dr. Robby smokes, purely because the wall of different cigarettes to choose from behind the cashier at Walgreens had seriously overwhelmed him—that still had 17 left to smoke. So, he's not just smoking to be near Dr. Robby. He proved it. Case closed. 

The first time Dr. Robby had offered him a cigarette had been a few days into Dennis's first week in the ER. An incredibly gruesome MVA had resulted in one child dying and another losing both of her legs. Dennis had somehow ended up working on both patients and couldn't help but feel partially responsible for both. Neither of them had arrived in stable condition, but it still hurt. Dennis still felt the death of a child weighing on his soul. 

The driver, their drunken father, had smashed the passenger-side of the car (where his daughters sat with no seatbelts on) into a cement building. He'd sustained minor injuries and was asleep in the secure holding room when Dr. McKay called time of death, the locked door guarded by two police officers waiting to read him his rights once he was awake and relatively sober.

Life had felt like a particularly cruel and pointless joke that day. Trying to reflect on two of his favorite verses, Matthew 5:4—Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted—or Psalm 34:18—The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit—hadn't made Dennis feel any better. It had been all too easy to accept Dr. Robby's offer of what his mother had always called a "cancer stick" when he had initially just stepped outside to try and take thirty seconds to recalibrate in relative silence. 

He mimics Dr. Robby now, placing the cigarette in his mouth using his index and middle finger; tries and fails to avoid making eye contact when the senior attending leans in to light his cigarette for him with a clunky silver Zippo that looks like it could be older than Dennis (Dennis isn't sure why he likes that). The two doctors smoke in silence for a few moments before the older man breaks it. 

"How's your myocarditis patient?" 

Dennis exhales a small cloud of smoke, relieved to no longer have to try and think of a conversation starter. So far, he'd only been able to think of discussing the weather. "Stable, finally. I'll be sending her up to med-surg soon to get her set up on an IABP. Still waiting on the charge nurse up there to confirm they have a bed." 

Dr. Robby snorts. "They've got the beds, it's the staff that's missing."

"True. Gina seems nice, though."

"She is. She's worked a few hours down here, a couple times when Dana was really in a pinch. Let me know if you don't hear from her by—" Dr. Robby checks his watch "—3:15 and I'll handle it. Dana and I combined should have some sway." He winks. 

Dennis feels his cheeks warm slightly. He hates how much he enjoys when Dr. Robby tells him he'll handle it. And what did that wink mean? "Will do. Thanks, Dr. Robby." 

"No problem, Whitaker." Dr. Robby nods down at him, smiling softly. They look into each other's eyes for what Dennis thinks must be a second longer than what's considered professional before Dennis breaks eye contact, worried he's still blushing. Dr. Robby continues, "What about the kid that fell off his bike?"

"Greenstick fracture." 

"Ouch." He winces. "And Myrna?" 

"Couple scratches on her arms. She said she killed her husband's brother-in-law, whatever that means. I handed her off to a nurse to get patched up. I think she just wanted to see you, to be honest." 

Dr. Robby tilts his head back and laughs, bright and loud. Dennis tries to bite back a grin, unreasonably proud to have said something that was apparently so funny. "Okay, and the guy with poison oak?" Dr. Robby asks, still chuckling. 

"Ah, loaded up with Methylprednisolone and finally able to sit still. I've never seen someone react so badly to poison oak." 

"Yeah, that was some of the worst contact dermatitis I've seen. He should wear longer pants the next time he goes hiking. How much Methylprednisolone?" 

"Uh, 100 milligrams." Dr. Robby whistles, impressed. Dennis pauses when he hears an ambulance approach with its siren blaring, but thankfully it flies by their ER entrance going west. It's been a relatively slow day; he doesn't have any patients on his caseload other than the four Dr. Robby had asked about. "Do, uh, do you like hiking?" he ventures to ask once it's quiet again.

Dr. Robby doesn't answer for such a prolonged moment as he huffs on his cigarette that Dennis starts to worry that he shouldn't have asked. It's not like surface-level personal questions are off-limits out here; Dr. Robby usually asks him some questions about himself and lets Dennis ramble away, mainly about his classes or the more lighthearted details of his childhood or what he likes to do when he isn't at work, but the older man tends to be a little less open with his own answers than Dennis is. Dennis makes sure to hang onto every word that Dr. Robby does say so as to not miss a detail. 

So far, Dennis had been able to glean that Dr. Robby had been raised a Reform Jew by his grandmother (he's yet to learn anything about Dr. Robby's parents); that he's been thinking about buying a motorcycle (this is slightly concerning, but not Dennis's place to say); that he's worked in the PTMC for 15 years as of this past March; that microbiology was his least favorite class in med school; that he'd befriended Dr. Abbot in med school and they'd remained close ever since, even during the times Dr. Abbot was deployed or when they'd worked in different hospitals (Dennis assumes that all of Dr. Robby's other friends must work in different departments, or maybe different hospitals, or maybe aren't even doctors at all); that he'd played baseball until college; and that he was a Mets fan. 

So they do talk about things other than patients and medicine when they're out here, but maybe Dr. Robby has some kind of hiking-related trauma or something.

Thankfully, he finally says, "I do. Well, I did." A look passes over Dr. Robby's face that Dennis can't quite decipher. "I used to enjoy being outdoors. It's... just been a long time since I went hiking, or fishing, or anything like that."

"How come?"

"I've just... been busy. These last few years," Dr. Robby says haltingly, taking a few short hits in quick succession.

"Oh. Yeah. I-I get that. It's hard." Dennis mentally slaps himself. 'It's hard?' He shouldn't have intruded to begin with. "Well, you should try to go sometime soon," he continues, pathetically. He can't seem to get his mouth to stay shut. "Even just a short hike, you know, like around the parking lot. You, uh, deserve it."

To his shock and delight, that makes Dr. Robby bark out another loud, genuine-sounding laugh. "A hike around a parking lot. Did you have a parking lot in mind?" 

"Well, no. I was thinking, like, you know, the parking lot at the entrance of a trail that you used to like hiking. You know, baby steps. Or. Something." Dennis sucks down the rest of his cigarette, feeling a bit foolish. 

"Baby steps," Dr. Robby repeats. Dennis manages to finally look up at his face again and sees that he's still grinning. He feels a little less pathetic.

"Yeah. Baby steps." 

Dr. Robby nods slowly, eyes flicking down to the butt of Dennis's cigarette. "Thanks, Whitaker. I like that idea, actually." He plucks the stub from Dennis's fingers and reaches behind him to deposit it into the metal ashtray attached to the building. He always tosses Dennis's smoked cigarettes for him, even though Dennis has never asked him to. Their fingertips brush together as he takes the cigarette and Dennis bites back a shiver.

"You're welcome," Dennis responds. Still riding the high of that split second of finger-on-finger contact, he says, "And, uh... You can call me Dennis?" He's so nervous that he poses the statement as a question. "If you ever wanted to. We aren't technically inside the hospital, so. Technically not working. Out here I'm just Dennis."

There's a new look on Dr. Robby's face that Dennis still can't figure out. "Right. Dennis." A few seconds of silence. "Then you could call me Michael." 

Dennis looks up at him in surprise. "I thought everyone called you Robby?" 

Robby shrugs. "Most do. 'Robby' is fine. I don't mind being called Michael, though. It's the name on my birth certificate." 

Dennis laughs, partially in disbelief. "Okay. Well, Michael, then. Outside the hospital," he finishes quickly. "Dr. Robby at work, of course." 

"Or just Robby. Whatever you're comfortable with." 

"Just Robby?" Dennis asks, surprised. "On the floor? In front of patients?" 

"Sure." He shrugs. Dennis wishes he would say more. Explain why he's okay with an M4 talking to him so... informally. Dr. McKay may call him Robby, but she's an R2 and Robby seems to really respect her. Dr. Collins calls him Robby, too, but she's an R4 (plus, Dennis has heard some rumors surrounding Robby and Dr. Collins having some type of romantic history. He really wishes Princess and Perlah hadn't switched from Tagalog to English to talk about that with him just a foot away.). Dana calls him Robby, but she's Dana. Dennis is just... Dennis. 

"...Alright. I'll call you Just Robby," he says. "Hi, Just Robby."

Robby laughs again, rolling his eyes. "Funny." 

"I'm a funny guy." 

"You are." Robby inhales the rest of his cigarette, eyes flicking away from Dennis's. "I think you're very funny."

"Oh." Dennis can count on one hand the number of people that have ever told him he's funny. Funny looking, sure. Someone who acts funny, definitely. "Thanks. You. I mean, thank you. You can be funny, too. When you're not yelling." He smiles, hoping Robby understood that he was joking (well, partially joking; he does yell a little). Thankfully, Robby does laugh again, though this time it sounds more than a little self-deprecating.

"I used to be much funnier."

Dennis feels a twinge in his chest. He knows that Robby isn't exactly a ball of sunshine at work, but he hates to think of him as someone who feels like he's lost his spark entirely. He likes to imagine Robby spending his time off the clock surrounded by friends, laughing and reminiscing, maybe doing masculine male activities together like watching football or drinking beer in a garage. He has no idea how accurate his imagination is, though, as he's never seen Robby outside of work and has only ever seen him interact jovially with Dr. Abbot. "Hey, I think you're plenty funny."

Robby smiles again, looking ridiculously handsome as the smile lines and crows feet around his eyes deepen, and gets rid of his own crumpled cigarette butt without looking away from Dennis. He takes a breath and says, "Hey, what's—"

"Four GSWs about ten minutes out," Dana yells from behind Dennis, making him jump. He whips around, already falling into step beside Robby as they approach the sliding glass doors. "Two are being airlifted and two coming in ambulances." 

"Whitaker, with me on the helipad. Dr. King, Dr. Mohan," Robby calls out over the din of the ER. Both women start moving toward Robby. "Two GSWs meeting you in the ambulance bay in ten." Mel and Samira pivot on their heels in near unison to head toward the ambulance bay instead.

Dennis is already wearing a sterile gown over his scrubs (the only pair of scrubs that have touched his body today, thank you very much), protective eyewear, and a fresh set of gloves when he beats Robby to the elevator by a few seconds. 

"Thanks," Robby says breathlessly, smacking the "H" button and then the "Close Doors" button as soon as he's inside. Dennis had kept the elevator doors open for him by standing over the sensor. 

"No problem." 

Robby finishes tying his own sterile gown and lets out a breath. "This should be interesting. You triage one, I'll take the other?" 

"Yeah, sounds good." The elevator doors slide open and then they're on the roof. The helicopter is still at least five minutes out according to Dennis's watch; if they weren't on the rooftop of a trauma center, Dennis would almost call it peaceful up here. It's quiet, the streets of Pittsburgh more than ten stories away.

"It's gorgeous out today," Robby comments after a deep breath.

"It really is," Dennis agrees. 

A pause. "Do you prefer hot weather or cold?" 

"Oh. Definitely hot. I'd rather sweat than shiver." 

Robby laughs. "So, sweating is better than shivering. Got it."

Dennis laughs too, embarrassed. "Sorry, that was kind of gross." 

"Not gross," Robby says. "I feel the same, I think. You've got me thinking about getting out more. I'd rather vacation somewhere sunny than somewhere snowy. Have you ever been to a beach?" 

Dennis blushes. "Ah, no. My family didn't really... vacation. And I haven't really had time to go anywhere other than school, work, and hospital since graduating high school." He laughs again, albeit uncomfortably. A helicopter with a bright red cross on the side comes into view, approaching rapidly. He wonders what Robby is inferring about him from that revelation.

Robby doesn't dig any deeper, thankfully; just says, "I was 20 the first time I left Pennsylvania."

"Really?" Dennis is surprised. He'd assumed... well, he doesn't know what he assumed. He just hadn't expected them to have anything remotely in common. Dennis had left Broken Bow for the relatively nearby city of Lincoln at 18 to attend the University of Nebraska, spending those four years within state lines. Finally, at 22, with a degree in Theology and zero interest in using it, he'd left Nebraska for the first time for the University of Pittsburgh's medical program.

"Really!" Robby's voice is rising as the helicopter comes closer. Dennis leans in a bit closer under the guise of needing to hear him better. "And even then, my first vacation was to Buffalo, New York!" 

"I've never been!" Dennis yells. 

"Don't!" Robby shakes his head and somehow manages to look like he's just sucked on a lemon slice while nearby helicopter blades whip the air around him at over a hundred miles per hour. "Not even worth the gas money!" 

It takes them well over an hour to stabilize all four patients. It turns out that the two that arrived by helicopter and the two that arrived by ambulance were victims of entirely unrelated yet simultaneous shootings six blocks apart. Mel and Samira manage to get their patients—two males in their early 20s—up to surgery after five and eight units of blood, respectively, but Dennis's—a female in her 50s—needs nearly 14 full units before he's comfortable calling off the blood bank. Apparently a victim of a purse-snatching gone bad (Robby's patient is the woman's husband, who also pulls through), the woman had nearly died on the table twice. Four patients entered the ER and those same four patients left with hearts still beating; Dennis counts that as a win. 

He's attempting to slap together as many words as he can to pad the patient's chart—how many differential diagnoses does Robby really expect him to come up with for a gunshot victim?—when Trinity flops down into the chair next to him. 

"How's it going, Huckleberry?" she sighs happily. 

Dennis clicks 'Save.' "It's going," he says slowly. "What's up with you?" 

"Just talked to Yolanda."

"Yolanda."  

"Garcia." 

"I know who Yolanda is." 

"She wants to have dinner tonight," Trinity blurts in a rush, her cheeks bright pink. "With me." 

"That's great, Trin," Dennis says sincerely. They've only been roommates for about 10 weeks and he is already intimately aware of Trinity's crush on—read: obsession with—Dr. Garcia. He's never had a friend like Trinity before (like, he's at least 75% sure she's the first lesbian he's ever befriended; not on purpose, truly, he just hasn't made many friends in his life period, let alone other queer people), and he does feel lucky to call her his friend... but he's pretty sure most friends don't overshare the way she does. Dennis did not need to know that Santos and Garcia both own the same vibrator, for example. He still can't look Garcia in the eye and Trinity had burdened him with that knowledge over two weeks ago.

"It is great," she says, tapping her feet excitedly. "She's taking me to that hot pot place by the mall." 

"Oh, she's taking you?" 

"That's right, Fuckleberry. I'm getting taken tonight." Trinity grins wickedly. 

"Ugh." Dennis squeezes his eyes shut. "Too much information, Trin. Seriously." 

"Oh, come on. You are seriously the most prudish gay guy I've ever met." 

"First of all, you shouldn't generalize gay men. Or prudes. And second, I don't think you've met nearly as many gay guys as you claim."

"I've met tons of gay guys, are you kidding me?" 

"I have never seen you voluntarily speak with a man who wasn't a patient or coworker, gay or straight." 

"Bi men exist."

"Yeah, and you don't talk to them, either." 

Trinity sighs. "Touché. Well, does the bartender at Slippery Waste count? I can't picture him anywhere near a vagina. He's probably gay." 

"I'm going to say no. Your male gaydar is pretty terrible."

"Excuse me? What about—"

"Dr. Santos," Robby says from behind them, startling them both. "Caught up on charting?" 

Trinity scans her badge on the desktop Dennis had just been using. "Just about!" she chirps, rolling her chair aggressively into Dennis's space until he makes room for her to take his spot. Robby looks unimpressed. 

Dennis stands, already resigned to finish his own charting later. "I need to check on a patient, anyw—"

"I was just heading that way," Robby interrupts, clapping his hand on Dennis's shoulder. "I'll come with you." 

"Oh—" Dennis starts. Had he mentioned which direction he was heading? 

"Real quick, Huckleberry," Trinity says before they can walk away, "I won't be around to give you a ride home after work. Sorry. You have your bus pass, right?" Trinity clicks on the SpeechMike attached to the desktop and begins dictating without waiting for Dennis's response. "Patient is a 77-year-old woman who presents with a rash. The rash began one week ago and first appeared on her back..." 

Dennis sighs and nods. Yes, he has his bus pass with him. What he's missing is the money for a ride. Before Trinity had found him in his makeshift studio apartment (unfortunately, she had laughed right in his face when he referred to the abandoned hospital room as "kind of like a makeshift studio apartment," so he tries not to refer to it at all anymore) and essentially forced him to move in with her, Dennis had been able to treat himself to two bus rides a week. Every other excursion had to be on foot, because walking didn't cost him a cent. Now, with Trinity driving him to and from work most days in her beat-up but fully functional Kia Soul, he's able to allocate that little bit of money to things like food and toiletries. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Robby asks, guiding Dennis away, his hand still planted on Dennis's scapula.

"Huh?" Dennis asks, confused. 

"You two are going home separately tonight?" 

"Me and Trinity?" 

"Uh, yeah. Aren't you two already living together?" 

"Well, we live together, yeah." Dennis's steps falter; Robby guides him by the elbow to lean against the wall next to him, out of the way of foot traffic. "But... wait, what do you mean 'already?'" 

"Ah. Well. I, uh," Robby stutters, flushing. "That was judgmental of me. I apologize." Dennis is more confused by the second; judgmental? Apologize for what? Did Robby somehow find out about Dennis being between living situations at the start of his rotation?

Robby laughs awkwardly and says, "Your relationship has just... moved pretty fast, right? I mean, you've only been dating, what, nine weeks? Ten?" 

"Dating?" Dennis blurts out much louder than he intended, laughing incredulously. Donnie happens to be walking by at that exact moment, his eyebrows already raised, and Dennis knows in his bones that his mini outburst will hit the nurse's desk—and, therefore, the ER rumor mill—within minutes. That's for Future Dennis to worry about. He continues, this time at a much lower volume, "Dr. Robby- uh, Robby, Trinity and I definitely are not dating." 

"Oh," Robby says, brow furrowed. "Oh." 

"Yeah," Dennis says slowly. He can't help but start laughing again. "You know we're both gay, right?" 

Robby's eyes widen. "We?" 

"Trinity and I are both gay. And definitely not interested in each other romantically." 

"Oh," Robby says again. Dennis, no longer laughing, waits for him to say more. He doesn't. 

"Is that... okay?" Dennis finally asks, steeling himself for the worst. 

"Of course!" Robby says quickly. Relief floods Dennis's chest. He hadn't thought that Robby was homophobic—he'd watched him treat numerous patients that were clearly members of the LGBT community with nothing but empathy and respect, once even dispensing harsh criticism to the father of a patient who derogatorily called his own son fruity—but it was comforting to have confirmation. "Of course that's okay. Sorry. I just... I misunderstood some things." He rubs his forehead, looking slightly embarrassed. 

"No, no worries. I guess it's an easy assumption to make about a man and a woman who are roommates, right? It happens all the time, trust me." It didn't really, but Dennis wants the embarrassed look on Robby's face to go away. 

"Still. I shouldn't have assumed." Robby shoves his hands in his pockets (as usual, he's wearing a dark pair of Carhartt cargo pants that Dennis finds unreasonably, confusingly attractive), rocks up and down on the balls of his feet. "So you two carpool?"

Dennis appreciates that Robby calls it 'carpooling' when it would be more accurate to describe it as 'Dennis not being able to afford his own car.' "Yeah, most days," he says vaguely. On the rare occasion that he's scheduled to work but Trinity is not, he takes the bus. She's offered to drive him to and from the hospital on her days off before, but always halfheartedly and visibly hoping that Dennis declines her offer. Dennis doesn't blame her and truly has no hard feelings; she's already letting him live with her rent-free, he doesn't expect her to be his private chauffeur, too. He just wishes he had known to budget for an extra bus ride this month.

"But not today?" Robby asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

"No, she, uh, she made plans for right after work." 

Robby nods. "Did you need a ride home today, then?" 

"No!" Dennis exclaims. Robby looks confused and slightly hurt, so Dennis quickly explains, "I'm taking the bus. It's a quick ride. Thank you for the offer, really, but it's not necessary." It's really not a quick ride, more like close to an hour barreling down pothole-filled Pittsburgh streets, but the thought of sitting in Robby's passenger seat makes him feel a little dizzy.

Robby no longer looks hurt; now he looks almost annoyed. "You're off at 7, which means you'll actually get out of here around 8. Do buses even run that late?" 

Dennis scoffs. "Yes, the buses run that late! They run until, like, 1 in the morning!" 

"Well, it's a little chilly out for you to be waiting at the bus stop." 

"It's September." 

"First day of fall next week." 

"It's sixty degrees out." 

"Might be colder once the sun goes down." 

"It won't be." 

"Best not to risk it." 

Dennis sighs. "Really, Robby, this is very kind of you to offer, but—"

"I don't feel comfortable thinking about a student doctor under my tutelage riding a city bus after a long shift. Let me drive you home." 

"Robby—"

"So it's settled," he interjects, slapping Dennis on the shoulder again. Before Dennis can make another sound, Robby says, "I'll meet you at the lockers at 8." He turns and begins walking back toward where Trinity is still seated. Dennis is left leaning against the wall, wondering what the hell just happened. 

"I thought he said he was heading this way?" Dennis mumbles under his breath. 

True to his word, Robby meets him by the doctors' locker bay at 8. Dennis is surprised; he doesn't remember the last time Robby left work on time. Typically when Dennis and Trinity are walking out the door around this time, Robby is either still charting or still working on a patient. Dennis is pretty sure Robby has an office somewhere in the hospital, too, probably up on the administrative floor since he's a Chief Attending, so he might spend even more time in the building than Dennis knows. He wonders what Robby's office looks like. 

"You don't need to stay and finish anything?" Dennis asks. 

"Nope, we're good to go," Robby says easily, slamming his locker shut and shouldering his backpack, an expensive-looking thing with lots of pockets and buckles. Before the locker door closes, Dennis manages to catch a glimpse of an open box of protein bars resting precariously on top of a pile of what looks to be unopened mail. "Do you?" 

"No, I'm all done." 

"Then let's roll." 

Dennis takes his word for it and lets Robby lead the way. He's glad he does because the older man leads him to a door marked "Do Not Open" that he immediately pushes open, gesturing for Dennis to cross the threshold. 

"Why did I assume an alarm would go off if I ever opened that?" he asks Robby, who huffs a laugh. 

"Because that's what they want you to think." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Now, come on." 

Dennis passes through the doorway and enters a long hallway lined with brick that looks to have been painted white at least a decade ago. Every third or fourth lightbulb on the ceiling is burnt out, the rest of them buzzing loudly. A variety of outdated OSHA posters are scattered on the ground right near the doorway. Robby pulls the door shut behind them so that it doesn't slam, then starts walking. Dennis follows close behind for the second that it takes Robby to slow down so that they're walking side-by-side.

"We're in the Backrooms," he jokes after a lightbulb loudly burns out overhead. 

"The what?" Robby asks. 

"It's an internet thing." 

"Ah. Guess it would go over my head, then." 

They walk along silently for a few moments until Dennis pulls out his phone and breaks the silence. "I can show you what I'm talking about. Well, in the car, I guess. I don't have any service in here." He waves his phone above his head in a fruitless attempt to load the Google search results for backrooms explained. "It's probably not too advanced for your elderly mind," he teases. 

"Funny," Robby says drily, though he's smiling. They come to a fork in the hallway and Robby automatically guides Dennis to the left with a gentle tug on his elbow. "I remember the Internet in its infancy, you know. I actually know how to bookmark a webpage and send an email. I can even use a printer." 

Dennis laughs, the sound echoing around them. "What year did you get your first computer? Do you remember?" 

Robby sighs. "Oh, Lord. Like, 1992."

Dennis grins cheekily up at him and says, "I was negative 8 years old."

Robby blinks and briefly widens his eyes at that before sighing again. "Fuck," he laughs.

Before long, they make it to a heavy metal door that leads directly to the bottom level of the staff parking garage. Dennis—gobsmacked that he and Trinity have been walking nearly a mile to get back to her car every day when there's apparently been a secret shortcut through the walls of the hospital this entire time—follows Robby onto the elevator and watches him push the "8" button. 

"Try not to judge me for taking the elevator instead of the stairs. My back is killing me," Robby admits.

Dennis looks him up and down in concern, as though his back pain might be outwardly visible. "Oh, I'm sorry. No, definitely no judgment from me." The elevator doors slide open on the top level of the garage, only about a quarter of the parking spots still filled this late in the day. "I don't know anyone that would willingly take eight flights of stairs after a 12-hour shift." Robby smiles at him gratefully and leads him to a newer-looking navy blue pickup truck parked near the elevator. He opens the passenger door for Dennis, waiting for him to climb in; Dennis's face goes hot as he does so, hyperaware of how awkward he must look. He's pretty sure this is the first time anyone has ever held a passenger door open for him. He's also pretty sure that's a little pathetic. 

Robby walks around the back of the truck to hop in the driver's seat and start the engine. He has Dennis type his address into the GPS app on his phone—Robby's phone case is a pristine black OtterBox, and he has an entirely unscratched glass protector covering the screen—and pulls up the directions on his car's CarPlay screen. The map app tells them that the 2.7 mile drive to his and Trinity's place in Squirrel Hill will take 14 minutes. 

"Thank you again, so much, for driving me home," Dennis says as Robby backs out of his spot, tossing an arm around the headrest of the passenger seat to better see behind him. He notices that Robby ignores the little screen on his dashboard that displays his truck's backup camera, instead checking his mirrors and blind spot himself. Dennis also tries and fails to resist noticing how good Robby's underarm smells, kind of woodsy and smoky in a sexy, masculine way, but also like hospital and a little bit of sweat; that is definitely not a normal thing to think about your boss. Dennis internally slaps himself.

Robby glances over at him with a smile on his face, unaware of Dennis's inner turmoil. "It's not a problem." 

"I hope it's not too far out of your way." 

"Not at all." 

Dennis looks out the window. "Well, good." He takes a deep breath before saying, "I can give you some gas money next week, after payday." 

"What?" Robby scoffs. "Dennis, absolutely not." 

"Well—"

"Nope." They make it to the parking garage exit, where Robby rolls his window down to scan his badge at the little kiosk. The bar gate lifts to allow them to drive through as a robotic female voice says "Thank you for parking with us," the speaker hidden somewhere near the scanner. 

Dennis decides it would be more impolite in this situation to continue insisting. "Alright. Well, thank you. Robby. Or... Michael, right? If you prefer?" 

Robby chuckles. "You've thanked me enough, I promise. Dennis." He looks over at Dennis again, making eye contact, and Dennis realizes with a jolt that he's turned entirely in his seat to face Robby. He blushes and quickly squirms to face the road. "Besides," Robby continues, ignoring or maybe forgetting Dennis's question, "I didn't have anything else to do after work." 

"No?" Dennis asks, still staring out the windshield in what he hopes is a cool and casual manner. "No plans tonight?" 

"I'm not really a 'plans' kind of guy." 

Dennis wrinkles his brow and tries to glance at Robby out of the corner of his eye. He's driving with his left hand on the wheel and left elbow propped on the driver's-side door, his right hand resting on the center console. If Dennis were, like, an insane person, or if this was one of those romantic gay love stories that he'd discovered Trinity was secretly obsessed with, he'd easily close those few inches of space and tangle his fingers with Robby's, right here and now. This is real life, though, and Dennis isn't that detached from reality. "What, like, ever?" 

"Mm," Robby hums, a non-answer before quickly changing the subject. "What about you? Big plans tonight?" 

"Ha, no. Trinity is going out with Ga- I mean, she's going out tonight, so I'm just going to hang out at home." 

"Dinner?" 

"Huh?" Dennis whips his head around so fast that he nearly hurts his neck. Had Robby just asked him to have dinner with h-

"What are you having for dinner?" Robby clarifies. Of course. Why in the world would Robby be asking Dennis to... never mind. Of course. 

"Ah." Dennis tries to mentally run through the contents of his side of the pantry ("pantry" is generous; Trinity's shoebox-sized apartment has a kitchen that's three tiny floor tiles wide, and the pantry is more like a large cabinet) and his half of the fridge. He's pretty sure he has a banana, an egg that may be a couple days past due but still probably fine to eat, a few packets of ramen with roast beef flavoring, an avocado that Trinity insists she paid for (but Dennis keeps all of his receipts and knows with certainty that this is his avocado), and a sleeve of chewy chocolate chip cookies that are the Walmart-brand knockoff of Chips Ahoy. "I think I'll make some pasta," he fibs; ramen is kind of like pasta, right? 

Robby nods. "What kind?" 

"Uh," Dennis wracks his brain. Damn. He's an awful liar, and even worse at being put on the spot. He's not even sure why he's so resistant to admitting that he's about to have some cheap ramen with a side of raw avocado for dinner; surely Robby lived close to the poverty line as a med student, too. Surely he ate more than his fair share of struggle meals. But maybe Dennis just hates to remind Robby of his status as a poor, nearly-homeless (though Robby probably doesn't know that) student. Maybe he wants Robby to see him as a mature soon-to-be-licensed doctor who has his life together, even if that's not even remotely true. 

Who does he think he's fooling? He's in the passenger seat of his boss's car with an empty bus pass in his pocket.

"Maybe some carbonara?" Dennis says eventually. He does love carbonara, so it's not like it's an outlandish lie. If only he could afford some pancetta and a little bit of fancy cheese, maybe even the kind that comes wrapped in little white paper from the gourmet section of the grocery store—a section he and Trinity love to peruse when they're bored and looking for something free to do; Trinity likes to bring a few different beanies and sunglasses with her to try and get as many free samples as she can while Dennis hides near the freezer section—he'd love to make a nice helping of carbonara tonight. If he really stretched out the portions, he bets he could make a skillet's worth of carbonara sustain him for 3 or 4 meals. 

Robby nods again and glances over at Dennis for a moment. The navigation app on the truck's screen shows that they're now 11 minutes away, but the numbers have turned red to indicate that there's some standstill traffic up ahead. There must be an accident, or maybe construction, Dennis figures. "Sounds delicious. So, you cook?" Robby asks. Dennis is pleased that Robby's habit of asking repeated follow-up questions extends outside of their smoke breaks (and he hopes that Robby's habit of not revealing much about himself in return does not). He's always asking Dennis for more details, always making callbacks to prior conversations. He's an incredible listener. 

"Oh, yeah, I love it," he responds, pausing to quickly banish the fleeting mental image he has of himself cooking a grand four-course meal just for him and Robby, an intimate candlelit table tucked into the corner of a tiny kitchen. He clears this throat. "Growing up, my mom and grandma, and even my great-grandma while she was still alive, all taught me everything they knew about cooking, baking, that sort of thing. My favorite place in the world was my grandma's kitchen." His heart twinges at the mention of his mother and grandmother. 

"That's nice. My grandmother taught me how to cook, too. Mostly Ukrainian food, though. Jewish food, too. Matzo ball soup, latkes, kugel." 

"I don't think I've ever had Ukrainian food. Definitely never had Jewish food. Sorry," Dennis says, slightly embarrassed, peeking over at Robby. 

"That's fine," he laughs. "Probably not many Jewish people in Broken Bow, right?"

"Right," Dennis confirms, chest warm. Robby remembers the name of his hometown. "So, um, is Robinavitch a Ukrainian name? I think you said you have your mom's last name, right?" 

"I do." Robby's voice sounds warm and wistful. Dennis has pretty easily deduced that Robby has positive feelings about his mother, and no or negative feelings about his father. He continues, "Specifically, it's Eastern European Ashkenazi Jewish." 

"That's cool. And, uh, what about Michael? I know that's a Biblical name to Christians, but is it maybe a family name for you?" Dennis trails off at the end. He's not sure he's ever heard Robby talk about himself this much in one conversation. He doesn't want to get greedy and ruin it. 

Robby looks over at him and smiles. "No, not a family name. My bubbe always told me my mom probably named me after Michael Caine because she loved the movie The Ipcress File so much."

"Oh," Dennis says. He's never heard of that movie in his life. Wasn't Michael Caine in Miss Congeniality? He makes a mental note to peruse his IMDB page tonight. Then he wonders if he should point out that the navigation app now says they're back to being 14 minutes from their destination, the numbers still bright red and the entire line representing their route now red as well. A sea of brake lights is visible through the windshield of a car about three meters ahead of them. "Well, I like the name Michael," he says instead. "Great name." 

Robby laughs again; Dennis appreciates how he makes him feel like he's being laughed with instead of at. "Thanks. She always called me Michael. Then sometime in high school, all of a sudden I felt like I wanted to go by middle name—Robert, obviously. But then all my friends told me Robert was an old man's name, so ever since then I've been Robby." 

"So, do you prefer Robert, then?" 

"No, no, definitely not. Not anymore." He looks over at Dennis out of the corner of his eye, almost looking bashful. "I'd actually, uh, like it... if, uh, you called me Michael. If you wanted to." His stuttering catches Dennis off guard. Robby-Michael is usually so well-spoken. 

Now Dennis is the one feeling bashful. "I... Yeah. I'd like to call you Michael. Makes me feel less like I'm still at work," he tries to joke. Michael's responding smile, though, looks strained at the edges. 

"Yeah... hey, uh, if you ever need time off, you just let me know before you put the request in and I'll approve it right away." 

"Oh! No, no, that's not what I meant. No, I was just joking," Dennis says quickly. 

"Oh," Michael says, laughing awkwardly. "Sorry, I just—"

"No, I—"

"You—"

They both fall silent. 

"You—" they both say in unison. This finally breaks the tension. 

"Sorry. I don't want to make you uncomfortable," Michael says. Dennis shakes his head and tries to interrupt but Michael goes on, staring at the road instead of at Dennis. The apples of his cheeks that peek out above his beard look a little pink. "You're a very valuable member of the team. You're going to be an incredible doctor. You are an incredible doctor." Dennis's entire body feels pink. "The last thing I want is to make you feel awkward or uncomfortable. If I were to ever be too... familiar, or—"

"Michael." 

Michael falls silent. He looks to be gripping the steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles have gone white. Dennis continues, "You've never made me feel uncomfortable. Not at work, and not... not at work." 

Michael huffs a laugh and finally looks over at him. "Okay, well. That's good," he murmurs. 

"Yeah," Dennis murmurs in response. He realizes that they're basically gazing into each other's eyes right now, which means Michael isn't watching the road; but the car is at a complete stop and surrounded on all sides by other idling cars. He looks around, realizing they've only made it a few blocks from the hospital. "Wait, traffic is crazy." 

"Yeah," Michael says, seeming unbothered. "I think there's an accident up ahead. I see firetrucks." 

"Oh." Dennis deflates slightly in his seat. As much as he's truly been enjoying this uninterrupted and unobserved time together, he can't say he wants to sit in traffic. He's tired. He's hungry. He wants to put his feet up and deactivate the social part of his brain for a while, put on a YouTube video that he's already watched a hundred times and watch the ceiling fan blades turn. Had he mentioned he's hungry? 

His stomach chooses that moment to growl, audibly. Michael looks over at him in alarm. "You hungry?" he asks Dennis, maybe a little unnecessarily. 

"Yeah," Dennis admits reluctantly. "I'll make it 'til I get home, though, I promise." He glances at the navigation app and tries to hide his reaction to them now being an estimated 20 minutes away, accounting for traffic. 

Michael must pick up on something, though, because he takes a deep breath and seems to come to a decision without consulting Dennis. He taps on the gas, inching forward and to the right until it's clear that he's going to turn down the intersecting side street. 

"What are you doing?" Dennis asks, confused. 

"You like diner food?" Michael says in response. 

"Uh." 

Michael manages to get out of the gridlock and off the main road, finally accelerating past 25 miles per hour. He looks over at Dennis expectantly, seemingly awaiting a genuine answer. "I like diner food," Dennis says slowly. 

"There's a place just a minute away from here. We're already almost there." 

"Alright." Dennis pauses uncomfortably. "I, uh, don't really have—"

"Dinner's on me," Michael interjects. Then, he lowers his voice to say, "Dennis, I make a lot of money. More than I can spend. You do not need to pay me back for anything. Not for a ride, not for parking, not for gas money, not for a meal. I've got it." He pulls into a parking space outside of a place called Shelly's and yanks up on the parking brake. He looks over at Dennis, eyes soft. "Okay?"

Dennis just nods mutely. Michael's eyes crinkle in response. 

"Let's head inside."

Michael is extremely kind to waitstaff. He makes genuine eye contact, he asks the hostess if she's had a chance to sit down today; he uses 'please' and 'thank you' liberally and advises their waitress, a middle-aged blonde woman with a pin over her breastbone that says she's named Mary, to stop losing so much weight before she disappears. It's unfairly attractive. He's probably about to leave a huge tip, too, Dennis thinks. Like, probably more than 20%. Damn him. 

Dennis orders a cheeseburger with no lettuce, a side of fries, and a water. Michael orders a double cheeseburger with extra fries and a Coke. 

"You're not just getting water because it's the free option, are you?" Michael asks suspiciously once Mary has whisked away to dispense their drinks. 

Dennis blushes. Yes, he is. "No, I'm not." 

Michael seems to call his bluff, because he asks for a Sprite when Mary gets back. Dennis isn't sure what to do with the knowledge that Michael has noticed him drinking Sprite at work before, clearly often enough for him to remember that it's one of his drinks of choice. Or maybe it was just a lucky guess? 

Once their menus are gone and they're waiting for their food to arrive, Michael asks Dennis if he's thought about applying to PTMC's Emergency Medicine residency program. 

"Oh, of course," Dennis says, sipping his Sprite. He'd thought that it was obvious how badly he wanted his residency to be in the Pitt. "Yeah, it's probably my number one pick." 

"That's great!" Michael exclaims, a bit loudly. Dennis catches a man seated at the bar peek at them over the top of his newspaper. 

"Yeah, I mean, this is still just the application stage. I might not even get an interview." 

"You'll get an interview," Michael says confidently. Dennis furrows his brow.

"Yeah, I hope so." 

"No, you will." 

"I don't like to get my hopes up. I like to keep my expectations low," Dennis says slowly. 

Michael nods. "I get that. I'm the same way. But, between you and me," he leans forward and lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I've known Margo, the EM Residency Program Director, for years. If you had an EM rotation at PTMC in your M4 year—like you, obviously—she advances you to the interview stage. No other qualifications needed. She likes to interview every single M4 that decides they want to continue working in that shithole for whatever reason." He grins.

Dennis is breathless. Landing an interview is the first and most crucial stage of getting into a residency program. There are probably thousands of applicants and only so many can get to the interview stage. Knowing with certainty—because he trusts that Michael wouldn't lie or exaggerate about this—that he'll get to speak one-on-one with a panel of interviewers, to plead his case and do his best to impress them in real life, rather than just through his best attempt at an essay, lifts a weight off his shoulders. "That is such a relief to know. Oh my God. Thank you, Michael."

"No, no, I... You're, uh, welcome." The tips of Michael's ears are red and he avoids eye contact as he takes a drink. 

"You have no idea how nervous I was, I was worried I wouldn't even get an interview for my last choice." 

"What's your last choice?"

"American Health." 

"Where the hell is that?" 

"Mobile, Alabama." 

"Mobile?" Michael says, incredulous. He looks horrified, which Dennis feels is a bit dramatic. Plenty of people live and work in Mobile. 

Mary chooses that moment to come by with their food, asking sweetly if they need anything else. They both decline and she pats Michael's cheek as she walks back to the kitchen; Dennis reaches for the ketchup for his fries, wondering how long Michael's been coming here as a customer. 

"What the hell is there in Mobile?" Michael revives the conversation. 

"A program with a cheap application fee and high acceptance rate," Dennis replies, a little sardonically. Michael frowns, his food still untouched. He opens his mouth to respond but Dennis cuts him off. "Eat." He's pleasantly surprised that Michael immediately obeys, shoving a fry into his mouth without looking at what he's eating. He also seems to take the hint that Dennis isn't going to respond well to criticisms on where he's choosing to apply, which is good. 

"I know it's been a long time since I was in your shoes," Michael says once about half his burger is gone, "but I'd be happy to help you prepare for your interviews." 

"Well... that would actually be great," Dennis confesses. He'd be a fool to decline advice from the chief of the department in which he's hoping to work. Which reminds him, "You wouldn't, like... get in trouble for that, right?" 

Michael shakes his head, chewing a rather inelegant handful of fries. "No, no. I may be in charge of the ER but I don't have any say in who the residency program picks. I mean, don't get me wrong, I will definitely be putting in a good word for you." 

"You are?"

"Of course." 

"You... Thank you. Wow." 

"Stop thanking me!" Michael waves him off, laughing. "Just keep doing what you're doing. Like I said, you're already a great doctor."

It baffles Dennis how easily Michael can say that. He's worked with Dennis for all of, what, two and a half months? Dennis killed a patient on his first day. He makes mistakes constantly. He's missed signs of serious diagnoses that were blaring in retrospect. He still can't remember the difference between a code silver and a code gray without consulting the tiny laminated chart on the back of his badge. "I don't know about 'great,'" he mutters, "but thank you." 

"Hey," Michael says seriously. Dennis looks at him. "Everyone in medicine makes mistakes. I make mistakes. Doctors that have been practicing for years longer than me make mistakes. Don't let yourself get hung up on the little things. And I'm not talking about losing patients—" he says quickly, holding up a hand when Dennis opens his mouth to object. "That's different. I'm talking about... everything other than a patient dying or having their life permanently altered because of a mistake you made. You can worry about those, if you want." 

Dennis laughs, a little shakily. "I do, trust me." 

"I do, too. Every single one." 

"It's hard to imagine you making mistakes." 

Michael lets out a disbelieving breath. "Well, imagine it." 

Dennis isn't sure what to say other than, "Well, give yourself the same grace you're giving me, then." Michael doesn't respond other than his eyes widening in surprise. Mary comes by at that moment to take their empty plates and drop the check, which Michael snatches off the table before Dennis has even registered that it's there. He decides not to offer to pay for his half again, still stuck on the way Michael's voice had gone soft and a little sad when he had told him in the parking lot that he made more money than he could spend. 

Michael guides him out the front door with a hand hovering over the small of his back; he opens the passenger door for him again, too. Dennis is feeling as giddy as he does confused. Are they friends or something? They definitely seem to have passed the coworker threshold. Maybe they're now acquaintances? Does Michael touch all of his potential acquaintances like this? His male ones? 

When Michael pulls up Dennis's address again, the navigation app shows just 8 minutes. 

"Let's try this again, shall we?" Michael says, pulling smoothly out of his parking spot and onto the empty street. 

"Fingers crossed." 

Michael hums. The rest of the drive is spent in comfortable silence. When they pass Slippery Waste, the gay bar at which Dennis and Trinity spend most of their Thursday nights (lesbians and nonbinary people get a free drink that night), he instructs Michael to look for the building with the old refrigerator on the curb outside. 

"Oh wow, is that Pittsburgh landmark listed on the map?" 

"Mm, no, the Google Earth car hasn't been by in about 6 years. The fridge has only probably been there for 5." 

Michael is chuckling as he puts the truck in park a few feet from the abandoned refrigerator. It's a vintage pale green SMEG with the doors removed from their hinges, probably to prevent kids from trapping themselves inside of it. He peers around Dennis to look up at the apartment building through the passenger window, and Dennis is suddenly aware of how unimpressive this place must look to someone as well-paid and established as Michael. "Nice place," he says. Dennis knows he's lying because the house is visibly not nice; one of the steps leading to the front door is crumbling to dust, there's a window in the attic that's been boarded up from the inside, and the door is half-painted a deep maroon color because their neighbor ran out of paint halfway through and never bothered to go back and get more. 

"Ah, thanks," Dennis says, gathering his backpack and phone. Right when he has his hand on the handle, Michael stops him.

"Hey, uh. If you ever need a ride to or from work, I'm happy to offer it."

"Oh. I couldn't ask—"

"You're not asking. I'm offering." This feels like another one of those things that Dennis isn't allowed to refuse. 

"If you're absolutely sure... I may take you up on that sometimes. It won't be too frequently, I promise," he says quickly. "Trin and I work most shifts together and she's my ride those days. Plus, I get two bus rides a month—" 

"I thought we decided you weren't taking the bus anymore." 

"When in the world did we decide that?"

"Could I give you my phone number?" 

Dennis reels back in surprise. "You want my phone number?" 

"No! No, no, no, I want you to have my phone number." Michael nods as if this is a normal statement; as if they hadn't just been about to discuss Michael's misguided views on public transportation.

"Right," Dennis says slowly. "But if you give me your phone number, won't you then be able to see my number?" 

"Only if you text me. Which you don't have to do. But you can. If you need a ride, or need anything else. I just wanted to offer you that option. Just in case." 

Dennis blinks a few times, trying to discern if Michael is playing some kind of prank on him, but he looks pretty damn earnest. "Okay." He opens up a new contact card in his phone and hands the phone to Michael, who quickly types in his name and number and passes it back. Dennis snorts when he sees that he's put "Michael Robinavitch" in the Name field and "PTMC" in the Company field. 

"You're such an old man," he teases.

"What?!" Michael exclaims, incredulous. "What did I do?"

"Nothing, nothing," Dennis laughs. "I just think it's funny that you put 'PTMC' here as if I know another Michael Robinavitch. Honestly, I don't even know another Michael."

"Guess I'm your lucky first. First Michael," he clarifies quickly. 

Dennis feels himself blush. "Right. You know, let me just give you my number, too."

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I mean, this will uh... save time." Dennis realizes this doesn't make sense but can't think of another reason to want to give Michael his number. It's not like Michael is going to be the one reaching out to him for help. He takes Michael's phone and inputs his information into a new contact entry, praying he's acting normal. He's pretty sure this is the first time he's ever put his number into a man's phone.

"Here you go," he says when he's done, passing the phone back. He points his thumb towards the apartment. "I guess I should—"

"Right, you'd better—"

"Yeah, I'd better—"

"Work tomorrow."

"Exactly."

"Right." 

Silence presses down on them, charged with something that Dennis can't name. He opens the door before he says something stupid. "Well, good night, Michael."

"Good night, Dennis." Michael's smile is warm but tired. 

Dennis looks over his shoulder when he makes it to the front door of their building—a large house split into four "apartments" that all share one main entrance—and Michael is still there, idling at the curb. He waves even though he can't see inside the cab of the truck, so has no idea if Michael waves back. After scrambling up the stairs, Dennis peeks out of the second-floor window a few seconds later and the truck hasn't moved. Then, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He scrambles to open his messages. 

9:34 p.m.
Michael: 
Have a good night.

His heart flips, his stomach clenches, his knees tremble; he essentially melts into a puddle. Michael Robinavitch just sent him a good night text. This is a good night text, right? It contains the words "good night," together, in that order, so that's a good night text. Right? Does the addition of "Have a" change the meaning of the text? Dennis needs to ask Trinity about this as soon as she's home. 

Wait.

Can Dennis ask Trinity about this? Can he ask his coworker if she thinks their boss is... what, flirting with him? By sending a single text in which he may or may not be wishing Dennis good night? Right. Well. He might be on his own for this one, he realizes. Trinity is open-minded but he can't imagine she'd love it if Dennis had a crush on the chief of their department. Not that Dennis has a crush, of course.

9:36 p.m.
Dennis:
good night! :) thank you again for the ride

9:38 p.m.
Michael: 
It was my pleasure. 

Dennis grins dopily at his phone screen. Definitely not a crush.