Archive of Our Own

Robby isn’t the partying type. Back in college, yes - between all the grueling hours of studying he managed to sneak in house parties, keg-stands and clubbing with fraternity bros. But back then he was in his twenties and full of energy and youthful optimism. Those were the years before he grew a beard, long before grey started sneaking into it. Nowadays, the closest he gets to a party is those dreaded dinners and cocktail hours at medical conventions, or going out to a bar or the park with Jack for after-shift-drinks. 

But this year he owes Jack a drink. And when Dennis excitedly told him he’d been invited to the yearly New Years party organized by Donahue and Princess and asked if he was going, well. How could the answer be anything but yes? 

It’s not as bad as Robby had feared. Princess has booked out a pretty nice space for them - a cozy, dimly lit bar downtown. It’s got catered food in a corner, a well stocked bar and competent bartenders, a couple billiard tables and a fairly large dance floor. 

It’s also got karaoke, Robby notes with some trepidation while hanging up his coat. He is doing his very best to ignore that looming elephant in the corner of the room. The last time he sang in public was at those aforementioned college parties and he’d very much like to keep it that way. 

“Hey, boss!” Princess greets him excitedly the second she spots him. She whistles, giving him a long once over. “You clean up nice.” 

Robby did make an effort, putting on a burgundy red suit, tan shirt underneath and a tie to match. He straightens it with a chuckle for her assessment, turns this way and that as if on a runway, just to play into her high spirits. “Thank you, thank you. You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

“Don’t I know it?” Princess grins, giving a twirl in her pink sequinned dress. It’s - a lot, but it suits her. She ushers him towards the bar where a few people are already gathered. “Let’s get you a drink, hm? What are you feeling?”

“Whatever non-alcoholic beer you got. On call.” Robby declines. The ER gets busy during New Years and always keeps at least a handful of staff on stand-by for the occasion. To repay Abbot for his favor during Christmas, he’s agreed to take his on-call shift. It’s not a great loss. Robby will admit that he feels - not uncomfortable per say, but quite strange about the idea of getting drunk in front of his subordinates. 

“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Princess sighs, but waves to the bartender and a few moments later he’s got his 0% Heineken and Princess has fluttered off to greet more guests. 

Robby takes a moment and surveys the slowly growing crowd. There are a lot of familiar faces - a ton of unfamiliar ones too. Princess is an enigma and seems to know all sorts of crazy people from all walks of life. He’s pretty sure he spots an NBA player chatting with a slightly starry-eyed Ahmad in a corner. 

Before he can surreptitiously try to verify that with a google search, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “You look a little lost, brother.” 

Grinning, Robby turns to grab Abbot for a hug - slaps his back heartily as they part. “Good to see you, man.” He holds him by a shoulder, eyening him with some astonishment. “You dressed up.” 

“Princess banned t-shirts,” Abbot shrugs, pushing his hands into the backpockets of his black jeans.. He’s got a simple white button-down tucked into them as well as a charcoal grey vest tying the outfit together. It’s nothing overly fancy, but, well. The last time Robby saw him in anything but scrubs, casual wear or military gear was at his wedding all those years ago. So it is a tiny bit jarring.

“Good call,” Robby snorts. Gives a slap to his shoulder and leans back, elbow neatly tucked against the bartop. He gestures the bartender over and orders Abbot the best scotch he can see on the tall shelves which he accepts with a wink. They toast and take sips from their respective beverages.

“Where’s your boy?” Abbot asks after giving the place a quick searching glance. 

“Pre-gaming with Doctor Santos.” 

“Dangerous,” Abbot assesses. 

Robby can only incline his head in agreement. 

-

“You’re sure I don’t look inappropriate?” Dennis asks for what feels like the hundredth time since they climbed into the Uber. 

“Huckleberry, for the last time: Yes, I am sure.” Santos groans and aims a kick at his ankle. Dennis barely manages to dodge it - catching the driver rolling their eyes in the rearview mirror when he goes to give him an apologetic look. Thankfully they ordered under Santos’ account, so his perfect five star rating is safe. “I keep forgetting you were raised Mormon and think a flash of a calf is hardcore pornography.” 

Dennis’ face flushes. He settles back in his seat and fiddles with his sleeves. Very sheer sleeves. Because Santos has gifted him clothes from her wardrobe once again. 

(She’s given him quite a lot of clothes, actually, under the guise of early spring cleaning. He is pretty sure it’s her response after he haltingly told her about why he’d stormed out at Christmas. That and giving his phone sour glances whenever it lights up with a text from his mom. 

So far, Dennis hasn’t answered any of them.)

Dennis is wearing the cream coloured, high waisted slacks she gave him for his first date-night and a decidedly more risque top. It’s black, see-through and shimmery and is open all the way down to his sternum. It clings like a second skin to his shoulders and flows down the rest of him like water. He’s never been out in public in such a state of undress - well, not counting those embarrassing scrubs-exchanges. But that’s hardly the same.

Santos also insisted on putting some eyeliner on him. It - Dennis has to admit? - looks hot. It’s something he’d never have considered himself. He feels a little rebellious and - yes, a little obscene. Which is why he keeps asking for reassurance. He just - doesn’t want anyone to look at him funny or - or think he’s being - 

There’s a lightning quick punch to his rib. Not hard, but startling - Dennis coughs and quickly clutches at it, turning to stare at Santos with not-entirely-put-upon hurt. “Hey!”

“Stop worrying. You look good. And we’ve both got our tits out, so no one’s gonna care.” Santos gestures down at herself. She’s wearing black slacks and a sparkly suit jacket with nothing but bare skin and strategically placed boob-tape underneath. Dennis knows this because he accidentally walked in on her putting it on.

“That’s not nearly as reassuring as you think,” he mutters - although he does relax a tiny bit more. “I just - don’t want to look silly or like I am trying too hard.” 

“It's New Years. Everyone goes all out. And don't worry, Big Foot’s gonna take one look at you and drag you off to a bathroom for a blowie,” Santos winks and to his horror performs a very rude pantomime of oral sex that has Dennis’ entire face burning. He quickly swats her hand down and sends yet another apologetic look their driver’s way. 

“Could you not?” Dennis hisses, mortified. 

Santos just cackles. 

Despite Dennis’ vehement protest, he can’t get that idea out of his head for the remainder of the drive. 

-

The party seems to be in full swing by the time Dennis and Santos make their way through the door. To Dennis’ relief, his outfit doesn’t stick out too badly. Especially not when he catches sight of Princess and way more of her bare legs than he could ever have imagined seeing and Jesse in a white silk shirt that is unbuttoned all the way to mid-chest. There’s a peek of a rib-tattoo and Dennis quickly averts his gaze to not be caught staring and thought a pervert. 

“That’s a lot of people,” Dennis says, letting his eyes wander around, continuing to take in the crowd. There’s mostly nurses and doctors, familiar faces even if he doesn’t know half their names. But there’s plenty of other folks too. Bemusedly, Dennis wonders if any of Princess’ supposed hitman connections are here tonight, too. 

“O-hoh, this is gonna be epic,” Santos says with glee. She grabs him by the arm and starts guiding him through the crowd and towards the bar. “Let’s see what the booze situation is.” 

“Maybe we should slow down so we can actually be conscious for the countdown?” Dennis suggests carefully.  

“It’s an open bar, Hucks. You don’t mind your intake at an open bar. I thought you were poor, you should know that.” 

Dennis huffs, but before he can think of a snappy comeback, he spots a familiar, handsome face at the bar. 

Robby’s leaning sideways against the bar on an elbow, chatting with Doctor Abbot. The night-shift attending evidently said something funny, because he’s ducking his head with a laugh, shoulders shaking minutely. Then, as he straightens, he steals a glance across the room and their eyes meet. Dennis’ heart does a funny little twirl and jumps up into his throat. Pounds away when his smile grows a shade warmer. Brown eyes dart down along Dennis’ frame, then back up to his face and - and Dennis isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or the onceover that is leaving him feeling tingly and unsteady on his feet. 

“Hey, Doctor Robby, Doctor Abbot!” Santos greets them first, grinning while Dennis tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. 

“Drop the titles, we’re off the clock,” Abbot taps her shoulder with his glass, shaking his head. He gives Dennis a jerk of chin and a smirk. “Evening, rook.” 

“Good evening,” Dennis manages, nervously tucking his hands into his pockets. Swaying for a second from heel to toe, glancing over at Robby. “Um.” 

“Maybe take a lap, Jack?” Robby says pointedly. Nudges him with an elbow even more pointedly when Jack doesn’t immediately move.  

“I can take a hint,” Jack raises his hands with a snort, then gestures for Santos with a hand and heads off towards the other end of the bar. “Do a shot with me.” 

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Santos laughs, waving at the pair. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, guys!” 

“Mhm,” Robby hums non-committedly. As she walks away, Dennis catches Santos giving him a wink, pushing her tongue against the inside of her cheek obscenely as an encore of the uber-ride. Paired with a meaningful widening of her eyes it makes his entire body heat up with embarrassment.

A hand slides onto the small of his back, distracting him from his woes. Dennis ends up tripping a bit on his feet, quickly straightening himself and snapping his gaze up to meet Michael’s. Heart jumping for a second when Michael leans down - pausing, though, watching him with carefully raised brows. Realising he is asking silent permission, Dennis quickly tilts his face up and closes his eyes. Not a moment later, there’s a soft brush of lips against his own. Lingering, chaste and sweet. By the time Michael pulls away, Dennis feels a tiny bit dizzy - steadied by both of Michael’s hands having found their way to his waist during the kiss. 

“Hi,” Dennis breathes. His hands hover for a second, then land on Michael’s biceps. He holds on. Lets them stay there like they belong, even in public. 

“Hi.” Michael leans back the tiniest bit to look him over - eyes lingering for a second too long right where the fabric parts at his collarbones before dropping further. His hands clench in at his waist - burning hot through the flimsy fabric. “That’s some outfit.”

“Oh, uh - Santos - dressed me,” Dennis admits with a nervous laugh. “It’s - a little much, I know - ” He quickly falls silent as Michael leans down and past his face - his beard drags a bristly line across his cheekbone. 

“I’m going to have to work very hard to behave myself tonight,” Michael murmurs, lips right at his ear. They pull into a smile - Dennis is quite certain it’s the same type of smile he usually wears when pinning him down to the mattress and preparing to blow his mind. “At least until we get back to my place. Fuck. After that, I make no promises.” 

-

“Huckleberry’s gonna get his world rocked,” Santos predicts at Abbot’s elbow where they’ve settled on their elbows, watching the pair from the other side of the bar. 

“My money's on Robby having a heartattack,” Abbot shrugs and pushes a shotglass over. 

Santos cackles. The pair pick up their shots, clinks them together and downs them as one. 

-

“They sure aren’t shy, huh?” Perlah drawls over the rim of her Shirley Temple. Watching as Whitaker ducks his head and blushes, while Robby looks impossibly smug. 

“Not like there’s anyone here who doesn’t know,” Princess shrugs, gleefully grinning around her straw. 

-

The night goes on and the party picks up speed. Santos snatches Dennis away from him minutes after arrival, dragging him off for some such adventure. Robby stays by the bar - happy to watch everything unfold rather than participate. Watches familiar faces swim in and out of his line of sight. 

There’s Jack and Jesse, sending a bottle of champagne back and forth between them at a standing table. A bit strange, only because he knows for a fact Jack hates the stuff. On more than one occasion he’s called it carbonated cat-piss. Still, he doesn’t seem to do more than curl his nose after each finished swig. 

Robby spots McKay and Perlah weaving through the crowd with their arms around one another, heading for the bathroom. They’re both stone-cold sober, but still seem wobbly on their feet and more than a little giggly. 

Then there’s Mateo and Javadi having a conversation at the corner of the dance floor - Javadi tucking her hair behind her ears over and over, Mateo nursing a bottle of beer and seeming to hang on her every rambling word. Something to keep an eye on, Robby thinks. Then, a second thought of stones and glass houses hits him and he quickly dismisses the idea. 

As Robby turns to order himself another drink, a hand lands on his shoulder. “This where the party’s at?” 

“You know it,” Robby laughs as he turns back around to face Dana - sporting a truly stunning black dress with sparkles all over the hem of the skirt and the decolletage - blinking when he finds she isn’t alone. “Benji!” 

“Evening, old sport,” Benji, Dana’s husband, smiles wanly, reaching out to shake his hand. They don’t meet often - Dana likes to keep her work and private life separate. Robby can count on both hands how many times they’ve actually met and he wouldn’t have to use all his fingers. 

“Found a lost lamb coming in, too,” Dana gestures behind her, where Mel King awkwardly steps into sight from where she’d been pretty much blocked out by Benji. Looking decidedly awkward and nervously running her fingers over her neat braid. 

“I, uh, wasn’t sure this was the place,” Mel explains, smiling tensely. “It looked so. Dark. Turns out it was just heavy. Curtains.” She points to the darkout fabric, then quickly lowers her hands to smooth out her dress - a cute pale green thing, a little too informal for the vibe of the event. 

“Well, you found us,” Robby offers her a smile in return. Some of the nerves seem to leave Mel, then, and her shoulders sink. “How about we - ”

“Yo! Melanoma!” Santos shouts over the crowd. Waving from where she and Dennis seem to have joined Mateo and Javadi by their table. The youngest among them seeming rather miffed by that fact, judging by the stink-eye she is sending Santos’ way. 

“Hello!” Mel waves back. Hovers for a second, looks between the group, then back to Robby, then to Dana.

“Oh, go on, darlin’,” Dana laughs, patting her on the back. “Leave us old folks and have fun.”

“Okay!” Mel brightens for the dismissal, then seems to pale. “Uh. Not that I. Think you are old. Of course. I was just - ”

“Don’t dig this hole any deeper, Doctor King,” Robby drawls. Makes a shooing motion with his hand and sips his beer. 

“Yes, thank you, bye.” Relieved, Mel immediately hurries off to join her peers. Santos drags a chair over for her and pushes a drink of - something or other into her hand. It looks like Coke from this distance, but Robby very much doubts it’s just that.

“Ten bucks says she’ll be asleep under a table before midnight,” Dana chortles, taking a glass of white wine from Benji. 

“I have more faith in our Melissa King,” Robby hums. Watches as Mel crinkles her nose after her first sip, to uproarious laughter from Santos. “My money’s on half past.” 

-

Around ten PM, Princess fires up the dreaded karaoke-machine. She very proudly gets them started with a spirited rendition of Kelly Clarksson’s ‘Since U Been Gone’. After that, it is a revolving door of singers lining up to sing. 

McKay drags up an extremely flustered Javadi to sing ‘Dancing Queen’ - neither are a particularly great singer and Javadi spends most of it mumbling along with her eyes glued to the lyrics to keep track of where they are. They are followed by Jesse who rasps out Muse’s ‘Undisclosed Desires’, hand in his back pocket, never missing a beat and never even glancing at the karaoke-screen. Following that, Jack performs a surprisingly good and absolutely frantic rendition of ‘Great balls of fire’. There isn’t a dry eye in the house from all the laughter and shouts of excitement. Robby claps along so hard his hands are raw and tingling by the time Jack takes a dramatic bow and jumps off the stage. 

After that, it’s Santos and Dennis’ turn. Santos seems to be the driving force behind the performance - grabbing the other by the wrist and all but dragging him up onto the stage where they are greeted by excited jeers and cheers. Curious, Robby focuses in. 

-

Up on the stage, even while tipsy, Dennis’ stomach churns with nerves. He gives the crowd an embarrassed glance, then leans in to frantically whisper, “Trin, come on, I said I didn’t wanna do this.” 

“You’ll be fine, choir boy” Santos waves him off, tapping in words into the karaoke’s song-library, clearly on the hunt for something specific. 

“Rapidly regretting sharing that with you - what are we even singing?” 

“You’ll know it, chillax,” Santos grins victoriously at the screen when it seems she finds what she was looking for, straightening. She tosses him a microphone - Dennis fumbles for a second, but thankfully doesn’t drop it. Doesn’t want to think about the screech that might have erupted through the room if he had. Reluctantly, he settles by the lyric-screen, waiting to see what Santos has got in store for them.  

The song that starts is cheery and upbeat. Also horrifyingly familiar. Dennis immediately groans and tilts his head back, giving Santos a hard glare. “Really?”

“Told you you’d know it,” Santos whispers out of the corner of her mouth, then lifts her microphone and purrs, low and flirtatious, “Mucho gusto.”  

Dennis, very pointedly, ignores the cue of ‘ay que fabulosa’ and tries not to sink through the floor at the terror that is coming his way. He very badly regrets ever telling Santos about his childhood fascination with the High School Musical-movies. He does, however, helplessly giggle when Santos continues through the terrible Spanish intro-lines. And finally, after a steadying breath and Santos giving him a point to cue him, he starts to sing. 

As mortified as he started out, Dennis finds himself having a ball once he lets himself get into the familiar tune. He even joins Santos in exaggeratingly miming along to the words they sing - kicking and scratching, grinding out their best, shooting for the stars and climbing ladders of success. And when Santos starts throwing in the actual choreography from the movie during the chorus, well - he is drawn in hook line and sinker. By the end of the song, they are both out of breath and he’s got sweat on his brow and has to wipe some smeared eyeliner from under his eye. After they’ve finished, posing back to back, of course. 

They receive thundering applause and a piercing wolf-whistle from Abbot. Dennis laughs, gives Santos a high five and jumps off the stage with her. Heart pounding from excitement and exertion rather than anxiety. They both earn a few fistbumps and slaps as they settle back in the crowd. Dennis throws a glance over his shoulder - heart jumping up in his throat as he catches Michael watching him. He’s smiling, wide and heartfelt and the wrinkles of his eyes are out in full delightful force. The expression makes something swoon and ache in his chest. 

“I’m just gonna,” Dennis mumbles to Santos - she waves him off, eyes up on stage where Doctor Walsh struggles through searching for a song. With that clear dismissal, he makes his way through the crowd to go steal a kiss from his boyfriend. 

-

It turns out Walsh has terrible taste in music. Santos cringes as the first notes of ‘Call me Maybe’ hits her ears. Cringes even more when Walsh actually starts singing - off-key and sharp and clearly having the time of her life. She’s got to give it to her that she’s got spirit, even though it’s -

“That’s awful,” a voice says to Santos’ right. She looks over - feels her mouth go a tiny bit dry and heart clenching with nervous excitement. Because Garcia is right there - her hair is natural and curly, styled big and bold around her statuesque face. She’s got on a little black dress that makes Santos feel a bit dizzy.

“Uh, yeah, totally,” she agrees, although the singing has completely blended into the background for her now. “I thought you weren’t coming.” 

“Other plans fell through,” Garcia shrugs. Shoots her a sharp smile, white teeth flashing in the dusky bar lighting. “Great moves up there.” 

Something hot creeps up Santos’ cheeks. Definitely not a blush. She doesn’t blush. That’s not her thing. She decides she is just having a very mild stroke, instead. She also decides that since she is in a room full of doctors she doesn't have to worry about it and shrugs. “The farm boy is rubbing off on me.” 

“Not the mental image I wanted,” Garcia grimaces. Then, she gives a very pointed look over Santos’ shoulder. “So. That a thing?”

There’s no need to turn around to know what Garcia is talking about. Santos keeps her back firmly turned to whatever PDA is going on behind her and shrugs. “Yep.”

“Yikes,” Garcia deadpans. 

Something uncomfortable shifts in Santos’ belly. She pushes her hands into her pockets, runs her fingertips against the top of a well worked scar she can reach through the fabric. “They seem happy enough. Pretty good deal for me in any case, I get my apartment to myself more often now.” 

“Hm.” Garcia’s eyes flicker down. Linger at the bar skin of her chest. Then come back up to lock onto hers. “That’s useful,” she says, low and meaningful. There’s something hungry there. Something Santos definitely recognizes from the few escapades she’s had at bars the last few weeks. Something that makes her chest feel tight and has her lower body tingling. “I need a drink. Catch you later, Trinity.” With a wink and a brush of fingers down her arm, Garcia slips off through the crowd. 

Leaving Santos rooted to the spot, decidedly off-balance and staring blankly up at the stage. Distracted from the spectacle by the lingering heat of a phantom touch.

-

“Trouble?” Princess whispers to Perlah, pushing a Phony Negroni her way. 

“Oh yeah,” Perlah nods, watching as Santos starts clapping just a little bit too late at the end of Walsh’s number. 

-

The wind outside is bitingly cold. Robby shudders as he turns his collar up against it, tucking his shoulder against the outcropping of the doorway and turning his back towards it. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for the call to connect. 

“You’re supposed to be partying, dude,” Shen answers once it finally does. 

“Just taking a break,” Robby promises with a laugh. Squints out across the street - a car barrels past, way too fast. A foreboding shiver runs down his spine. He shrugs it off. “I wanted to check in. How are you holding up?”

“Nothing’s on fire,” Shen retorts cheerily. There’s a soft clacking of keys in the background. The ability to chart and talk at the same time is important, though Robby finds it’s not a skill he’s particularly honed even after all these years. “Got like…twelve people in the waiting room. Two traumas in the last three hours. Not even a firework mishap yet.”

“Still got time.” 

“Gee, thanks.” 

Robby snorts - a white gust of air erupting and floating away out of his line of sight. 

“Get back to the party, boss. I’ve got this,” Shen says, tone less flippant this time. “I promise I’ll let you know if it changes.”

“Just don’t let yourself get in over your head before you do. I’m on call for a reason,” Robby reminds him. 

“As if Lena would let me drown in here.”

“Now that’s a reassurance I can hang up on,” Robby jokes in parting, chuckling as he turns towards the doors - pushing them open to let the heat and bustle of voices rush over him again. For a second overwhelming, but he swallows down the brief wave of panic. 

Robby puts his phone back in the inside pocket of his jacket as he weaves through the crowd. Glances around to check - ah. He finds Dennis immediately - it’s instinctual at this point of the evening to make sure of where he is. Maybe it’s a little pathetic, but it’s not like he can do much about it. Dennis is dancing with Mel, Javadi and Santos - they’ve made a little dance circle and seem lost in the fun. Only Santos seems to really be comfortably throwing her body around, while the other three are much more mild-mannered about it - but they are all laughing and sharing smiles and encouraging shouts over the music. 

Warmed, Robby makes his way to the bar - steering his steps towards where he can see Abbot, Donahue, Walsh and Princess huddled together. “This looks like trouble, he opines as he settles in beside them - watching with quirked brows as the bartender is pouring shots of Fireball. 

“What’s a little trouble among friends?” Walsh says, lips pulled into a wry smile as she takes her glass. 

“Oh, we’re friends now?” Abbot asks, sounding mockingly shocked. 

“I’m drunk enough to forget a lot of bullshit,” Walsh shrugs, though there is a slightly steely edge to her eyes that makes Robby very glad to not be the one to cross her on a near daily basis. 

Abbot doesn’t seem bothered. He simply hums, then turns back to the bartender - scooting his shot back over to her with a grin. “Fill her to the top, please,” he coaxes, watching as the bartender rolls her eyes and does as he asks. “There’s a darling, thank you very much,” he hums, throwing in a wink before he picks the glass back up - filled indeed to the brim. The poor young lady behind the bar goes pink to the tips of her ears and quickly turns away to another guest. The charm of Jack Abbot is lethal, no surprise there. 

“Come on, boss, join us!” Donahue grins, pushing one of the unclaimed glasses over. 

“On call,” Robby declines. 

“Bummer,” Walsh deadpans, then lifts her shot and downs it with a sharp jerk of her head. 

“Hey!” Princess pouts, giving her a nudge. “You didn’t even cheers!” 

“Guess we’ll have to have another round,” Walsh says, completely unfazed. 

“Excellent point, let’s start over,” Jack agrees and downs his own shot expediently. With mirrored groans, Princess and Donahue follow suit. 

“This was much more fun in high school,” Donahue mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “My kidneys are already screaming.” 

“Suck it up,” Princess hisses back. When she notices Robby looking at them with curiosity, she leans over and whispers, “We bet Perlah we could outdrink ‘em.” 

“Fifty bucks,” Donahue explains, sour and solemn in one breath. 

“Ah.” Robby settles himself down in one of the barstools, watching as the quartet turn back to the bar to receive their new shots. To his eye, they look taller than the last ones - he spots the bartender ducking her head and tucking her hair behind her ears when Jack thanks her with another winning smile. 

A flurry of motion out of the corner of his eye drags Robby’s attention away - and when he turns, he finds Dennis settling in next to him with a beaming smile - sweat glowing on his brow, hair curling around his ears and across his forehead. “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself,” Robby chuckles - chances a hand across his shoulder, then restrains himself and grabs his beer instead. “Having fun?”

Dennis nods enthusiastically, but before he can do more than open his mouth to reply further, he’s interrupted by Abbot. In ways of him leaning across Walsh to plop down a shot in front of him. 

“Join in, kid,” he says, lifting his shot. 

After a furtive glance at Robby, Dennis stands up and shifts a little closer to properly join the group, shot in hand. 

“Sure you can handle that?” Donahue says dubiously. “It’s pretty strong shit.” 

There’s a bristle across Dennis’ face. “I’m from rural Nebraska,” he exclaims incredulously. “I tried 160 proof moonshine for the first time when I was twelve.” 

“Who gives a twelve year old moonshine?” Princess sputters, eyes wide - Donahue seems to share in her incredulousness judging by the way his face has gone a little pale. 

“My uncle,” Dennis deadpans in that way he does when he says something he thinks is completely normal. The way that has Robby feeling a twinge of discomfort up his spine. 

“Are we downing this or are we gonna have to have another redo?” Walsh asks impatiently, interrupting the briefly awkward silence before it can drag on and become truly uncomfortable. 

“Please, no,” Donahue mutters. 

The five of them form a circle, raise their glasses and take their shots. Immediately, Princess hoots and turns away to fan her face. Donahue crumples coughing over the bar - Robby thinks he hears him choke out a request for water. Even Walsh loses her composure in ways of her lips pursing and her eyes tearing up. The only ones unaffected are Abbot and Dennis - Abbot looks stoic and Dennis mostly looks curious, licking his lips as he peers down at the now empty glass. 

“What was that?”

“Absinthe.” 

“Huh.” Dennis runs a thumb across the corners of his mouth, putting away his glass. “It’s pretty good.” 

“Glad you liked it.” Abbot reaches out and receives two bottles of beer from the bartender. He hands one to Dennis, who accepts it with only the faintest curls of his nose - Robby remembers that expression from that very first time he saw him. Dismay each time he put the lip of his bottle of Bud Light to his mouth and yet suffered through it all the way to the dregs. 

“Nerves of steel, rook,” Jack quips. The way Dennis smiles brightly and clinks their bottles together tells Robby it means something he isn’t privy to. Rather than jealousy, it fills him with an odd sense of exhilaration. 

His boyfriend and his best friend have inside jokes. 

The two have barely taken a mouthful of their beers before Santos suddenly appears, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Abbot!” she shouts - needlessly, considering she is standing right by her elbow. “Need you! Urgent! No time to explain!” 

“Right-o,” Abbot says, not even blinking as he is suddenly grabbed by the arm and dragged away. 

“What was that about?” Robby asks. Casually wraps an arm around Dennis’ waist as he hovers nearby him. Pointedly ignores the heavy stare he feels from Princess and Donahue down at said arm. 

“No clue.” Dennis watches them go. Settles in against Robby’s side. Then, when he spots where they have gone, he groans. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

Before Dennis can explain, the starting chords of a very familiar song burst through the bar. 

Santos points to Abbot. He’s got his hand in his back pocket, the other holding the mic to his mouth. He’s in no way glancing at the screen. Not strange, considering Rocky is one of his all time favorite franchises. 

“Risin’ up! Back on the street-” 

“Would you believe me if I said Jack won a karaoke contest with that one, once?” Robby murmurs at Dennis’ ear. 

“Yeah. Dana told us.” Dennis sighs. “Santos has been working up the courage to ask him to sing it all night.”

-

It’s a treat. One of the absolute high-lights of the entire party. It’s not the most technically sound number of the night - they end up shouting the lyrics more than they actually sing them - but it is extremely fun. By the time they reach the chorus, Santos is laying down a sick harmony to Abbot’s main vocals - as well as the crowd’s singing along. Santos isn’t sure if she’s enjoying this one or the one she did with Huckleberry. There’s no need to rank, though - they’re fun in different ways. 

Four minutes of gold later, the pair come off stage. Abbot gives Santos a sonorous highfive that leaves her palm burning. It’s still drowned out by the thunderous applause and jeers from the bar. 

Adrenaline rushing through her, Santos makes her way through the crowd. But she hardly makes it more than five steps before a hand closes on her arm. Warm, strong. Fine limbed. Heart pounding, she turns to find Garcia’s dark eyes - close, so very close, staring into hers. 

“I think it’s time we had that drink finally.” Garcia speaks quietly - somehow, it’s clear as day even through the booming base of a new song starting up. 

For the briefest moment, Santos hesitates. Then, Garcia runs her thumb along her bicep and her decision is made for her. “What the hell. Yeah, sure.” 

-

Midnight sneaks up on them all. One moment they are mingling and partying and the next the TV sparks on to show the New Years countdown. There’s a scramble for everyone to find a glass of champagne - thankfully provided by the bar workers who clearly had kept a much keener eye on the clock than their patrons. 

Michael grabs a pair of glasses from the bar and hands one to Dennis. He takes it, hovering near him as every eye turns to the TV and the countdown. As one, the crowd joins in with the voice over the loudspeakers. Counting down from ten, to nine, to eight - all the way down to one where everyone breaks out into jubilant cheers of “Happy New Year!” 

On cue, there’s a burst of confetti above them - as well as a deluge of balloons falling from the ceiling. People burst into surprised laughs. A few bounce them between each other. Giving the bar a quick glance, Michael sees Dana and Benji share a kiss. Javadi gets kissed on the cheek by McKay, then the both of them are pulled into a hug by Mateo. 

Then, an arm wraps around his neck and Michael quickly looks down. Sees Dennis looking up at him hopefully. There’s a gentle tug - easy enough to resist if he’d like. Michael doesn’t. Lets Dennis pull him down and into a kiss. He tastes of champagne and a lingering sweetness Michael can’t put his finger on. When they part, they linger in each other’s space - Michael slightly bent down, Dennis still on his toes. 

“Happy New Year,” Dennis says, a tiny bit too loud for how close they are. 

“Happy New Year, baby,” Michael chuckles, stealing another kiss. Drags his hand, palm flat and firm, up along Dennis’ back, gripping his scapula and squeezing him nearer. He doesn’t mind any potential onlookers - everyone is wrapped up in their own celebrations and conversations, he’s allowed to indulge. 

“I’m gonna be a doctor this year,” Dennis whispers when they part for air, like it’s a secret. 

“That your new year resolution?” Michael runs his knuckles down his spine. 

“That and learning how to make a decent souffle.” 

Michael snorts. Kisses his cheek and lingers for a few moments. “Focus on the souffle. The other one is a done deal, sweetheart.” 

Underneath his lips, Michael feels Dennis’ cheek crease into a smile. 

-

Things go a little crazy past midnight. Quite a few people leave - the ones not on nightshift time or over the age of forty more specifically. Which leaves the more party-oriented people behind - which in turns leads to a lot of them splitting off into different sections of the bar to engage in drinking games or less strenuous activities. 

A table in a corner becomes the proving grounds for a tournament of beer pong. The winner, to everyone’s surprise, turns out to be Javadi. It’s one part her drinking nothing but soda and three parts her being actually lethal with the ping-pong ball. She doesn’t miss a shot all night. Even pulls off a couple trick shots - one over her shoulder, another with a spin that would have impressed any pitcher out there and a final one that bounces artfully off of the ceiling and into Santos’ final cup, clinching her victory. 

“The hell, Crash!” Santos roars from across the table as Javadi throws her hands up - face neutral and calm while their audience reels in awe and breaks into applause. 

Javadi shrugs - a deviously pleased grin spreading across her face. “I practised all summer before college. Didn’t want to make a fool of myself at the frat parties.” 

“You were fourteen in college!”

“Yeah, I - I didn’t think that through,” Javadi admits, face falling. 

“Slick moves, Victoria,” Mateo praises, coming up for a double high five. A thousand watt smile making him look resplendantly handsome. “Up top!”

Miserably blushing, Javadi goes for it and misses, tumbling into a hug so awkward that Dennis has to walk away in a fake search for the restroom. Which leads to an actual visit to the restroom once he takes a second to realise his bladder feels about ready to explode now that he gives it a thought. 

After that, Dennis is roped into doing a shot with a clearly over-refreshed Princess and a slightly less so Donahue and Ahmad. 

While he is grimacing through the bitter aftertaste of Jaegermeister, Dennis is grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. His vision swims from the recently downed alcohol and the inertia and it takes him a few seconds to focus on the pair of faces in front of him. 

“We’re playing pool,” Santos declares, one arm slung over Mel’s shoulders. “Us versus you and the sasquatch.” 

Mel goes from looking excited to mightily confused. “I thought you said we were playing against- ”

“Robby!” Santos interrupts her, shouting across the bar without a modicum of shame, cutting through the off-key belting of McKay and Dana on stage performing ‘Girls just wanna have fun’. 

Robby looks up from where he was having a conversation with Benji. Quirks a brow in their direction in question but doesn’t move. Undeterred, Santos waves, indicating for him to come over. Looking incredibly bemused, he makes his goodbyes and heads on over.

“What’s up?” he asks. Briefly settles his hand on the small of Dennis’ back, rubbing his thumb absently along the line of his spine. The heat that has been simmering in Dennis’ blood all evening rushes up to his cheeks - he hopes the dimness of the bar camouflages it. 

“Mel and I are gonna school you and Huckleberry at pool,” Santos informs him. Grinning as she squeezes Mel closer to herself - the latter looking a mix of pleased and mildly uncomfortable. 

“Is that right?” Michael laughs, looking down at Dennis who sort of feels like his insides might be melting into a pile of mush. 

“Sounds like it.” As surreptitiously as he can, Dennis leans in against Michael’s side. Then quickly pivots, “Uh, but I mean, other way around - we’ll school them. Obviously.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Michael pats his back and then the quartet make their way to the table. 

“Are you any good at this?” Dennis asks Mel out of the corner of his mouth, while Michael and Santos discuss which rules to use. It all sounds like gibberish to his ears. Something about eight balls, stripes and solids and what counts as a legal pocket. 

“I’ve never played,” Mel admits, hands folded at her chest - looking about an inch from biting her nails. 

“Me neither,” Dennis echoes in relief, then gives her what he hopes is an encouraging grin. “But we’re doctors. How hard could it be?”

-

Turns out, very. 

In the course of three games, neither he nor Mel sink any of their shots. Well, once - Mel sinks the eight ball by accident and exclaims in excitement, turning to Santos for a high give - only to be met with a facepalm and a quick explanation on the rules of the black ball needing to go in last - yes even when you are playing solids. To Santos’ credit, she doesn’t snap or seem to get angry for real. 

At the start of the fourth game, Dennis carefully suggests maybe he and Mel will sit out and observe for a round. Judging by the fact that neither Santos or Michael disagree, they really must have been doing terrible.

“So, um, could I ask you a question?” Mel looks over at him, leaning on her pool stick - she’s hung on to it despite not playing. Dennis suspects it has something to do with keeping her hands occupied, judging by the way she is running her thumb nail against the grain of it. 

“Yeah?” 

There’s a slightly nervous expression on Mel’s face as she nods to the pool table - Dennis follows her gaze, watching as Michael is lining up his next shot. The expression of intense focus and the slight peek of tongue right at the corner of his mouth has something squirming in the pit of his stomach. It might also be because of the way the fabric of his slacks stretch across his backside. Or the rolled up sleeves. There are frankly too many things to choose from to know for sure. 

“Are, um…things going well?” Dennis quickly turns to look at her again. Mel’s looking at him cautiously, fingers slightly whiteknuckled around the cue. “I mean, I assume - that this is the relationship you - uh. Spoke of. With me?”

For a second, Dennis is transported back to sitting in the chair and Mel happily congratulating him on being in a serious relationship. The same squirm of shy jubilation. Of having a relationship to be congratulated on, on realising it was actually getting really serious. Dennis lets that feeling carry him as he offers Mel a smile and a quick nod. 

“Very well,” he assures her. 

“That’s great.” Mel lights up in a smile of her own. Something relieved going over her expression as well - he’s seen it before. Like she’s celebrating a victory when coming out of a social interaction unscathed. He can relate. 

“How about you?” Dennis asks, tilting his head. 

“Hm? Oh, I’m - not dating anyone,” Mel quickly shakes her head, smile briefly faltering. “Just - too busy to look, you know?”

“I hear you,” Dennis nods. Then, before he can think, blurts, “I mean, the only way I found the time was picking my boyfriend up at work.” There’s a very awkward silence where Mel stares at him and he quickly goes on, unbelievably embarrassed. “I mean! I didn’t - pick Doctor Robby up at work. We were very professional - I - we met outside first and - it wasn’t like we flirted in the ED or - oh God, can we forget I said that?”

“Definately, yup,” Mel quickly nods. 

“I’m…gonna get another drink. Do you want one?” Dennis asks - expecting her to decline the way she has done all evening, from that first taste of Santos’ rum and coke. 

To his surprise Mel says, slow and thoughtful, “You know. After that, I think I do.” 

-

“Hey,” Abbot sidles up to Robby around one o’clock - just as he sends Santos packing after thoroughly schooling her in the fine arts of billiards. He wasn't a college champion for nothing. “I’m gonna head out.” 

“You sure?” Robby opens his arm, though, to let Abbot come in for a parting hug - ending in a resounding back slap. “Thought if anyone could go all night it’d be you.”

“I’ll leave that to you this time, brother,” Abbot snorts. “Have fun keeping up with the twenty-somethings.” 

“Says the guy doing shots all night.” 

“He’ll be getting a stern talking to tomorrow morning, trust me,” Abbot sighs, stretching his arms out back behind himself until his shoulders crack audibly.

“How you getting home?” 

“Sharing an Uber with Jesse,” Abbot jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Robby follows the motion to where Jesse's by the entrance checking his phone. As if sensing his look, Jesse lifts his gaze and gives a tight lipped wave. Robby returns it with a small salute. 

Robby probably should, in hindsight, have realised something was off about that. 

After all, Abbot lives around his neighbourhood and Jesse’s about a twenty minute commute in the other direction. 

Unfortunately, Robby is a little distracted by Dennis returning from the bar with Mel. And it is incredibly difficult to be shrewd and insightful when he’s got an armful of his boyfriend to focus on. So rather than questioning what he just witnessed Robby waves Abbot off and then steers Dennis back to the table. “Let’s see if I can’t teach you a thing or two before we leave.”

“Good luck,” Dennis sighs, but dutifully settles in. 

It takes several attempts, all with a very hands-on teaching approach, but Dennis finally manages to sink one brightly coloured ball. It’s more sheer happenstance than actual technique, but Michael will still call it a job well done. 

-

“Think they’re on to us?” Jesse asks settling his head against Jack’s shoulder as the Uber pulls away from the curb. 

“Nah,” Jack shakes his head, slipping a hand onto a slim, toned thigh and squeezing. 

-

As the party starts to wind down, Dennis and Michael end up standing by a wall - Michael leaning against it with his arms around Dennis’ shoulders, Dennis with his back to his chest. They watch silently as Santos is up on stage, singing a shockingly beautiful rendition of ‘How to Save a Life’ -  surprising considering the lateness of the hour and the ample amounts of drinks she’s had. 

Somewhere around the second chorus, Michael presses a small kiss to Dennis’ neck. “You about ready to go?” he asks quietly and squeezes him, just once. 

Dennis nods, tilting his head back against his shoulder - eyes still on the stage. “Just want to say bye to Trin first.” 

“Of course.” Michael brushes his nose against Dennis’ temple. 

“Kinda been eager to go home for a while, though.”  

That surprises him. “Oh?” 

“Yeah.” Dennis runs his fingertips along Michael’s arms where they’re wrapped around him. Pause to trail the bare skin of his wrists, up along the back of his hands. Everything under Michael’s collar immediately perks up and prickles with goosebumps. 

“Have, ah.” Robby has to take a pause to breathe. Control himself against a sudden wave of hunger that laps at his metaphorical ankles. “Have you been bored?”

“No,” Dennis puffs. Turns his head and oh. When he looks up at him, all Michael can see is his own wretched hunger mirrored back at him. “Just been thinking about what you said. About what you’d do when we got home. You know.” 

Oh, he sure fucking hope he knows.

The wave becomes a tsunami. Washes over Michael completely, head to toe. 

Distantly, through the roaring in his ears, Santos’ song tapers off in a breathy note. If there is applause, he doesn’t hear them. 

Michael lets Dennis go. Grabs him by the shoulders and firmly nudges him forward and away. “Go say good bye. I’ll call a cab.” 

The small, self-satisfied grin on Dennis’ lips has the ever present beast in Michael’s chest howling. 

-

Getting a cab takes a minute, it being one of the busiest times of the year for the service - but before too long they are pouring themselves into one. Robby sits with his arm slung over Dennis’ shoulders, tucking him tight to his side the entire ride. Surprisingly bold, one of Dennis’ hands finds his knee. Pets restlessly up and down along the very top of his thigh. Ignoring the irritated glance from the driver, Michael decides to tease the borders of public decency. 

“You have no fucking idea,” Michael murmurs into Dennis’ ear - making sure to keep his voice carefully lower than the radio playing rock classics, “how hard it’s been to hold back tonight.” 

“Wish you hadn’t,” Dennis mumbles - clearly a little intoxicated and slightly shameless because of it. He clenches his fingers into the meat of Michael’s thigh. Heat blooms up his leg.

Michael graces the shell of his ear with just a hint of teeth - smug with how Dennis quivers under his arm. “Too bad for you I’m a little too old for sex in public bathrooms.” 

“‘m not, it’d even out.” 

That shocks a laugh out of Michael - it peeters off when Dennis lifts his head, looking dead serious as he peers up at him. That nearly mindless-with-hunger glint still in his eyes. 

Fuck. 

The rest of the ride is a blur of kissing and hands wandering a little too eagerly for polite company. 

-

Michael makes sure to tip the cab-driver handsomely before climbing out of the car in pursuit of Dennis, already up the stairs with the key in the lock. All but pushes him through the door and then they are off to the races. Dennis kisses him like he’s starving, wet lips and demanding tongue. It’s all Michael can do not to throw him up against a wall and fuck him right in the foyer. 

They somehow make it through the house, kissing the entire way to the bedroom. Michael lost his jacket somewhere along the way, shirt tugged out of his slacks and half unbuttoned - skin aching in places from where Dennis has been clinging and touching. Michael gets one hand shoved down the back of Dennis’ slacks, inside his underwear, teasing his hole with dry fingers, massaging. 

Dennis shifts his feet a little further apart and whimpers into his mouth. Clings to his shoulders and nips at his lips with his teeth - soft, half-anxious little pinches. 

“Fuck,” Michael groans, pulling away from the kiss. He pulls his hand out of Dennis’ pants, brings it to his face and grunts, “Spit.” It’s a testament to how desperate Dennis is, because he doesn’t have even a moment of shy hesitation - he fumbles for a bit to gather saliva, but obediently lets it drip onto Michael’s fingers.  Fastening his mouth to Dennis’ hammering pulse point, Michael pushes his hand back into his slacks and brings the wet tip of his middle finger to his hole. It’s a surprisingly easy slide, making Michael’s cock ache in his pants. Has him wondering if Dennis has been touching himself there before the party and fuck he can’t focus on that if he wants this to last longer than three minutes. And he very much does. 

“There you go.” Michael clenches his fingers into his hair, yanks Dennis’ head back and pauses to suck a rather vicious mark at the base of his throat. Grunts as he pushes deeper inside of him, curls his finger. Shivers for the needy noise Dennis makes, the way he wraps his arms around his neck to hold on when his knees lose strength. “Been thinking about getting fucked all night, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah.” Dennis shivers in his grip - his insides tight and flexing against the slightly-too-dry stretch but still opening up beautifully. Michael pushes deeper. There’s hardly any room for finesse like this. His wrist aches the tiniest bit, working in the confined space of Dennis’ slacks. Somehow, he manages to bully a second finger inside of him. 

Dennis hisses and Michael pauses. Turns out it’s wasted consideration, because Dennis pushes demandingly into his hand, turns his face and gives Michael’s throat a bite. It’s Michael’s turn to huff out a breath for the sting. 

“Slow down.” Michael clenches his hand into his hair, tugging. 

“Hurry up,” Dennis retorts, panting, breath hot and moist against his skin. His hands drag down Michael’s front, fingers curling into his belt, working it open. 

“Keep that attitude, see where it gets you,” Michael warns. Pointedly slows the motions of his fingers down - pull them back to the first knuckle and knead at that first, needy inch of muscle inside of him. “You think I won’t make you wait?” 

“Come on - ” There’s an impatient tug and Michael hears his belt buckle clink - feels the leather slacken around his hips. In response, he removes his fingers all together - pulls his hand out of Dennis’ pants and grabs his wrist. Dennis immediately whines. Arousal prickles up along Michael’s thighs. “Don’t tease.” It’s not begging. It’s a petulant demand. There’s a heedy rush of smugness running down Michael’s back to have reduced him to that. 

Michael hums, lifts his hand and nips at the heel of Dennis’ palm.  “What are you gonna do about it?” 

And that is when the evening takes a turn Michael hadn’t expected. 

Dennis pushes him. Hard and decisive, right at the sternum. Taken off guard, Michael stumbles - back of his knees hitting the bed and ends up seated on the edge of it. Before he can steady himself, Michael finds himself shoved down flat on his back, breath leaving him in a winded ‘oof”. Immediately, Dennis climbs into his lap and straddles him. He dives down and kisses him with unveiled hunger. Frantic, pulling at the button and zipper of Michael’s slacks impatiently. They give away and fall open. Task done, Dennis’ hands drag upwards again and he leans heavily on Michael’s chest, kiss deepening, tongue sliding past his slackened with surprise lips. 

Fuck. This is new. Michael is endlessly intrigued. 

-

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe he's becoming more confident in himself under Michael’s care. Or maybe he is just way too horny. Whatever the reason is, Dennis feels like he is going absolutely insane. 

That’s how he ends up draped over Michael’s body, hands roaming his chest, grinding down against his lap over and over. Feels like he is about two seconds from going nuclear, exploding out of his skin. For the first time too keyed up to actually be good and wait. He’s been good all his life, he’s owed a little rebellion. 

Moaning, Dennis breaks away from the kiss for a couple breaths. Head swimming as he’s staring down at Michael beneath him. He’s staring up at him like he just grew two heads and he can’t decide which one he likes more. There’s a twinge of almost too-hot arousal shooting down Dennis’ loins and he chases it, pushing his ass down against the hard line of Michael’s cock. Feels it twitch and oh, fuck he wants to feel it inside of him so badly. 

“Can I,” Dennis starts, then pauses. Swallows down the urge to ask permission. Decides to just demand. “I'm gonna ride you,” he says, trying to keep his expression confident. Like his heart isn’t pounding in his throat, like he isn’t worried Michael is going to scoff and find it ridiculous.

That concern is immediately squashed when Michael groans and rocks his hips up against him. “Oh yeah?” He sounds breathless. 

“Uh-huh,” Dennis nods. Reaches out and cups his face with both hands, holding him still as he dives down for another kiss. Deep, wet, sloppy. He dips his tongue into Michael’s mouth with purpose and shivers. Holds him where he wants him, head tilted at an angle that must be a little uncomfortable. Strong arms wrap around Dennis’ shoulders and waist, holding him close and tight - hands clenched into fists with the intensity of barely tempered desire. Dennis’ heart soars. 

Michael nips his lips and pants, "You in charge tonight, baby?” 

“Yeah,” Dennis moans against his mouth, grinding down. Everything feels overcharged and too hot. “You’re, ah…just gonna do as I say.”

“Bossy,” Michael hums. “I like it.” They kiss again. Michael slides his hands up Dennis’ waist, sneaks them up under the sheer fabric of his shirt. Closes his hands on Dennis’ pecs, runs his thumbs in careful circles around his nipples. Tiny frissons of pleasure trickle down Dennis’ spine and he arches into it. Helplessly, he realises that if Michael keeps that up, he’ll have no chance in staying in control of anything. 

Before he can overthink it, Dennis pulls back from the kiss with a gasp, grabs a hold of Michael’s wrists and pins them on either side of his head. Michael’s eyes are nearly completely overtaken by his pupils, staring up at him in surprise. Dennis looms over him. His cheeks feel very hot - he hopes they don’t look as flushed as they feel, because that will completely ruin the game he’s trying to play. 

Then, Dennis kind of freezes for a second. Brain going horrifyingly blank as he tries to think of something sexy or domineering to say. Anxiety laps at the back of his throat. 

“I’m not allowed to touch?” Michael thankfully asks before the uncertain silence can drag on. 

“Nope,” Dennis shakes his head, letting his shoulders relax. He leans down, puts his weight on his hands on Michael’s wrists and drags his lips along his jaw, down his neck. Takes a steadying breath, reminds himself that this is not life or death and just…goes with it. “You’re keeping your hands where I can see them. I’ll tell you when you can touch.”

“Fuck,” Michael groans quietly under his breath. Dennis feels his cock swell and twitch under his ass. “Okay.” 

Pleased, Dennis lets go of his hands. When Michael remains still, he sits up straight and reaches for the bottom of his shirt. 

“Keep that on.” 

Dennis pauses. Huffs and squints down at Michael, putting on what he hopes is a disapproving expression. “Think you’re missing a few words there, sir.” The nickname slips out - he honestly didn’t mean to. But it feels right - a little debauched and ironic. 

It seems like Michael agrees, judging by the way his eyes darken another few shades and his hands clench into fists. 

“Please,” Michael says. His voice is low, smooth. Beseeching. “I'd really, really like for you to keep that on. Please, baby?”

Dennis swallows, hard. Feels himself twitch. His underwear is starting to feel very, very sticky. He drops the shirt, lets it fall back down to pool at his waist.  

“That’s more like it.” 

-

It’s a very particular kind of torture that Dennis has put him under. 

Michael’s got his hands folded under his head, propped up on a pillow. He watches as Dennis finishes prepping himself - bare from hip down, hem of the shirt tickling his upper thigh. It’s an intoxicating view - pale skin behind a thinly woven mesh of black. If he squints, he can see the lines of him, the pink of his nipples duskier than ever through the opaque fabric. Lower, he can see his cock - half hidden by the fabric. There’s a dark spot towards the bottom, stains from his precum.  

There’s something erotic about it Michael can’t quite explain. The way he’s sometimes found lingerie sexier than full on nudity - like something secret, something enhanced by a sense of mystery, maybe. It’s hard to linger on in the moment. All he knows is that his dick is starting to ache, watching Dennis in that state, straddled on top of him. 

He can’t quite see what Dennis’ hand is doing behind himself - but he knows his fingers were absolutely soaked with lube when he brought them back there. And he can certainly hear what he’s doing. Slick little noises that tell him he is fucking himself - the slackjawed, dazed expression on his face screaming just how good he must be feeling. 

Michael’s never seen Dennis finger himself. What an idiot he’s been. Should’ve asked for that weeks ago. Because it’s a fucking delightful view. 

The show is sweet, but short. Dennis seems impatient to get to the main event and Michael isn’t about to argue. He watches as Dennis pulls his fingers out - his hands are shaking the tiniest bit as he reaches for the lube again. Michael doesn’t hold back, groans loudly when he closes those slick fingers on his cock and ardently coats it until it’s glistening from root to tip. 

“Need any help getting started?” Michael asks - because he knows it can be tricky to get the angle for entry right for a beginner. And this is Dennis’ first time actually putting it in himself. 

“No.” Dennis lifts himself up on his knees, one of his hands on Michael’s thigh for balance. It’s a little sticky and Michael can’t help how his stomach flexes and twists inwardly for the carelessness of not even taking a second to wipe his hand off. Dennis scoots up a little, reaching down between his thighs to take Michael in hand. He bites his lip in concentration, sways. The head slips and misses its target, slips up between his cheeks. If Michael didn’t know better, he’d think Dennis was teasing him. 

It takes a couple of tries, but finally Dennis manages to get the angle right. The tip catches on his rim and Dennis starts to sink down. A shockingly shameless, loud moan crawls out of his throat when the first few inches stretch him wide open. Michael has to dig his nails into his palms under the pillow to control himself as Dennis throws his head back and visibly shudders on top of him. Backlit from the light from the corridor, flushed and with his mouth hanging open through the tailend of that breathless sound, he looks prettier than a fucking painting. 

“Fuck, Dennis.” Michael’s throat feels dry. 

Dennis’ head lolls forward, hearing his name called. There must be something on his face, because his lips twist up into a half-delirious, incredibly pleased smile. “Yeah?” he whispers, already sounding out of breath. 

“Yeah,” Michael confirms quietly. 

Dennis leans down, presses a soft kiss to Michael’s lips - pulls back when he lifts his head to deepen it. Stays just out of reach until Michael drops his head back down with a groan. Only then does he resume the kiss - gentle and sweet. Lingering brushes of nothing but lips. Dennis moans softly into it, fingers twitching into Michael’s jaw. They kiss like that, languid and slow for several minutes. Michael’s knuckles ache with how tightly he has to fist his hands to not reach out and touch. 

Finally, Dennis pulls away. Sits back up, panting heavily. And, making Michael’s stomach flutter with it, he starts to sink further down. All the while looking him in the eye, eyelids at half mast. Doesn’t stop until he’s got him buried to the hilt. Fully seated in his lap, Dennis’ breath leaves him in a gasp and he finally breaks eye contact to let his head fall back. 

“God, that feels good,” Dennis says in a sigh - heavy and earnest. Sits shivering, fingertips the tiniest bit cool against Michael’s belly and his knee. The way he sits reminds Michael of videos of cowboys on unruly stallions or bulls. In control, but ready for a buck or a reer at any moment. 

Michael wants to shower him in praise. Wants to tell him he looks gorgeous, like a fucking star. That he wants to wreck him, ruin him. That he wants to spend every night like this. A lot of other crazed, desirous thoughts that he isn’t sure he should ever voice, fucked up and wanton and a tiny bit pathetic. 

Thankfully, Dennis doesn’t give him a chance to speak. 

There’s no slow build up. It goes from zero to a hundred - as if Dennis is trying to make up for lost time. He leans back, both hands on Michael’s helpfully propped up knees and gets to it. He lifts himself up and drops down in eager little bounces. Each finished movement culminates with a grind into Michael’s pelvis when he’s got him fully inside - breath punched out of him in needy mewls. 

Dennis feels like a furnace inside - searing him from root to tip. The copious amount of lube makes each slide easy and the friction creeps up Michael’s spine, rushes back down and pools in his balls. He’s nearly shaking trying to hold back from fucking into that rapidly fluttering channel. Even so, Michael’s only a man - after a few minutes of this treatment he breaks. Braces his feet a tiny bit better against the mattress, clenches his core and thrusts up the next time Dennis drops down to give it to him hard. If Dennis tells him to stay still he will, but - 

“Oh, fuck,” Dennis moans - full bodied and loud at the ceiling. Without missing a beat, he drops a hand down to his cock, starting to stroke himself with short, sharp flicks of wrist. His face contorts beautifully, eyes shutting as he keeps going - faster, with more of a purpose and holy hell. He’s getting close, Michael can tell and he is showing no sign of stopping. Self indulgent, selfish, moving towards a finish line only he can see behind his eyelids. “Right there, fuck, Michael - again, there, right there, yes.” 

The words are mindless and demanding and flow out of him like water. Michael drinks them up and does as he’s told. Keeps fucking up each time Dennis comes down, staring up at him with singular hunger. Stays quiet, holds his breath, not wanting to miss a fucking second of his climax. 

It takes only a handful of thrusts to send Dennis tumbling over the edge. He does so gloriously - keening through his teeth as his body tenses, twists. Dennis' rim clenches down tight and drags down the shaft of Michael’s cock almost painfully as he sinks down, pushing his entire body hard into Michael’s lap. The muscles of his ass contract and release, over and over, in time with his cock twitching and spilling messily all over his hand and the coarse hairs on Michael’s lower stomach. 

Michael stills. His heart is pounding in his chest and he is staring way too much. A very stark thought bounces in his head - one he’s had for way too long about Dennis Whitaker - he is absolutely fucked. 

After a few minutes of panting through the aftershocks, Dennis slumps forward. Plants his hands on either side of Michael’s head and ducks down to kiss him. Open mouthed and wet, completely uncoordinated, all about the sensations and not the skill. Drags their tongues together lazily. He withdraws with a soft smack, smiling down at him - warm and a tiny bit sheepish in the afterglow. “You can touch me now.” 

“Fucking Christ,” Michael chokes out, grabs a hold of Dennis’ waist, his thigh - drags his palm up and down sweaty, overheated skin and clenches. “You’re going to be the death of me. Seriously, Dennis, what the fuck?” 

“Payback?” Dennis laughs breathlessly - gasping faintly when Michael bucks up into him, shuddering. “Oh - ” 

“Can I please fuck you now?” Michael asks, hoarse, low in the back of his throat. 

“Yeah, yeah, do it,” Dennis nods frantically.

Michael gets up on one elbow, slips a hand in under Dennis’ shirt and runs his hand over any skin he can reach. Drags his nails down his ribs just to see Dennis shiver. Half seated, he starts fucking up into him - slow, roiling things, pouring every bit of desire up into his body. Above him, Dennis’ breath catches. He tilts his head back - Michael stops. 

“Ah - ah. Look at me.” 

Dennis makes a helpless little noise, but quickly does as he’s told. Bows his head and peers down at him, breath coming in shallow pants. Glorious and trembling. 

Holding eye contact, Michael rolls his hips into him again. Watches as Dennis’ jaw loosens and drops, how his lips part for a moan. Eats up the way his expression is sweet and open and eager. The tiniest bit dazed, but most of all completely lacking self-consciousness. Like he is finally starting to understand why Michael keeps looking at him the way he does. 

“Perfect,” Michael tells him quietly. 

Rather than ducking away, Dennis’ lips curl into a shy smile and he arches. Grinds himself down. “Keep going,” he demands. And it might be a deflection, but at least it isn’t a denial. Michael will take it. 

Michael does as told. Drops down to his back fully so he can run both hands up Dennis’ sides, then down to his hips. Grabs on a little harder, guides them to start moving again - to bring them down when he fucks up, to give it to Dennis a little harder. It’s tricky to get the rhythm going properly, though. Dennis is becoming a little uncoordinated above him - a mix of post-orgasmic muscle spasms, slight overindulgence in alcohol and already having ridden him for quite some time seemingly catching up to him. On the next thrust, Dennis sways ever so slightly and almost tips over, so Michael makes an executive decision to keep the magic of the moment going. 

Grunting, Michael sits up - ignoring how his core twinges for the sudden exertion - wraps his arm firmly around Dennis’ waist and rolls them over. He inwardly claps himself on the back for the surprised squeak Dennis exhales for the sudden change of position. And possibly for the way his cock rocks into him hard from the motion. 

Michael blankets himself over Dennis - slides both hands over his trembling, exerted thighs and presses his face into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the supple skin there, sucks until Dennis breaks into a shiver and a whine. Michael releases and withdraws - admiring the dark patch in the dim light, then moves on. Brushes his nose against Dennis’ temple and presses his lips to his ear. 

“Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” Michael murmurs. “You’re still in charge, baby, go on. Tell me how to fuck you right.”

The resulting pull around his cock forces a groan out of Michael’s throat. Dennis gasps, faint and breathy - hands flying up to grab a hold on his back. Clinging, like the words were a physical thing that sent his body reeling. 

After a few thundering heartbeats against his own, Dennis swallows audibly and then mumbles, “Slow?”

Heat prickles up Michael’s neck. He slides his arms under Dennis’ back, along his shoulderblades, gets his hands on his shoulders from underneath. Stays close, chest to chest. Settles himself against the mattress, braces on one knee and starts moving. Slow, letting Dennis feel each slide of his cock moving inside him. “Like that?” 

Dennis’ breath hitches. His nails dig into his spine. “A - A little harder.”

Michael complies. Drags himself out slowly, puts more force into thrusting in. Bites back a moan for how Dennis’ insides pulse around him, drag him deeper - clinging when he withdraws for his next thrust. 

“Fuck, yes, perfect,” Dennis pants out. Sounds half out of it with desire, pleasure wrapped around each word. Michael slides his hands to the back of Dennis’ head, guides him into a kiss. Uses it like a reward, licking into his mouth and running his fingers through his hair while he fucks him just right, exactly how he wants it. It feels more fulfilling than any procedure he’s ever done in the ER. 

Dennis breaks the kiss with a moan, tilting his head back - dragging heaving mouthfuls of air into himself. Michael runs soothing thumbs across his sweaty temples. Watches with unbridled hunger as Dennis rides out each surge of pleasure of getting thoroughly fucked into the mattress. 

“Harder,” Dennis breathes out - a demand, staring up at him - tousled and flushed. Michael moves to comply - but after two punishingly hard thrusts, Dennis squeezes his legs tight around his hips to halt him and puts on a face that can only be described as admonishing. “No, not - not faster. Just harder.” There’s a smile playing around his lips. A little smug, playful. Truly taking the ‘in charge’ to heart. 

The resulting rush of arousal leaves Michael briefly dizzy. 

“Oh, just harder?” Michael echoes. When Dennis nods, he lifts himself up on his knees. Pulls one of Dennis’ legs up and over his shoulder, folds and pushes the other up, keeping his hand a steel-like anchor on the back of the knee. And then he does as he is told.

The next thrust knocks the breath out of Dennis in a startled hiccup. Michael grits his teeth as he makes the withdrawal slow - glacial. Goes until he’s got only the head notched inside. Steadies a hand on Dennis’ lower belly, then fucks in again - hard, snapping his hips forward. Sends Dennis whole body sliding upwards with it, forcing out another loud, shameless noise. 

“Oh, fuck,” Dennis croaks out. Tips his head back, frantically seeking purchase with his hands. Buries them in the sheets above his head, stretching out for Michael’s viewing pleasure and arching his back. Breath coming in rapid staccato breaths as Michael pulls his cock back out in preparation for another thrust. 

“Hard enough, Dennis? Hm?” Michael coaxes, voice low and dripping with sedition. Daring him to tug the reins again. “Am I giving it to you right?” 

“Yeah,” Dennis whines, not taking the bait at all. Just earnestly nodding, lifting his hips the next time Michael fills him up. Whole body jerking when Michael nails that sweet spot inside. “That feels so good.”

It really must. Dennis’ whole body is flexed in anticipation of the next thrust, yielding beautifully for each pull and push inside. His cock lays flushed and hard in the crook of his hip, twitching each time Michael bottoms out. Michael feels like his brain is running ultra-rapid, taking in every little detail of the body soaked in bliss beneath him. Does he even know how good he looks? If not, Michael has to make sure he learns. 

“You drive me crazy, baby,” Michael pants - grits his teeth for the way Dennis’ ass flutters for the praise, bears into it. “You know that? Fucking crazy. Can’t ever get my fill, just want you all the goddamn time - fuck, you’re so tight.” 

“Faster,” Dennis keens out - Michael immediately obliges, squeezing Dennis’ leg to his shoulder. Picking up the pace, a gallop, matching the way Dennis’ insides are starting to flutter in tell-tale fashion around his cock. Sweat trickles down his temples, down his chest - he’s pretty sure it’s dripping down on the writhing man beneath him. If he minds, he certainly doesn’t voice it. 

“I’m going to make you come again, sweetheart,” Michael tells him, voice coming out harsh and short. “Hard enough to see stars, I’ll make you scream my fucking name.” 

“Same time,” Dennis demands as he tosses his head against the pillows - his curls are an absolute disarray now, sweat and friction rapidly throwing it out of the stylish hairdo he started the night with. Breaths coming sharp and high in his chest, he focuses his gaze on Michael’s. Reaches and curls his fingers against his chest, pawing and digging his fingertips in hard. Those pretty blue eyes are wild with desire. “Fuck - ah - fuck me the way it takes for you to come.” 

There’s a low, insistent surge behind his balls. Michael groans from the start to the end of it, thrusts in all the way and just - grinds for a second. “Christ,” he hisses. 

“Don’t stop,” Dennis gasps and how the fuck is he supposed to ever stop? 

Michael drops his leg, guides it around his hip. Cups Dennis’ flushed face with his palm and drags his thumb across his lips - smears saliva from all their kissing across them. Following the silent request, Dennis opens his mouth and sucks the digit inside - curling his fingers around Michael’s wrist and keeping it there. Dennis’ eyes are closed, brows furrowed as he focuses in on the pleasure each of Michael’s never ceasing thrusts bring him. Selfishly, Michael can’t let that stand. 

“Look at me,” Michael pants, pushing his thumb deeper into Dennis’ mouth. Shivers for the way he briefly startles before suckling harder, eyes fluttering open, barely able to focus. He’s becoming mindless and pliant and the beast that never seems to rest in the kid’s presence purrs. “That’s it. Good boy. Taking it - shit, going to - so fucking close.” 

Dennis whines, warbled and high pitched. His legs wrap around his hips and cling. He strains, seems to struggle against an unseen force.  

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart, go on,” Michael coaxes. Pulls free and plants both hands hard on the bed, hammering his hips in hard - angles them at the end of each thrust, making sure to drag his cock against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside. He’s panting, but somehow manages to keep droning on, only half aware of the words he’s saying. “All yours. Do it, come for me. Let me see you. Don’t make me beg for it, let go - ” 

“Michael,” Dennis doesn’t quite scream it, it’s more like a breathless moan of a sound, punched out of him at the apex of a particularly well aimed thrust. He spills, sticky and hot enough to be scalding across both their bellies. Dennis’ ass feels like it’s swallowing around him and there is no way he can hold back. It’s not quite at the same time, but Michael hardly thinks Dennis notices. It’s close enough that his hips stutter and he spills - deep and proprietary within those eager to receive depths. 

For long minutes, neither of them can do anything but pant - animalistic, unflatteringly loud in the silence of the night. 

“Fuck,” Michael manages, once his heartbeat goes back to safe levels and his cock has softened and slipped out of Dennis without his even attempting to withdraw.

“Payback,” Dennis muffles into the arm he’s bonelessly slung over his face. 

-

“I’m gonna be so hungover tomorrow,” Dennis moans weakly into Michael’s chest, about thirty minutes later when they’re all cleaned up and back in bed. 

“Yep,” Michael confirms. Strokes gentle lines up and down Dennis’ back where he’s got him gathered up against his side - still nude, neither of them bothered with clothes after the quick post-sex shower. 

“Don’t wanna.”

“Unfortunate.” Michael puts on his glasses - sits up a little better against the headboard and grabs a book as he lets Dennis settle his head somewhere near his hip instead. He’s on call until nine AM, so he’s going to need to stay awake and keep himself occupied for several hours. 

“You’re supposed to pet my hair and tell me things will be okay.” 

“Even when it is self-inflicted?”

“Especially then.”

“Right.” Chuckling, Michael slides his free hand into Dennis’ damp hair. Gathers strands of it between his fingers and runs them slow and soothing from the crown of his head to the back of his neck. “How’s that?”

“Better,” Dennis mumbles. Buries his face in against Michael’s hipbone and sighs - covers growing warm against his skin with the heat of his breath. 

“Room’s spinny,” Dennis informs him ten minutes later, lips barely moving, eyelids heavily shut. 

“Go to sleep, I’ll tell it to stop,” Michael drawls. Keeps rubbing his scalp with careful fingers, book open and propped up against his knee. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome.” 

-

A while later, there’s a soft continuous buzzing against Michael’s hip currently not occupied by a heavy head. Lost in the wonderful worlds of Jules Verne, it takes him a second to realise it’s his phone. He grabs it, swipes without looking at the caller ID and puts it to his ear. 

“Yeah?” Robby murmurs into the receiver - keeps his voice low not to wake the lump in the sheets beside him. He needn’t have bothered - Dennis remains dead to the world. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Lena’s voice comes in the tiniest bit tight. Stress showing - uncommon which causes a slight clench in the pit of Robby’s belly. “We got several traumas in the last hour. Shen’s handling it for now, but if we get any more…” 

“Got it.” Robby carefully shifts Dennis’ head from his lap and onto the bed. There’s not a hint of a stir, not even a discontented noise. Just for his own peace of mind, Michael presses two fingers to his carotid - maybe a little fast, but nothing to be concerned about. Just his body under strain dealing with the alcohol in his system. “I’ll be there in ten.” 

-

In the end, it’s more like fifteen minutes and change - it admittedly takes Robby a little bit of extra time to drag himself out of bed. Both because of the company and lingering aches of a sexual romp done well. But Lena welcomes him without complaint. 

Not even with a proper greeting, actually, just a quick glance and a sharp jab of pen across the desk. “Mohan could use a hand in Trauma 1.” 

“On it.” Robby’s beelines for it immediately.

Turns out it’s a tricky intubation of a teen - neck trauma paired with a swollen trachea. Something about smoke inhalation from a firework being set off indoors. Details that are important, yet can wait until he’s got the tube in. He manages well before anyone starts mentioning ten blades or tracheostomies. Not long after that, the oxygen levels go up and the patient can be put on a ventilator awaiting an ICU-bed. 

“Tricky one,” he tells Mohan as they exit together. Robby lets her take a spritz of hand-sanitizer first before following suit. 

“Yeah,” Mohan sighs. They walk together towards the hub - she finishes rubbing the alcohol into her skin before he does. Once at the desk, she gives him a tight smile. “Fun party?” It almost sounds like an accusation. 

Taking a breath not to get his hackles up, Robby shrugs. “Princess doesn’t know how to throw them any other way. There was karaoke. Santos brought the house down.” 

“Sounds great,” Mohan sighs. The slump in her shoulders tells Robby that what he read as animosity might actually be something far simpler. Slow-mo having a case of the FOMO. He quickly bites down on the thought - he has to stop asking Jake about these slang terms, they are creeping into his regular vocabulary and he cannot let it. 

“You’ll catch the next one,” Robby tells her. Smiles when she looks up, shrugging. “Things’ll slow down eventually. You’ll see.” 

“Please tell me you didn’t say things are slow,” Ellis groans behind him before Mohan can answer. 

“Tempting fate and hasn’t even been here for five minutes,” Henderson joins in - though sounding a lot more light about it and he’s smirking when Robby turns to face them both. 

“Now hold on, that wasn’t what I - ” 

Before Robby can finish defending himself, a cardiac alarm goes off from Central 10. Immediately, all three residents narrow their eyes at him. 

Robby raises his hands in defeat and hurries off. “My bad, I’ve got it.” 

-

Dennis wakes with a jerk, a blinding throb between his temples and a roil of nausea. Moaning, he drags the covers over his head and hides from all the sensations best he can. After a few minutes of deep breathing and rubbing his temples, the nausea subsides enough that he can peek his head back out. There, right in his line of sight he finds a peace of heaven.

A glass of water, droplets of condensation clinging to the sides. As Dennis lifts himself up to reach for it, he spots a pair of round white pills next to it - Aspirin. Yet another sign that God hasn’t completely forsaken him. Without hesitation, Dennis tosses the pills into his mouth and downs them with two efficient gulps of water - downing the rest of the glass while balancing precariously on his elbow. Then, he withdraws back under the darkness of the covers to wait for them to take effect. 

Dennis dozes for a few minutes. Once his head is no longer in danger of being blown off of his shoulders, he crawls back out from the covers to reach for his phone. When he lifts it he finds something - a piece of paper hidden beneath it. As he unfolds it, he flops onto his back and moans softly for the blissful coolness of the pillow against his neck. Settled, he squints groggily at the note. The lettering is small, neat if a tiny bit blocky. 

‘Duty called. Hope the room stopped spinning. <3 ’ 

A dopey smile spreads across Dennis’ lips - squirming for a second as he rides out a ridiculous, bubbly feeling that wells up inside him. He brushes the heart with his thumb several times. Then, he gently folds the note over once, twice. He carefully wrestles the simple black case of his phone off, then sticks the note inside for safe-keeping. 

-

While working on a rather bloody case - a young woman whose walk of shame ended in her falling and cracking her head open on her hysterical one-night stand’s doorstep - Robby feels an insistent vibration against his thigh. He ignores it, barely registers it. Continues keeping pressure while calmly explaining how the GCS-scale works to a horrified looking M3. 

Later, during a brief moment of respite, Robby remembers the sensation and checks his phone. 

There’s a photo sent from Dennis. After a quick glance around - just in case - he opens it. It’s a selfie - Dennis sprawled out in his bed, looking a little worse for wear and squinty, but also flushed and mouthwatering and - a little too bare for him to really be looking at it at work. 

Under it is the text, ‘New Years resolution - never drinking again. It’s followed by another text, not accompanied by any more photos unfortunately; ‘Room’s standing still tho, ty <3’  

Chuckling to himself and feeling the tiniest bit re-energized for the hours of work ahead, Robby tucks the phone back in his pocket after giving the last text a quick heart-reaction. 

-

Dennis stays at Michael’s place for another while, but eventually he has to make his leave. Before he left the party he’d promised to join Santos for Grey’s Anatomy and the greasiest pizza they could find on UberEats. 

The thought of cheese and slightly doughy crust carries Dennis all the way home - up the stairs (the thought of the elevator has his stomach lurching uncomfortably) and into the sanctuary of Santos’ apartment. Yawning, he drags his boots off and puts them carefully on the shoe rack. Drags his feet through the apartment on the hunt for what he assumes will be an equally afflicted Santos. 

As he walks past the kitchen, there’s a motion in the corner of his eye and a weird noise. Tiredly, Dennis turns his face towards it. And immediately regrets it. 

Santos is pinned to the counter by Garcia. She’s got one hand buried in Santos’ hair, pulling her head back by it. Garcia’s other hand is shoved inside Santos’ shorts. She’s got her mouth on her neck. The loud moan Santos releases and the motions of the hand in her pants makes it incredibly obvious what’s going on. 

In the best of worlds, Dennis would have swallowed his shock and snuck off silently to his room. There, he would wait until the two ladies, ahem, finished what they were doing. Give it another while, then come back out when Santos was alone and they could both pretend he never saw a damn thing.

This is, unfortunately, not the best of worlds. 

In this one, Dennis trips on his own feet and falls straight to the floor. The air is knocked out of him in an undignified yelp and pain shoots up his elbows and belly. 

“Holy shit!” Santos squeaks. There’s a scramble of feet against linoleum. Something falls off the counter with a dull thud. 

“Morning, Clumsy Smurf,” Garcia’s voice drawls - she sounds way closer to laughter than Santos. Mortified, Dennis scrambles - crawling towards his room, desperate to put some distance between himself and what just transpired. 

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t see anything, bye!!” he throws out over his shoulder in one breath, finally manages to get to his feet and promptly bolts. Slamming his door, he face-plants onto his bed and buries his bright red face in his pillow. His heart thuds painfully in his throat - not at all helping with the lingering hangover-and-hunger-nausea. 

Outside, he hears talking - voices rising and falling, two very different tones of voices. He hears Garcia cackling and Santos groaning. Steps fade away across the apartment. The front door closes. A pause. More footsteps. And then finally a hard thud on his door. More a flat palm slapping than an actual knock. 

“I’m sorry!” Dennis shouts muffledly into his pillow.  Prays Santos will give it a few moments so they can both pretend that he didn’t just walk in on her having sex in their kitchen. The very thought makes his ears go hotter than ever before. 

Alas, again, it is not the best of worlds. 

The door opens. Silence stretches. Reluctantly, Dennis gets up on his elbows and turns his head towards the door to face his fate. 

“Dude.” Santos throws up her hands. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She’s, obviously, still in the same shorts Garcia had her hand down. Did Dennis expect her to change? It’s a dumb thing to notice or be hung up on, so Dennis quickly averts his gaze and hangs his head. “Knock much?”

“I mean,” Dennis suddenly feels a little annoyed. Tries to hold it back and just reason his way through the situation. “Why would I knock? I - I live here, I’ve got keys, ”

“Not for much longer if you clam-jam me like that.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Dennis sits up fully and throws his hands up in frustrated surrender - too incensed to be able to recoil for the obscene turn of phrase. Flustered and a little hurt to be so entirely blamed for something he had no control over. He doesn’t mean to bristle, but it feels unfair. It’s startlingly similar to being back home and he has to swallow down the feeling several times before he can speak again. “Look, I’m sorry, I am, but I didn’t know she was here - you didn’t tell me! How was I supposed to know you had company or - or whatever?” He ducks his head, awaiting his verdict. The burst of anger rapidly cools into cloying guilt for blowing up. 

There’s a pause. Dennis hopes he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as he feels. But he must, since Santos’ voice changes - doesn’t exactly soften, more like - eases. Lowers. “Fine.” There’s another pause. Dennis fiddles with his fingers. “Sorry. I thought you’d stay with the Sasquatch another while.” 

“He had to work,” Dennis mumbles. Then glances up. “And we said we’d hang out. I wanted to get back before you had to call me.” 

Santos looks a tiny bit contrite. Face folded into a frown, hands pushed into her way too shallow short-pockets. She weighs back and forth, then throws her head back and groans, loudly. “Fuck, okay, whatever. Not like I didn’t get laid last night anyway. I guess I can forgive and forget, this time.” 

“Good,” Dennis sighs. Flops back down and presses his forehead into the bed. “...can we get pizza now?”

“Please.” 

-

It’s not until later - two episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, one cheese pizza and two cans of Coke later to be exact - that Dennis manages to gather enough courage to ask, “So…you and Garcia?” 

“Seriously?” Santos groans, giving him a glare he recognizes as a warning sign for real annoyance to come. 

Determined to be a good friend, Dennis pushes on. Even if he has to keep his eyes directed at the TV while he does. “Just, like - are you like. Girlfriends now?” 

Santos grunts and shoves him with her socked foot, hard. “Not everyone immediately imprints after sex, Huckleberry. Some of us like to do it just for fun.” 

“Well, I mean, I know that,” Dennis says, rolling his eyes and decidedly ignoring the not-so-hidden barb. “But…with, you know. Everything that happened between you two - ” 

“Okay, new roommate-rule,” Santos interrupts and Dennis quickly snaps his mouth shut for the finality in her tone. “No conversations about serious shit during hangovers. Okay?” 

Hesitating for a moment, Dennis nods. 

Silence stretches between them. They watch as Arizona tells Karev that she wants to hit him with a brick for his previous relationship with Callie. That doesn’t make much sense to Dennis, but he has long since stopped trying to make sense of the show. 

“So was I right about the shirt?” Santos suddenly asks, throwing Dennis right off one awkward feeling straight into another. 

“I am not telling you that.” 

“Guess that tells me everything I need to know, Hussyberry.”

“Trin-!”