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Robby has a good half hour to palm himself and drink water and overthink Whitaker’s arrival before he actually arrives: the kid is probably going to be shaking like a leaf, all big eyes and nervous and daddy, what should I do, and if he’s honest Robby’s a little disappointed with the inevitability of it. He’s done that, plenty of times. And yeah, it’s Whitaker, so that’s inherently interesting, but Robby somehow, somewhere, in the bowels of his subconscious had expected something different. It doesn’t matter. The knock comes, sharp and quick. He tries to summon the electricity that had crackled between them in the bar. It’s still wrong, it’s still exciting. He tells his cock that, then opens the door.
What he finds isn’t a shaking leaf, but a snarling dog.
“You gonna let me in?” Whitaker snaps, sounding nothing like Nebraska. His face is flushed and his hoodie’s all twisted.
“A little worked up?” Robby asks, stepping back, allowing the tornado of a stranger to stomp inside his house. “Park give you a hard time about leaving?”
“No, he couldn’t have cared less.” Whitaker seems to remember where he is, what he’s doing. He looks sheepish and recognizable for a moment before sliding off his shoes. His socks are white. A lump of tenderness invades Robby’s throat.
“So what’s the issue?”
“Nothing, I just,” Whitaker waves an agitated hand, and it’s not the first time Robby’s noticed his fingers, but it feels like it is. Long, thin, delicate. “You’re not different.”
His home has been infected with Whitaker’s foreignness; Robby suddenly doesn’t recognize anything in the apartment. “If this isn’t your thing, Whitaker, the door’s right there—”
“Yeah, exactly, like that. You want me to be this sweet little puppy,” Whitaker spits the word, Robby has to stop himself from jumping backward, “all the fucking time and if I’m not exactly what you want, then the deal’s off.”
“The deal—?”
“And you got so worked up when I told you what he does to me, which means you’re gonna want me to do the exact same thing, beg and roll over and do exactly what you say, just like at work—”
“I do not want you to roll over at work—”
“So prove it!” He’s nearly shouting now, borderline vicious, raging with the certainty of what Robby’s going to do. “Yeah, I thought so. You’re just looking for a defenseless little buddy you can fuck.”
“Slow down—”
“I told him to stop, and he didn’t even fight me!”
All the air leaves Robby’s body in the form of a single word. “Whitaker.”
Whitaker pales into a hospital bedsheet. “Ha, uh. Shit. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” He scrambles for his shoes. “I should go. If you could just forget this ever happened, that would be really, really great.”
Sometimes the human body in all of its infinite variations coalesces on the operating table in the perfect proportion and shape for Robby to know exactly what he needs to do. Cut there, compress here. It’s one of those moments.
“Whitaker. Take your shoes off.”
It wouldn’t be difficult. They’re some sort of hipster boot, no laces, elastic sides. Whitaker peers up at him. He’s pale, but he isn’t shaking. He quirks an insolent eyebrow and Robby gets instantly hard.
“No.”
It’s easy, then, to call back the necessary version of him: early forties, freshly made chief, arrogant as a freehand climber and approaching the peak before better men dragged him down from the summit. It’s a bone deep relief, to be that man again.
“Take your fucking shoes off. Now.”
Whitaker’s eyes spark with something like joy. The malignant tenderness invades Robby’s lungs. He slices it out, drops it twitching on the floor.
“Make me,” Whitaker says.
“Make you?” Robby asks, and lunges, hauling a hundred and forty pounds of squirming resident onto his kitchen counter. “Make you.” He bends to rip the boots off, and then the socks off, and shoves Whitaker’s big toe into his mouth. He tastes like leather and cotton and sweat. Whitaker yelps and kicks him; Robby twists his ankle and sucks harder. “Get it?” he says, when Whitaker’s foot is good and wet.
The eyes that find him are blown out and rioting. “So I can say no—”
Robby stands up straight, sizes him up. He could take Whitaker, no problem. His cock swells at the thought. “And I’ll just keep fucking going.”
Whitaker’s breath comes hard and rough through his nose. He shifts, spreads his legs, shows Robby how much he wants that. “Um.” The syllable of hesitation makes Robby’s pulse race. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”
It’s second nature to grip Whitaker’s neck and yank him closer; he used to do it nearly every day until he realized it was making the kid uncomfortable. And now they’re here, Robby’s nose digging into Whitaker’s, violating his mouth with carte blanche permission. Whitaker moans into the kiss he didn’t ask more. He sips breath through his nostrils; Robby sure as hell isn’t going to let him get any through his mouth, not when his tongue his that hot and sweet and—
Whitaker yanks backward.
Fuck yes, Robby thinks, and doesn’t let him go.
He waits to see what shape the struggle will take; he’s not expecting it when Whitaker knees him in the gut. Robby’s oof makes Whitaker’s eyes go wide, the apologies rev up, sorry, sorry this wasn’t a good idea, but Robby’s never met a better one. It’s more than wrong, it’s insane, and it’s caulking the growing hole in Robby’s chest. He grabs Whitaker’s wrists and lets him feel his teeth on his earlobe.
“Don’t,” Robby warns, grinding harder than he should into Whitaker’s hip, “do that again.” The body beneath him starts to tremble, Robby thinks he’s made a mistake, until he realizes Whitaker is laughing.
He pulls back in time to see Whitaker schooling his face into a snarl again. “Fuck off.”
This close, Robby can see everything. The flecks of gold in his eyes, the ridges in his teeth, the blonde nose hair. Something telltale sticks in his left eyebrow. Robby scrapes at the hair with his thumbnail. “What the fuck is that?”
Whitaker would be a shoe-in for regional theater, Robby decides, for how fast his face changes. “Oh, that?” Whitaker asks, all blue eyes and innocence. “That’s my daddy.”
The surge of strength surprises him. It’s not nothing, to manhandle Whitaker into the bathroom, tear his clothes off, and turn the shower on. The strain in his deltoids doesn’t even register. All he can feel is Whitaker, wet and slick and struggling under his hands. His naked body registers as if Robby has seen him before, which he hasn’t, of course he hasn’t. Maybe his mind’s eye was more accurate than he realized, in the black and sleepless nights.
“Clean up,” Robby tells him through the glass door. “With soap.”
At work, Whitaker is all quick hands and yeps and frantic nodding. Here, in Robby’s shower, he tips his chin up toward the water and lingers in the spray. He doesn’t use soap. “What if I don’t know how,” he suggests absurdly, the boy who did five invasive procedures today without a single anxious twitch.
“Don’t know how or don’t want to?” Except to let a mouthful of water dribble down his chin, Whitaker doesn’t move. “Now, Whitaker.”
The glass starts to steams up. Whitaker tugs at himself, water pooling around his dick like old porn. “You do it,” he says, voice flashing between bravado and fear.
“You’re such a fucking brat,” Robby hears himself say through the roar of water. The zipper on his hoodie barely registers, or his fly. He’s just naked, and furious in a way that feels euphoric, and shoving Whitaker up against the white tile. “You think I’m gonna fuck you with Park’s come on your face?” He takes the shampoo bottle and squeezes way too much over Whitaker’s head. “Scrub.”
“He talked about you,” Whitaker says, wincing through the sting of soap in his eyes, pointedly not scrubbing. “He said you were only half as good as you used to be. That age was catching up to you.”
Shame trickles down Robby’s gullet like dirty, soapy water. “Oh, the guy who wouldn’t fight you wants to have a dick measuring contest?” He spares a thought for Whitaker’s knees, the dangers of wet tile. He guides him down, makes it feel like a shove. “Who’s bigger?”
It shouldn’t be so gratifying, the way Whitaker’s eyes go big and crossed.
“I don’t do that anymore,” Whitaker says, so sincerely that Robby almost believes him.
“What, suck cock? Talk with your mouth full?”
There’s something spiritual about the way Whitaker tightens his lips, makes it hard for Robby to push inside. When he finally manages it, Whitaker lets out a long, high whine. He can’t act his way out of eagerness, swallowing and licking and spitting in time with the throb of Robby’s pulse. Robby sees in the instant of hitting the back of Whitaker’s throat that Park was not the first cock he’s sucked. The thought makes him desperate.
“Say it,” Robby orders, knowing Whitaker knows what he means.
When Whitaker pulls off him and looks up with wet eyelashes, the transformation is complete. There’s no more terror in him, only brat.
His voice is quiet but clear. “I don’t think you’ve earned that privilege yet, Robby.”
And Robby should probably care that he’s blacking out, should care that his nice sheets will be wet down to the mattress pad and that water is no substitute for lube, but he doesn’t have time for anxiety. What matters is that he shove Whitaker face down in his bed, Robby’s bed. What matters is that he gets his fingers inside of him, two at once.
“You want to talk shit?” He twists his fingers, grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls his head back. Whitaker’s face is beatific, eyes squeezed closed, mouth already drooling. “You want to talk about privilege? You think you earned my respect?” Robby spits, rubs it in. “Or is it more likely that you were just pretty?”
Whitaker tries to crawl toward the headboard, Robby drags him back. The happy puff of laughter makes Robby glow.
“Or,” Whitaker proposes, “was it because I found you crying on the floor and you didn’t want anyone else to know?”
Robby hits him. It takes less than a second, another five for the handprint to bloom. Whitaker’s chanting something, it might be sorry, or stop, or please. Robby doesn’t give a fuck. He twists Whitaker’s neck so he can kiss him from the side.
“You better start crying,” Robby tells him, sugar sweet, lines up, and splits him dry.
The sound Whitaker makes surely penetrates the thin walls; Robby’s groan sails past the metal roof and the hard wood floors. He shouts until he’s seated and Whitaker’s ass is flush against his pubic bone. He rocks like that, palming the thick bands of muscle around a Whitaker’s thighs. “Happy?” he asks sarcastically.
Whitaker lifts his pretty, slobbery, beet red face. “Very,” he answers, and rolls off the bed.
Robby can’t stop laughing. He chases him to the door, gets an arm around Whitaker’s neck and holds him still against the dresser. The dresser with all of Robby’s scrubs and stethoscope in it. That’s where he’s going to fuck his resident.
The lube is more for efficiency than comfort, he tells himself, grabbing it from the top drawer and slicking up. Whitaker squirms away, Robby drops down and pins him on the floor.
“You don’t get to say no to me.”
The sound that follows lets him know he said the right thing. Whitaker’s clawing at his hips, babbling about how much he needs it. It occurs to Robby that Whitaker could say the same to Robby, you don't get to say no, and he wouldn’t be wrong, but Robby doesn’t need to think about that right now. With lube, it’s dangerously easy to slip inside, a mixed drink that tastes like juice. He could drink Whitaker all night long.
“Deeper,” Whitaker’s chanting, not satisfied with the teasing strokes that Robby’s doling out, uncaring of the fact that Robby’s trying to make it last longer. Robby holds his hips tighter. His own words are gone but his grip is clear. You’ll take what I give you. Whitaker turns snarling dog again.
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, eyes flashing. He breaks Robby's iron grip on his hipbones like it was sand. Like a feather pillow, Whitaker flips him on his back.
“There,” Whitaker huffs, settling on top of him, sinking all the way to the hilt. He clamps his hands to his head like he can’t believe it. Robby knows the feeling, overpowered in less than an instant, watching Whitaker—ride. “Oh my god, fucking finally, daddy, daddy, daddy—!”
Robby doesn’t bother struggling. He lays there and takes it, hooks his thumbs into Whitaker's thigh creases and holds the fuck on. "Spread your legs," he begs, and Whitaker does. His subordinate, twice as strong as Robby is and leaking come all over his belly hair. Robby wants it everywhere. Whitaker reads his mind. He arches his back, rolls his shoulders, and pulls the truth out of Robby that he loves it, fucking loves it, being flat on the floor.
They lay like that until Robby’s thighs go numb, Whitaker’s weight compressing the femoral nerve. Robby says so. “Oh no,” Whitaker says, frowning. He eases off him. Robby knows in his bones that he’s in deep trouble. Whitaker rubs life into the muscles with delicate hands. “Sorry about that.”