Chapter Text
Robby knew before he even walked in what Dana was going to say. As he shouldered his way through Chairs with his straining rucksack slung over his back and through the double doors to the Emergency Department, he made a beeline for the service hallway. He pressed close to the walls, attempting to stealth behind gurneys and nurses in the crowded din of the shift change. He dipped his head as he passed by Jesse, trying to hide around the tall man’s frame.
No dice.
“Robinavitch!” Dana shouted from her station at Central. “That better not be what I think it is!”
“It’s not what you think it is!” he shot back.
He abandoned his strategy, dodging around Jesse’s shoulder as he and every other staff member turned to stare at their Chief Attending. Ignoring them, his eyes scanned the organized chaos of the Pitt for a clear path. He decided to risk it, cutting a straight line through the ward. It wasn’t as if Dana was going to jump the nurses’ station to stop him.
“Robby, don’t you dare!” she said, moving the round the counter.
“I’ll just be a minute, you won’t even notice I’m—”
Stupidly, he turned to snark back at her, never able to resist the banter. He didn’t even see Whitaker, frozen like a deer in headlights at the growing commotion, tablet half-docked into a charging station. Robby stumbled when his foot connected with Whitaker’s heel, wheeling around as the weight of his bag lilted off his shoulder. He took a moment to regain his balance, heat already creeping up his neck.
“Whitaker, what are you—”
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Robby, are you okay?”
“Got you,” Dana said, stepping in between them to crowd Robby’s space. She reached for the drawstring of Robby’s rucksack. Her face fell when she realized the weight of it.
“Robby,” she started. “Is that your laundry in this bag?”
Face burning, Robby quickly averted his eyes. She was half his height, and yet when she arched a single eyebrow, he felt a chill of fear crawl up his spine.
“My machine’s still broken.”
“Robby!” she smacked his arm, no real force behind it, but he lurched away as if shot.
“Hey—” he swatted her hands away, “Just let me— just let me take it to the laundry room!”
“The hospital laundromat is for medical garments only.”
“You let me use it last week!”
“That was an exception, not an invitation! Use the laundromat on the corner like a normal person.”
“Do I look like I carry quarters in these scrubs?”
“Robby, so help me God, I will call Gloria.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You weren’t the one who had to talk to her about ‘frivolous use of our expendables budget.’”
He laughed. “You’re shitting me. Are we that strapped for cash?”
She grinned at him, both of them knowing it was probably true. Quickly though, aware of their growing audience, she took another step closer to him, face sobering. Robby glanced over her shoulder at Whitaker, still clutching onto his tablet, blue eyes wide at whatever this thing was that Robby had started. He focused back on Dana. She crossed her arms, considering.
“I thought you had a repair guy coming.”
He huffed another laugh, rueful. “With my schedule? I don’t get out of here until nine on a good day. No one’s coming by that late to fix a washer.”
Dr. Santos piped up, “I know a guy.”
He startled; he hadn’t even seen her, but there she was, charting away next to Whitaker. A smirk played on her face, but she barely looked up from her typing.
He almost hated to ask. “You do?”
Without sparing him another glance, she reached up and tugged on Whitaker’s sleeve. Like breaking a spell, suddenly Whitaker was all motion, scrambling to jam his tablet into the charging cradle. Their newest resident turned away, as if on instinct, but Santos’ grip only tightened on his scrubs.
“Huckleberry’s got you.”
Whitaker smacked at her hand, trying to dislodge himself from her grasp. “Trin, what are you—” he hissed, “Let me go!”
She ignored him. “Dennis here is a real whiz with repairs. Whole reason I let him live with me. He’ll have your washer fixed in no time.”
Robby looked between the two of them, Santos unbothered by Whitaker’s continued flustering protests. They argued in a strange, wordless language that consisted of glaring, gawking, and gesturing. Even after a year working with the two of them, Robby had gotten no closer to deciphering these conversations.
Whitaker finally dislodged himself from Santos’ claws. He huffed, straightening out his scrub top as he glared at her. Robby would have almost thought he’d won their strange argument, but then Trinity deigned to look up from her charting. With a single look, a pursing of her lips, Whitaker’s shoulders slumped. Robby waited another moment to make sure they were finished.
“Dr. Whitaker?” he asked. Immediately, the resident snapped to attention at the use of his title, his face already flushing. Robby couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Oh no, I couldn’t— I mean, I could,” Whitaker stammered. “You said your washer? I mean I won’t know if I can fix it until I see it, but I’m happy to take a look. Um, Dr. Robby.”
This was a bad idea.
Robby knew that this was a bad idea. A monumentally, generationally, human-resources-defyingly bad idea.
Robby was no stranger to a work crush. Hell, he had a reputation for indulging them. The difference, however, was that Robby never initiated those feelings. He never saw a colleague and felt the curiosity that he apparently inspired in others. Always the teacher, he didn’t mind letting others explore him; to try him on for a few weeks until they realized, like everyone else, that Robby just wasn’t built for whatever they were looking for. He was too dedicated to this place to reciprocate that initiative, to maintain that intrigue. He couldn’t even maintain his washing machine.
But as he leveled his gaze at Whitaker - Dennis - nervously wringing his hands, he felt it. The compulsion that thumped in his chest, a tiny shock that tensed across his shoulders and his jaw and made him exhale. The impulse that he fought every day to reach out and touch.
Dennis, in his home. Dennis, who could apparently fix things. Dennis, who made him want to learn more.
“Sure,” he said smoothly, casually. “Come over after shift today, if you’re still feeling up for it.”
Dennis beamed. “Sounds like a plan, sir.”
Before Robby could begin to overanalyze the warmth growing in his chest, Dana clapped her hands, startling them both. “Alright, people! Now that we’ve sorted out our chore chart, let’s get back to our jobs, yeah?” She pointed at the laundry bag still at Robby’s feet. “Go put that in your locker. Or better yet, the biohazard bin.”
Robby chuckled, but couldn’t help the escaping groan as he hauled the bag back over his shoulder. “Sure I can’t just run it down to the service hall real quick?”
“Don’t test me, Robinavitch.”
He barked out a laugh, then turned to Whitaker, Santos, and the lingering crowd of medical professionals that had stopped to witness his midlife humiliation. “You heard the boss, let’s go save some lives.”
Robby’s home was a monument to the American healthcare system. Which is to say, it was a fucking mess.
It wasn’t entirely his fault. He’d bought the townhome shortly after finishing his residency, at a time in his life when he’d thought he’d have more time to spend with it. However, that relief from graduating had never really arrived, what with the daily medical emergencies and the endless mountains of charting and the failed relationships and— well, Robby didn’t feel the need to use his paid time off anyway. The time he spent at his home was utilitarian, practical. Sleep, sometimes; eat, occasionally.
The place had good bones. Dark brown, real hardwood floors; bay windows on each floor. His kitchen had an island with a suspended pot rack above it, and he’d splurged once on some fancy copper-and-stainless-steel cookware that he’d never used but looked impressive hanging above the marble countertops. It gave the impression of an HGTV catalog, albeit with gathering dust that he hadn’t noticed until this very moment.
Walking in now, all he could see were the piles of unopened and crumpled mail, the half-empty takeout boxes from his day off last week, scraps of even more laundry he’d carelessly tossed aside without thinking to stew in some hidden corners. Dog-eared books he’d forgotten about months ago were stacked in a precarious tower on the coffee table in the living room, and— oh god when had that pile of empty beer bottles next to the couch gotten so large?
His grip tightened on the strap of the laundry bag he’d hauled back from the hospital. He ground his teeth, working his jaw as he surveyed the spoils of his domain.
Whitaker— Dennis had decided to stop by his and Santos’ apartment to pick up their toolbox before coming over. A blessing, really, as Robby wasn’t sure he’d be able to find his own tools now if he were pressed. That gave him maybe half an hour to tidy up and try to make some dent in the trashpile that had taken over his home. Robby felt a flush of embarrassment crawling up his shoulders. He hadn’t noticed it had gotten this bad.
He let the bag fall from his shoulders, and got to work.
It was easy enough to sweep the empty bottles, crumpled napkins, and various wrappers into a trash bag and out to the bin. He did a quick pickup through the rooms he thought Dennis might need to visit - the kitchen, the living room, the upstairs hallway - and snatched up a shirt, a dishtowel, and - oh that’s where that one sock had gone, but where had he put the first one? - throwing everything into the hamper as he passed by the laundry room on the second floor. He glared at the front-loading washer as the pile grew; clearly it had broken on purpose, just to cause this mess.
Under the sink in the guest bathroom, he found some sort of cleaning spray. Maybe it was for glass? Or for all surfaces? Fuck it; he found a roll of paper towels and wiped down the counters. He tidied up the living room the best he could, grabbing the books and hauling them upstairs to his study. He threw them in a heap and shut the door behind him. No reason Dennis would need to go in there.
He paused for a moment outside the door to the master bedroom. He knew already that his bedsheets were a mess, unmade and probably in need of a change. He knew his things were sprawled across the floor, the journal his previous therapist had recommended sitting untouched on the nightstand. Picture frames he’d long ago turned down on top of the dresser. He balled his fists and turned away from the closed door to walk back downstairs. No, Dennis would not need to go in there either.
He was sitting at the kitchen island and attempting to sort through the mail - so much of it was spam, why did people even send these things? - when he heard a knock at the door. He leapt up, the stool scraping loudly against the wooden floor, and rushed to the foyer. He took a moment to brush down his hoodie and realized he still hadn’t changed out of his scrubs. He cursed, taking a step away— but then he could see the blurry outline waiting for him through the frosted glass of his front door. No choice now. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and reached for the knob.
“Hey, kid,” he breathed.
Dennis had changed clothes. He looked up at Robby from the front step, wearing a worn flannel over some graphic band tee that Robby didn’t recognize, and ratty jeans with holes at the knees. Robby swallowed, meeting Dennis’ blue eyes, before quickly looking back down. He noticed the large toolbox that Dennis held at his hip, a red metal case that clattered softly as Dennis shifted his weight.
“Sorry,” Dennis said, “I’m later that I thought. I wasn’t sure what all to bring since, well, I’m not sure what we’re facing yet.”
“Don’t apologize, come in,” Robby smiled. He gestured for Dennis to enter, and he held his breath as the younger man squeezed past him into the foyer. The front door latched closed, and the city sounds of Pittsburgh cut off, leaving them in sudden quiet.
Dennis walked hesitantly into the foyer, the floor creaking under his footsteps. Robby watched him as he took stock, eyes wandering across the walls and the hanging photos that Robby barely noticed anymore. The set dressings of his life. An odd feeling bubbled up in his chest, but before he could analyze it, he let instinct take over. He clapped a hand of Dennis’ shoulder and steered him down the hall.
“Do you need anything?” he asked, easily falling into his usual manner. “Water? Uh, beer?”
Dennis shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m good for now.” His gaze swept over the kitchen, peering beyond into the adjacent living room. “Your home is great, sir. I really like the colors you chose.”
“Oh, really?” Robby spun around, as if just now remembering that, right, he’d painted those walls when he’d first moved in. Jack had helped him pick out the dark green for the living room and the tan for the kitchen. With Dennis standing in front of him now, those days felt like a lifetime ago. “Thank you,” he said.
“How old is the place?”
Robby huffed a laugh. “Older than you, kid.” Dennis’ face scrunched up at that. “It was old when I bought it,” Robby corrected. “Last owners fixed it up before the sale. I’ve done some small things, but I haven’t really had the time to maintain—” he cut himself off, sighed, “Sorry. It’s not usually this much of a mess.” Liar.
Dennis waved him off. “What are you talking about?” he asked, grinning. “You should see our place after a week in the Pitt. Trin - Dr. Santos - well,” he coughed, “Our days off are usually spent cleaning.”
Robby looked at the younger man, at the ease with which he navigated conversation. On the surface, he had an air of nervousness; a fidgeting uncertainty and self-deprecation that belied his true deflection. He was the same with patients, drawing them in with small stories and personal anecdotes, putting them at ease by humbling himself. Did he even realize he did it? Or was it all a strategy, just a ruse to make them let down their guard? Robby had caught glimpses of it, the soft confidence that rippled just underneath Dennis’ skin when he knew a diagnosis, but just needed to double-check. The kid was smarter than he let on.
Robby clapped him on the shoulder and steered him down the hall. “Well,” he said, “thank you for coming over on a work night. I don’t want to keep you any later than I have to, but I appreciate it.”
“It’s really no problem, Dr. Robby,” Dennis said. “So what’s going on with your washer?”
Robby shrugged. “The damn thing just stopped working. It turns on, but the water won’t run, and the thing doesn’t do the, uh, the spinning thing.”
“The spinning thing?”
“You know what I mean. I walk away and then I realize I’m not hearing anything, and I come back and it’s just not running.”
Dennis nodded as Robby led him up the stairs towards the laundry room. “I see. Well, it could be a number of things. You could have an issue with your water lines, or maybe a clogged filter. Possibly an electrical issue, but I won’t know for sure unless…”
There it was, that confidence. Dennis rattled off potential differentials as if he were diagnosing a complex trauma. Robby couldn’t help but grin. All his medical knowledge, but the way Dennis spoke about his damn washer made him feel like he was learning Latin in undergrad again.
“So what’s your plan?” Robby said. He didn’t mean to slip into his teaching voice, but Dennis didn’t seem to notice. He just looked over at Robby, brows furrowed, ready to present.
“First step, I’ll need to see your breaker.”
Robby’s smile faltered. “My what?”
Turns out the breaker box was in Robby’s garage. He’d definitely seen it at some point in his life, almost certainly had used it when the power went out or some other crisis. Dennis found it easily enough, flipped the breaker for the laundry room, and got to work.
Robby retreated to the kitchen to give the kid some space. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t the hospital, and neither of them were on shift. No need to hover; there wasn’t much he could teach here anyway.
For a while, there was quiet, the only noise being the occasional clatter from Dennis’ tools. Robby tried to occupy himself with tidying up again, moving over to the sink and some dishes that he’d probably washed the last day he’d had off. When had that been, a week ago?
He turned on the faucet, reaching for the dish soap, when a violent shudder passed through the pipes. His sink started to vibrate, the entire counter shaking, and Robby scrambled to turn the knob back off.
So, no doing dishes tonight.
“What was that?” Dennis shouted from upstairs.
“Nothing!” Robby shouted back. He slumped back onto his kitchen chair with a groan, burying his face in his hands.
Truly, when had it gotten this bad?
Robby was a grown man. An adult. A home owner. He knew what a fucking breaker box was. He knew how to wash his dishes, and take out the trash, and mop the floors, and how to do his fucking laundry. He didn’t need a fucking intern to solve his problems for him. But clearly, he acknowledged, scratching his fingers through his overgrown beard, he did.
Part of him wanted to make excuses. The laundry had only been a problem for a week or so. It wasn’t his fault the washer had finally given out, that could have happened to anyone. But he knew it was old; he should have replaced it years ago. God, what a waste of time all of this was. Why was Dennis even here? He should just pack up his things and order a new washer online; what was he thinking, asking his student to come over so late?
He’d decided to do just that, standing from the kitchen table to go tell Dennis to go home, when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
Dennis emerged in the kitchen doorway, a light sheen of sweat already glistening on his forehead. Robby froze, still half-bent as he stood. Dennis had taken off the flannel and tied it around his waist. His bare forearm raised to wipe at his brow; something Robby had witnessed countless times in the middle of a shift, but seeing the young man now, here in his home, gave him pause.
“It looks like the door lock was damaged, might have been knocked loose during a spin cycle or warped over time,” Dennis said, oblivious to Robby’s stare. “That would have been what prevented your washer from starting. I went ahead and bent it back into place. Not the cleanest fix, but it should do for now. We can go flip the breaker back on now and see if it runs.”
“Oh,” Robby said. He straightened up. “That was it?”
“That’ll solve the electrical issue,” Dennis said, already making his way back to the garage. “But that doesn’t rule out a problem with the water lines. Hopefully it’s just something wrong with your filter or the intake hose, and not like, your house.”
Robby followed Dennis as the younger man flipped the breaker back on with a clunk and shut the box. “So you don’t think I’ll need to replace it?”
“Hopefully not,” Dennis replied. “It’s older, sure, but it doesn’t look like there’s any major damage. I’ll need to check the drum for any cracks, and if we can get it running we’ll know if the motor is working.”
They started the climb back up to the laundry room, Robby gripping the railing to steady himself. “How did you learn all of this?” he asked.
“We didn’t really have the money to replace things on the farm,” came the easy answer. “We ran our machines into the ground, maintaining them best we could and fixing them until we couldn’t. You don’t throw away a perfectly good tool just because it’s a little beat up. That just means you’ve used it well.”
Dennis stopped in front of the washing machine and pushed the power button. The control panel came to life with a sharp beeping melody. “Alright, buddy,” he said, spinning the dial to set a quick cycle. “I believe in you.” He pressed start.
The washer made a clunking noise, and then another, and then a final click. “That’s the door lock,” Dennis explained, “so that’s working again.”
The sound of running water rushed through the pipes in the walls. Dennis knelt down to peer through the front window of the machine. Robby cleared his throat, taking a step back to give the younger man some space.
“Well, good news,” Dennis said, “it’s not your pipes. Bad news, I don’t see any water running into the washer.”
He stood up and canceled the cycle. The washer beeped a quick power down, and another clunk as the door unlocked. Dennis opened the door and dropped back down to his knees. Robby swallowed as he watched Dennis climb into the drum of the washer, disappearing up to his mid-chest. He couldn’t help but notice the arch of Dennis’ back, the way his t-shirt rode up over his flannel belt.
Robby felt unmoored, as if this entire evening had been some cliché dream, simply floating around the boy that had appeared in his home. He’d be lying if he said he’d never looked before, but seeing the curve of Dennis’ ass in these jeans was far different than a brief glance when he’d change his scrubs midway through a shift. He felt like some ghoul, a sick creature of the night, haunting his guest behind gauzy curtains and foggy windows. His scrubs started to itch, and Robby flexed his fingers, stuffing them into his pockets as he willed his blood to pump through the rest of his body. He averted his eyes.
“What are you checking for now?” he sputtered, thankful for the years of practice to keep his voice steady under pressure.
“Making sure there’s nothing clogging the lines inside the drum,” Dennis answered, voice echoing. “Doesn’t look like there’s any internal damage, no cracks, so that’s good.” He backed up, shirt riding even higher before he straightened out. He looked up at Robby, smiling from down on his knees. “Another point against replacement,” he smirked.
Robby thought hard about his dirty laundry.
“Come on, help me with this,” Dennis said, pushing back up to standing. He moved to grip the corners of the washer, arms bracing in preparation. “Get the other side over there. Sorry, might be a tight squeeze.”
“Oh, uh, what are we checking now?” Robby asked, mostly to distract himself, already obeying Dennis’ orders. He grunted as he took his position, an awkward reach across the top of the washer to get the back corner. His shoulder brushed up against Dennis, and he heard the younger man inhale a sharp breath. Nothing strange about this, he thought to himself, just like working a trauma.
“Hopefully the simple solution,” Dennis answered. “On the count of three. One, two, three.”
They both groaned with the strain, and Robby watched as Dennis’ muscles flexed. He’d probably observed before, purely clinically, how strong Dennis was underneath his scrubs. Farm boy, makes sense. His biceps bulged tight, stretching against the sleeves of his t-shirt. Robby’s eyes traced a bead of sweat that formed at Dennis’ hairline and trailed down past his brow. Dennis’ blue eyes flickered over to Robby’s, going wide.
“Shit,” he gasped, and they both dropped the washer as a sudden spray of cold water erupted from the back. They’d only moved it maybe two or three inches away from the wall, and yet even that was enough for the dam to break.
Dennis scrambled into action, swinging one leg up to climb on top of the washer and push through the spray. Robby stumbled back as the water splashed off of Dennis’ frame, sputtering and wiping his eyes. He blinked, and there was Dennis, fully bent over the washer to reach at something in the back.
“Fuckin— turn off—,” Dennis groaned through gritted teeth. After a couple seconds, Robby heard the squeaking turn of a valve, and the spray lessened. Another valve, and the water shut off completely.
Dennis heaved a sigh of relief and climbed down from the washer. He was soaked from the chest up, wet curls plastered to his forehead and dripping cold water around him. Robby swallowed thickly, eyes dropping down to where the cotton t-shirt stuck fast to Dennis’ skin. It stretched tight across his chest, and Robby realized that those years on the farm had built muscle.
He snapped his eyes back up.
Dennis was grinning with the same look he got after stabilizing a particularly difficult patient, completely ignoring the water pooling at his feet.
“Your pipes aren’t broken!” he announced.
“That’s… good?”
“It is!” Dennis nodded. “Your intake hoses aren’t secured properly, probably knocked loose by the same cycle that busted the door lock. What are you washing in this thing?” He didn’t wait for an answer, spinning around to find his toolbox. “This is an easy fix, just need to find… gotcha!” With a flourish, he brandished a simple spanner and made his way back behind the washer, squeezing around corner to get a better view. Robby almost wished he’d climbed over again, but before he could think too hard on that, Dennis gestured for him to come closer. “Come, look, let me show you.”
Robby was helpless but to obey. He shuffled forward, trying to keep some space between them, but then Dennis grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him close. Robby took a sharp breath, conscious only of how Dennis’ soaked hair brushed against his chin, still smelling like some fading shampoo underneath the sweat of the day. He must not have showered after his shift, just to get here faster. In the tight space, Dennis turned back to focus on his task, and the angle pressed his back flush against Robby’s chest.
Robby’s brain short-circuited. An endless muttering of Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. echoed in his subconscious as he felt Dennis’ body heat so close to his heart. Dennis’ shirt was so soaked that it started to bleed into Robby’s clothes, a damp patch on his chest that only continued to spread throughout his nerves like a syrupy toxin. Robby willed his body to focus, focus— He needed to get Dennis out of here. It was so late.
Oblivious to Robby’s crisis, Dennis continued to explain the problem, pointing out each step. “See, the threads on the hoses were misaligned where they met the wall. It wasn’t so much to start leaking, but it was enough that when you turned on the water it didn’t want to flow. Moving the washer finally dislodged it enough for it to fully disconnect. Although, actually… Dr. Robby, could you please pass me a new filter gasket?”
Robby startled. “Huh?”
Dennis just gestured back at the toolbox. “It’s like a little circular drain catchment. It, uh, it looks like a metal version of an IV disk filter.” He moved to peek further around the back of the washing machine, and his hips shifted just enough to brush against—
Robby leapt back and turned to the toolbox. It was surprisingly full, but organized with care, screwdrivers and wrenches in their own compartment and a few boxes of screws and nails clearly labeled. He took a few moments to rummage around, before he found a plastic packet of what looked like small mesh coins stretched across rings of rubber. He held it up to Dennis, who was watching him patiently.
“Perfect, thanks” Dennis said, taking the packet. “Sorry the toolbox is such a mess, I always end up with spare parts and never want to toss them, just in case. Good thing, I guess.” He frowned, peering back at the washer. He held another hand out. “Screwdriver, please. Flathead.”
That was easy. Robby passed it over, and a fleeting reminiscence of med school crossed his mind. Carefully handing over surgical instruments, observing an attending demonstrate a procedure, absorbing and learning. Despite the water, this was much calmer, and Robby felt some tension leave his shoulders as he watched.
Dennis took the spanner in one hand and cranked to disconnect the hose lines. Then he placed the spanner in his mouth - unsanitary, but Robby had to force himself to look away from how Dennis’ teeth gripped the metal - and leaned forward with the screwdriver. Robby couldn’t see what he was doing, cautious to lean too close again, but he watched as Dennis knit his brows in concentration, his arms straining to reach around whatever mechanism was in his way. The younger man grunted around the wrench in his mouth, small noises that came unbidden as he worked. Robby was transfixed, and almost didn’t notice the small pop that sounded as Dennis disconnected something. He tossed it on top of the washer, before diving back in for another.
Two filthy, slimy gaskets rested in a puddle of gray goop when Dennis finally straightened up, spitting the wrench out back into his hand. “Had to pry those out, but the rubber was disintegrating. We can toss those.”
Robby grimaced down at them, and he felt something sick curl up in his chest. “I’m sorry,” he found himself apologizing.
Dennis frowned at him. “What for?”
“That it’s such a mess. I didn’t know… I don’t know how it got like this,” he admitted.
A strange look passed over Dennis’ face, some kind of confusion or disbelief. “It’s just rubber, Dr. Robby. It’s been soaking in water for however long you’ve had this washer. Of course it was going to get gross. Sure, most people replace their washer before having to change them out, but most people also don’t know how to do it in the first place.” He grinned again, that cocky confidence emerging. “Lucky for you, I’ve been called a ‘real whiz with repairs’. The rest of this is easy.”
As if to demonstrate, he leaned back over the washer - Robby averted his eyes - and with two quick pops he pushed the replacement gaskets into place. He reached back to hand the screwdriver to Robby, before bending over to grab the hoses back up. First one, then the other, cranking them back onto the washer, and then again to secure them to the spouts in the wall. In all, the final steps took less than a few minutes, and Dennis was replacing the spanner and packet back in the toolbox.
When he went to grab the screwdriver from Robby’s hands, he hesitated a moment before clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Seriously,” he said, looking up at Robby, “You didn’t break it. Everything needs a little restoration sometimes. Better than replacing it.”
Robby smiled weakly. Dennis nodded, and then he took the screwdriver and packed it away, closing the toolbox with a finality.
“Alright,” he said. “Help me move this thing back and then we can see if I ruined it.”
Robby chuckled, and took his position. They both heaved with the effort, but nothing broke, no sprays of water, and the washer was back in place. Dennis sighed, placing his hands on his hips. His shirt was truly soaked through, and Robby’s gaze trailed down his torso where the fabric had started to stick to Dennis’ stomach.
“Want to run a load?” Dennis asked, bringing Robby back to attention.
“Huh?” Robby replied dumbly. He cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. Um.” He dropped his gaze back down Dennis’ body once again. This was a bad idea. “Do you want me to throw your shirt in their too?”
Dennis blinked, and then looked down at himself as if just now noticing that he looked like he’d gone for a swim. “Oh gross,” he said. “Uh, no, it’s fine, I can just wash them back at Trin’s place.”
“Are you sure?” Robby asked. What are you doing, Robinavitch. Stop talking, now. “It’s pretty late. Aren’t you working tomorrow?”
“Shit, yeah, you’re right,” Dennis sighed. “Ugh, I can’t wait to get to bed.”
Robinavitch, don’t you dare say the words you are about to say. “Why don’t you stay the night?” Goddammit.
Dennis stared at him. “What.” It wasn’t a question.
“I have a guest bedroom,” Robby rushed to explain. “Come on, you can shower, I can get you a change of clothes, and I can throw this in with my load. Then they’ll be clean for tomorrow, and I can give you a ride to work.”
For a moment, Dennis only raised his eyebrows, his expression searching over Robby’s for some kind of question. Robby schooled his face into what he hoped was a look of complete innocence.
“Alright,” Dennis said eventually. “If you’re sure.”
Robby certainly wasn’t.
“Good,” he said. He clapped his hands together once. “Let me show you to the bathroom. And get you a towel. The guest room is right this way, and the bathroom’s in the hall.”
Dennis moved to follow him, wincing when his shoes squelched wetly in the puddle on the floor.
They made it to the bathroom, and Robby snagged him a fluffy blue towel from the linen closet. He gestured to the soap, where he kept the spare toothbrushes, some extra toiletries. It was honestly in better shape than the rest of the house, if a little dusty from disuse. Jack sometimes stayed over, but it had been a few rough weeks at the ED since he’d paid a visit.
After the small tour, Robby stood awkwardly in the doorway as Dennis looked at him expectantly. The younger man’s fingers played at the hem of his wet shirt, tugging it away from his torso. Robby swallowed thickly at the brief flash of skin before he caught himself. He ran his hands through his hair, moving out into the hallway.
“Just, uh, toss your clothes out here and I’ll start the laundry,” he sputtered. “I’ll leave some clean clothes in the guest room. You need anything else?”
Dennis only gave him a small smile and shook his head. “No,” he replied, moving to close the door. “Thank you, sir. Really.”
Robby huffed a laugh. “Thank you for fixing my washer.”
“We’ll see if it works,” Dennis said.
He closed the door. Robby waited, feeling rooted to the spot by the weight of his own terrible decisions, as he heard soft rustles from the room. He couldn’t help but imagine how Dennis looked, peeling that wet shirt off of his lithe body. The water would still stick to his skin, a wet sheen across his abdomen as he finally exposed it to the air. Robby wondered just how defined those abs were. The kid lifted hay bales and drove tractors on his weekends. He clearly had strength hidden under his scrubs, but he didn’t look nearly as built as Jack. Definitely in better shape than Robby, though.
He was brought back to the present when he heard the clinking of a belt buckle, followed by a heavy drop of denim fabric. Robby froze as the door cracked open just a sliver, and Dennis’ hand poked out, holding his clothes. Shirt, flannel, and jeans.
“The water soaked through my pants too,” the younger man said. “Could you go ahead and wash all of it?”
“Yeah,” Robby said, and why was his voice shaking. “It’s no problem.”
He took Dennis clothes, feeling their weight in his arms. Dennis hummed behind the door and closed it. A second later, the sound of running water started up, and the unmistakable sound of the curtain being drawn.
Robby rocked back on his heels, looking down at the clothes in his arms. He shook himself, and made his way back to the laundry room. Do not be weird about this, Robinavitch. Well, weirder.
That lasted about five seconds before Robby found himself knelt in front of the washer, holding Dennis’ underwear.
He hadn’t noticed them in the small pile Dennis had handed him, the pair of cornblue boxers tucked inside the jeans. He’d clearly taken them off all at once. Did he mean to give these to Robby to wash? Well of course he did, he’d said to wash everything. It didn’t look like the water had soaked through too much, just a bit on the waistband.
But Dennis had been wearing these for an entire shift. He’d been working the entire day, moving from trauma to patient to a short stint in Chairs, always in motion. He’d lifted stretcher boards and pushed gurneys. He’d moved Robby’s fucking washer.
He’d worked up a sweat.
A dark patch stood out on the fabric, evidence of the effort that Dennis had exuded throughout the day. Always working, always moving, always trying so hard - to learn, to heal, to fix.
Don’t do it. Robby could hear the words in his ears, his own voice scolding him. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he gulped a breath down, shuddering. Don’t you dare fucking do it.
He brought the boxers up to his face, and he breathed deep.
A clean, heady musk flooded his senses. Clear water, an earthy warmth, and just the smallest, sharpest bite of Dennis that clung to the fabric. It was the same scent that Robby found himself chasing each day as he corralled the resident in the ED, grabbing him by the shoulders and the neck and the small of his back just to keep him close. An unconscious need to feel, to touch, to handle him, just to keep this closer. Robby eyes fell closed, and he realized, sitting on his knees in front of his washing machine with this damp cloth pressed to his face, that maybe the entire time he’d just been begging to shove his body between Dr. Whitaker’s legs. He couldn’t help the moan that rumbled up from deep in his chest.
He startled himself with the sound, and his eyes shot open as he threw the boxers away from him like they were on fire. They landed in the washer, and Robby fell back on his ass, chest heaving, his brain already missing the scent.
What the hell was he thinking?
His gaze trailed down, and he saw the tent in his scrubs, his cock straining for freedom. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking at all.
That was enough. Robby stood up, groaning as his knees protested, and pointedly ignoring his current problem. He grabbed handfuls of his own laundry from the hamper and tossed them in to the machine, burying Dennis’ clothes under piles of his own filth. Willing his erection to go down, he finished loading the washer, adding the detergent and the softener, and started it up.
The washer rumbled to life, and Robby couldn’t help but the proud satisfaction he felt when he heard the water running, filling up the drum. It looked like Dennis had solved it, not that he’d had any real doubts.
By the time he made it to his bedroom, he’d somewhat succeeded in regaining his focus. Clothes for Dennis. He needed to get clothes for Dennis.
As he opened his dresser drawers, the thought of Dennis wearing his sweats caused his dick to twitch once again. Nope. Nope, not good.
He grabbed the sweats anyway, and went to lay them out on the guest bed with one of his old shirts. A shirt probably older than Dennis.
Spiraling. He was spiraling. Robby scrubbed his hand through his hair, pacing in the hallway. The shower was still running, and Robby was spiraling thinking about his intern. His intern who was naked in the next room over, cleaning himself off in his bathroom, about to sleep in his house. Robby shook his head, trying to dispel image of Dennis under the water, hot steam clouding around him. It was like one of those mind games; the more he tried not to think about it, the clearer the image became.
Suddenly he heard a soft blast of music from behind the door. Robby paused. Was… was that Earth, Wind & Fire? It was, and the volume increased, no doubt playing from Dennis’ phone.
Robby huffed a laugh, and he felt something release in his chest. God, what was he doing? Panicking about… about a lapse of judgment? With no consequences? The clothes were in the washer. Nothing had happened. He chuckled to himself.
He should also take a shower, he decided, and made to do just that.
And yet, back in his master bathroom, under the lukewarm spray he’d set for himself, Robby’s mind started to wander once again.
He’d smelled Dennis’ underwear. And it had smelled good.
Robby lathered soap across his chest, scrubbing his hands through the dark hair that covered his torso. As he scrubbed at his body, his thoughts returned to the image of Dennis doing the same, just a few doors down. Dennis wouldn’t be as hairy as him, would he? No, the younger man’s toned body would be smooth, soft to the touch. Robby could see it now, the curve of Dennis’ hips as he washed his hands around them, cleaning off the day. Robby wanted to follow that vision, to caress Dennis’ waist with his fingers, to massage soap into his soft skin and trail it down to his thighs.
He wanted to feel the give in Dennis’ skin as he pulled him closer. Wanted to hear the gasp he was sure Dennis would make. He wanted to run his large hands back up Dennis’ sides, across his broad shoulders, and back down to his round ass.
When Robby’s hands finally reached down to wash his hard cock, this time he didn’t resist.
He gripped his cock with his soapy hand, giving it a single, sliding stroke. He shuddered and braced his other hand against the shower wall, breathing out as rivulets of water poured down around his face.
Dennis’ chest would arch so pretty under him. He’d raise his arms above his head as Robby played with his nipples, circling and pinching and leaning down and licking. Robby would lick and nip at his chest for hours, and Dennis would whimper, and then Robby would move to follow his arms, licking a stripe across Dennis’ sweaty pits.
Robby grunted, hunching over as his strokes stuttered.
He remembered Dennis’ scent. He remembered how those boxers smelled, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. That heady musk, the delicious smell of Dennis’ sweat as it flooded his senses. Robby knew then that he’d always remember it. Just that hit, that already faded smell of Dennis, and Robby wanted more. He wanted it from the source.
He could see himself on his knees again, this time in front of Dennis. Dennis, confident, legs spread, looking down at him as Robby crawled forward, begging for a taste. Dennis would let him, surely he would let him. Dennis would let Robby trail his lips up his thighs, leaving soft kisses in his wake. Dennis would reach a hand down to card softly through Robby’s hair, and guide him closer. His cock would be standing tall, leaking, at least half as hard as Robby’s was now. And his balls would hang low underneath them, dusted with blond curls.
And Dennis would pull Robby to him, and he would invite him to bury his nose beneath his balls and just breathe.
Robby gasped sharply as he fisted his cock, feeling his orgasm building in his gut. He moaned, the sound echoing off the shower tile before the water drowned it out.
“Den… Dennis,” he breathed, picking up the pace.
He wanted to smell him again. He wanted to taste. He wanted to feel only Dennis all around him, to be consumed.
“Dennis… please!”
Robby came with a groan, his cock pulsing in his grip as he painted the wall with his release. The orgasm cascaded through him like a wave, and he felt his shoulders tense at another jolt of pleasure. He continued to stroke himself through it, each pump punctuated by another deep, primal grunt.
Finally, he stopped, dropping his softening cock and bracing both hands on the wall. He shivered at some final pangs of sensitivity as he let the shower pour down around his face.
“Dennis,” he whispered, over and over again as he caught his breath. “Dennis…”
With a heavy sigh, he pushed up and away. He blinked water out of his eyes, bringing himself back to reality. A few streaks of his cum were splattered across the tile, already dripping down to join the rest of it washing down the drain. Robby watched it disappear, struggling to identify the feeling weighing on his chest.
This had been such a bad idea.
He finished cleaning up, giving the wall an extra few sprays of water to make sure it was all gone. He emerged back into his bedroom with a soft towel wrapped around his waist, letting the last of the water air dry from his body hair. As if on autopilot, he moved to his dresser, going through the motions to get ready for bed. He didn’t even notice the lack of noise from the hallway, wrapped up in not thinking the thoughts that pounded in his head, until he heard a hesitant knock at his bedroom door.
He spun around to see Dennis standing in his doorway and froze.
“Whitaker— I mean, Dennis,” he stammered, feeling suddenly as if he’d been caught doing something inappropriate. No, that was five minutes ago. “Is everything alright?”
Dennis’ silhouette came into focus as he stepped into the room. He was wearing the clothes Robby had laid out for him, and Robby had to force himself to close his mouth at the sight of Dennis in the old shirt, two sizes too big for him, draped loosely on his frame. It was the complete opposite of the tight soaked t-shirt he’d worn earlier, and yet somehow it made Robby feel just as disarmed. Dennis’ blond curls were still slightly damp from his own shower, and a droplet traced down his temple before dripping onto his exposed collarbone.
Dennis gazed at him from the doorway, and Robby watched the younger man’s eyes drop down to his exposed legs, before snapping back up to his face. A shiver ran down Robby’s spine, and he was conscious of his own bare chest. Embarrassment flushed through him, and he felt the need to cover up, gripping the towel at his waist tighter as he brought his other hand up across his body self-consciously.
Not nearly as beautiful, in comparison. Robby quickly rummaged through his drawer, not even checking the shirt he grabbed before tugging it over his head.
“Sorry! Sorry,” Dennis said, already retreating back to the hallway. “I was just checking the washer before I went to bed, and wanted to let you know that it looks like it’s working perfectly. But, um, you probably would’ve found that out anyway. Um.” He paused, looking over his shoulder, then looking back at Robby. “The cycle’s almost done. Did you want me to move it to the dryer?”
“No, that’s fine,” Robby said hurriedly, grabbing a pair of briefs from the top drawer and shuffling to put them on under his towel. He distinctly avoided looking in Dennis’ direction. “I’ve still gone some things to do, I can move it. Go to bed, Whitaker.”
“Oh, um, alright then.”
Briefs secured, Robby removed his towel. He glanced at Dennis, who at least had the decency to look away. Of course.
“Goodnight, Dennis,” he said, calmly.
“Goodnight, Dr. Robby.”
When Dennis left, Robby waited until he heard the latch of the guest bedroom door close before he released the breath he was holding. He closed his eyes, counted to five, and steadied himself. Then he went to brush his teeth.