Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The things you pray for are gon’ come, kid. Just not in the way you expected them to.

A Texan priest had once told Dennis this and he had never dared forget it. Because it was the truest thing he had ever heard.

Ten years ago today he was asking an empty, godless sky why, why had He made him so wrong, how could He have fucked up so bad with his own creation. “Aren't you supposed to be perfect?” Dennis had choked out, forehead against the steering wheel. “How did I happen if you're supposed to always do good? Huh?”

No answer.

Hell is a farm in rural Nebraska.

It's not a bad place per se. There's a white church, artless and cold, nearby a willow tree. Endless prairies till the eye can see and the sliding slopes of Panhandle and sandhills that turn golden in October. And it's so beautiful it breaks your heart. There's a magic that only exists in these middle-of-nowhere places. But there's also poison.

Dennis knows this. He's accepted it long ago. How poison and magic together are deep-rooted in the land, and in old people, in the fire-ants and in the pigs, in the blood oranges and in the sun. It's in his family and in Dennis himself. He knows this. He's accepted it now.

Back then it was harder.

He remembers that day, ten years before, the day of the sick cow. How terrible it had been to put her down. How his brothers had made fun of him for crying, called him a pussy and a faggot, slapped him on the back of his neck and left a mark. They were right, of course. He just didn't know at the time. He didn't want to know.

He had taken his dad's truck and driven aimlessly in the dark for hours.

He had stopped at the edge of the farm, where the wheat grew wilder; he left the headlights on and grabbed the rosary beads wrapped around the rearview mirror to still them. His fingers were shaking.

Dennis cried till he gave himself a cough that night.

That's when he met them.

To this day, a part of him still believes they were angels.

A man in a black cassock and a collar and a woman with high, high heels and even higher hair were walking down the road. Probably coming from the bar around the corner. The streetlights shone on them in an otherworldly way.

“Oh, honey!” She saw him first. “Are you okay? Did you crash your car?”

Dennis had forced himself to roll down the window.

“No, sorry, I’m just…” He stopped mid-sentence, partly because he didn't really know what to say, partly because her makeup was so mighty and bright it was distracting. She was also wearing a sparkling pink dress and her cleavage all out. She was beautiful. She had an Adam's apple. Dennis had no idea how that was possible but somehow it was.

“Lost?” Asked the priest with a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Yeah, ’figured.”

“Have you been crying, darlin’?”

“No, ma'am, sorry, I’m— I was just—”

“No need to explain yourself to us, love,” she shushed him softly. “D’you wanna a cig?”

Dennis shook his head and then took it anyway.

Fifteen minutes later he was telling them everything.

“And it's not like, even the first time we've put down an animal. It happens every other day on a farm, but Nancy,” he sobbed. “Nancy was different, she was smart and yeah, she was just a cow but I swear to God, she looked at you like she could hear you. She… She listened. And she didn't need to die… It was definitely curable but they didn't… They didn't listen to me. They said she wasn't worth it. She was better off as a piece of meat. And so, they killed her. I— I, they made me… Do it.”

He took a longer puff and then passed what had turned out to be a joint to the woman. Viola was her stage name. The priest’s stage name was John. But he had been a Dennis in a past life, just like him.

They were all resting the small of their backs on the warm hood of the truck. A farm boy, a drag queen and a Catholic preacher from the south. It looked like the beginning of a bad joke.

“You’re a sensitive kid. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if you're born here,” Dennis chuckled humorlessly. “I don't know… I… Sometimes I ask myself how the hell did God think this was the right place to drop me in.”

There was a short silence before Father John chimed in.

“I don't know what God's plan is for you, boy, but I do know this rotten place could use some heart. Maybe that's why you're here. It's not easy, I know. You will have your heart broken countless more times, and if you're anything like me, one day you will have enough and leave. Maybe never come back. But you will always look back. No matter how hard you will try not to.”

“I don't know. Even if I could afford running away, I… I don't know. There's so much shit about me that doesn't even have anything to do with this place and I…” He took a breath. “Don't freak out on me, I would never act on it, I'm not that brave but sometimes… Sometimes I think that it's not just that I don't like living here. Sometimes I think… I don't really like living.”

“Then do something else.”

Dennis frowned at her.

“What do you mean, do something else?”

“You'll figure it out, baby. Don't worry,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

She smelled like cigarettes and strawberries.

Dennis spent a long minute staring at the cornfields in the distance, at the half moon above them, and at the pampas grass, silver under the eyes of the headlights.

“I hope so, I… Pray so,” he finally said.

And that's when the priest had told him. The words that would have stuck with Dennis for the rest of his life.

And now, here he was, ten years later, standing in front of that dream come true.

The first time Dennis had seen the hospital, it had reminded him of the Tower of Babel. He had heard the people calling it the Pitt, too. A clever pun. An ironic one as well, considering Dennis’ story. Once a runaway from Hell, today a first year resident in the closest thing to Heaven he will ever have.

“Ready for some miracles, Whitaker?” A hand landed on his shoulder as soon as he stepped in.

“We’ll try, sir,” he laughed nervously.

“Attaboy,” Dr Robby smiled at him.

Dennis smiled back, his stomach tied in knots.

Michel Robinavitch had been a miracle himself, the most unexpected of all of them. And an infernal one, at that, too. But then again, if Nebraska had taught him anything, it was that poison and magic were a medical package of their own.

That, and probably that you shouldn't be gay for your 54-year-old male attending.

Still, this wasn't Nebraska.

“Whitaker! The Kraken’s back and he's asking for you!”

Dennis rolled his eyes.

Okay, maybe the Pitt wasn't exactly Heaven. Maybe it was just a different kind of Hell, perhaps a more promising one. Maybe it was Purgatory, something in between. Definitely, the furthest thing from the prayers of a seventeen-year-old farm boy stuck in the middle of nowhere.

And yet, Dennis wouldn't have had it any other way.

Chapter Text

It tasted like antiseptic but it felt like a blessing.

“My God, brother, didn't you have the right idea,” Abbot sighed with a smile, walking in the break room and taking a seat at the big white table next to Mohan. He instantly helped himself from the pizza box.

“I have my moments,” Dr Robby mumbled back, mouth full.

He was resting his arm on the back of Dennis’ chair and Dennis wasn’t exactly sure of the appropriate, heteronormative way to proceed (and recover) from this.

Santos wasn't helping. She was sitting right in front of him with a smug smile on her face, chewing slowly.

Dennis glared at her.

She just smiled harder.

“New haircut, Whitaker?” Ellis asked from behind him, leaning back against the counter. “It's nice.”

“Uh— ah, fank you,” he stammered, trying to cover his mouth with his hands, which he now realized to be sticky with sauce.

“I remember when you had your mullet phase,” Abbot chimed in, grinning at Robby.

“Shut up, Jack,” the attending basically singsonged, his voice hoarse.

“Don't want the kids to know about your rebellious past?”

“You had a rebellious past?” Santos immediately took the bait.

“Not as rebellious as Doctor Abbot,” Robby shrugged.

“Really?” Mohan chipped in, meeting his eyes with a sparkle in hers.

He was about to open his mouth when Dana intervened, stealing his slice.

“Don’t listen to them, honey. I was more of a bad boy than these two nerds combined.”

Abbot tried and failed to complain with a straight face. Robby laughed and faked bowing down to her by fanning his hands.

Dennis loved it when he laughed. He loved the way his wrinkles would curve at the far corner of his eyes. He loved the way his nose would curl up slightly. He loved the rough sound his throat would make. In a totally normal way. The way one just loves it when their 54-year-old attending laughs. You know?

“Anyway, Ellis is right,” Robby suddenly turned to face him. “It suits you, kid.”

“Santos gets the credit, honestly.”

“It was me, Huckleberry, a pair of scissors, and a dream,” she confirmed.

Dennis warned her with another glare not to make the joke he knew she was plotting in that little lesbian head of hers.

“Good job,” Mohan complimented her, sounding surprised. “Do me next?”

Abbot almost choked on his pizza. “What— do you?” He coughed, staring wide-eyed at Samira. “I— sorry, I wasn't listening— what?”

“Uh, I think she was referring to Santos styling her hair, the way she did for Whitaker,” Mel happily provided.

“Hey, at least now you’ll know what to do when this whole doctor thing fails,” Langdon cut in, taking the last slice of pizza.

Robby cleared his throat.

Frank muttered an unconvincing sorry.

Santos scowled at him, anyway, scratching the side of her forehead with her middle finger.

“He's such an asshole,” she growled, crossing the parking lot at an inhumane speed.

“You do realize,” Dennis interjected, moving the duffle bug to his shoulder, a bit out of breath from trying to keep up with her. “You two are literally the same person.”

She stopped abruptly, fingers around the car handle. “What?”

“Just because you don't like it, it doesn't make it any less true. Open the door?”

“So, I suppose,” she retorted, sinking in the driver's seat and throwing her bag in the back. “The same goes for your crush on our boss? Yes?”

“Okay, that was uncalled for.”

“Just because you don't like it, it doesn't make it any less true,” she mimicked him in a shrill voice, while turning on the headlights and starting the car.

They bickered all the way home.

Trinity lived in a condo only twenty minutes away from the ER.

A small kitchen where it was always Christmas, with fairy lights hanging from every top; on the counter, an ever-present biscuit scented candle, that she was used to light up as soon as stepped through door; a soft couch and a half shredded Persian rug in the living room; two bathrooms, two bedrooms. Dennis’ one was still quite empty. Santos had hers covered in posters from bands he had never heard of before.

The first night he had spent there, she had made things very clear.

“Not. A. Word. Huckleberry.”

“I wouldn't even know how to pronounce half of them.”

“Not the posters,” she had hissed, taking her nose bridge between two fingers. “But the rest. The lights, the DVDs, that pink lamp, and… I saw you eyeing the candle. Do not fuck with the candle. It's… It's my way to decompress, all right?”

“I wasn't gonna… Fuck with the candle.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Thank you. Again.”

“Don't mention it,” she had half-smiled. “Literally. Before I regret it. Also, that's Larry.”

Dennis had turned around to find a small orange cat stretching on the table. “He's—”

“She's,” Trinity had corrected “a lesbian.”

“The… Cat?”

“Don’t be a bigot, farm boy. It doesn't look good on you.”

And that was that.

Now, sometimes she let him light the candle in her place. Most of the time, she let him cook. Rarely, pick the movie. Always, force her music taste on him during car-rides. Dennis could now attest that Slipknot at 6.00 AM feels like divine punishment.

He almost missed the morning Lauds.

Almost.

Now, Larry was on him, purring, staring at the wolves in Princess Mononoke.

“So—”

“Of course, you're one of those people that speaks over films, Huckleberry. Of course,” she grabbed the remote and paused it. “What?”

“I was just thinking about what you said earlier in the car.”

“About you having the hots for that geriatric, walking HR nightmare at work?”

“He's not geriatric, come on,” Dennis felt himself blushing. “I mean, yeah, he's double our age but— anyway, I don't have the hots for him. I respect him.”

“Oh, yeah, and I bet you would respectfully prove that to him by—”

“Don't finish that sentence, Trin,” he rubbed his eyes, fighting a tired smile. “Just don't.”

“You didn't even know what I was gonna say.”

“Does it include kneeling? Some profane religious analogy? My money is on you finishing it off with a line from ‘Like a prayer’ by Madonna." He wolfed down a mouthful of popcorn. "Close?”

“Damn it, church boy, you got me,” she chucked, sipping from her purple, boobs-shaped mug. “I must be getting predictable.”

“Yeah, you are,” he scorched his tongue with the tea but swallowed anyway. “’Know what? Let's just watch the movie.”

He tried to steal the remote from her but she stretched her arm and put it out of reach.

“Oh no, you're not getting out of this, not this easily. Come on, what's up? He's not, like, bothering you or anything?”

“What?! No! No, it's exactly the opposite… I feel like I'm the one… I don't know… I feel bad just thinking about it.”

“Okay, first of all, no, he is the one always manhandling you, not the other way around. And the power imbalance is in his favour. And secondly, you don't think that… That bad feeling has something to do with the religious guilt and that lovely upbringing of yours?”

“You're probably onto something there, Dr Santos.”

“I know, I should have gone into PSY.”

“Oh yeah,” Dennis nodded, trying to fight another smile. “Either that or hairdressing.”

There was a beat of silence.

Larry meowed. A warning.

“You’re dead Huckleberry.”

***

It was only 9.00 AM and Robby was breathless already.

He had bravely tried to limitate his smoke intake to only cigarettes on the roof and was now finding himself climbing those stairs more and more often throughout the day.

So, yeah, the plan had spectacularly backfired into his face and, in addition, his back was now killing him.

Good day to you Pittsburgh.

He took in the city noise, the cacophony of sirens and beeping, the skyscrapers, the bridge, golden in the morning light, and finally exhaled.

Despite everything, he could never live in a quiet place.

Not with the memory of his nosy noisy family, as his grandma used to call it, always so loud in his head. Not with the way this job, this place, always managed to linger, like a constant static in his ears, even when he tried to drown it in music, right after a shift, or in sleeping pills, as soon as he got home.

Despite everything, silence is worse. It's usually a bad sign, too. Especially in the medical world.

The weeping of an ambulance brought him back to reality.

He took one last drag and then let the cigarette fall to his feet, where he stomped it.

“So?” He questioned Javadi, as he ritually put his gloves on.

“Patient’s an 81-years-old male,” she began, walking fast by his side “abdominal pain, bloating, intermittent nausea, vomiting, and jaundice for over five days.”

“And you're thinking?”

“Ultrasound confirms multiple gallstones and cholecystitis.”

“The MRCP?”

“No bile duct stones. No blockage of the bile duct.”

“But?”

“But the MRI revealed an intrahepatic gallbladder.”

“Ah,” he stopped before going in through the curtain. “Maybe start with that next time?”

“Sorry, sir. They thought it was a cystic lesion within the liver.”

“Easy mistake. Who asked for the MRI?”

“Uh, Whitaker did.”

Robby moved the curtain and there the kid was, chatting up with the old man and making him laugh. Suddenly, he felt breathless again.

“Following in Mohan’s steps I see?” He eventually snapped out of it.

“Slow-mo? That hurts, sir,” Whitaker joked, earning them both a very well deserved glare from Samira.

“I’m just messing. I'm mainly counting on you three to boost those satisfaction scores,” he said, approaching the computer and putting his glasses on to briefly go through the guy’s history.

“Hello, Mr. Schaffer. I'm Dr Robby,” he took off his glasses and turned to face him. “How are you feeling today?”

“Like crap but a little better than last night.”

“Well, you're in good hands.”

“Oh, I can see that. They are young but they do know their shit.”

“That they do,” he replied, stretching the vowels, taking one last look at the ultrasound. “Well put, Mr. Schaffer,” he added. “Right then, finish the report, call GI, and you're done. Again, nice work here.”

Whitaker nodded with those big, doe eyes of his and Robby squeezed his arm almost as a reflex, in response.

“You made the right call with the MRI. Come find me first, next time, though. It's just bullshit protocol but… Yeah…”

“Sorry, sir, ’will do next time.”

“Good boy,” he smiled, patting his shoulder, realizing a second too late how that could come off as a bit weird. “Uhm, good job, I— yeah,” he tried to save it. Failed, obviously, evidently, seeing that Whitaker had to do a double take.

“Thank you,” the kid returned the smile awkwardly, blushing a little, and then went back to his note pad.

Right.

Shit.

He shouldn't have called him that.

He hadn't meant it in a patronizing way or in… Any other way. He hadn't meant anything by it. It was something that just happened to be thrown around in the ER. Dana might have called him that. He might have called Langdon that. And yet, he still shouldn't have called Whitaker that.

Not with the way his eyes had widened, not with the way his cheeks had turned red.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his neck.

Good boy…

Robby sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, throat to the ceiling.

He stretched his back in preparation.

He needed another cigarette.

Chapter Text

“There's a difference, there's definitely a difference.”

“There isn't.”

“There is, Denny boy,” she chugged down the last remains of her beer, “there is a difference between an attaboy and a good boy.” She threw the can and made it into the bin. “And that was a perfect shot.”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “Okay Micheal Jordan, how are they different?”

“Attaboy is casual, Huckleberry, something you just say in passing, it doesn't matter. Good boy is intentional, and also, you said it yourself, he tried to rephrase it. You felt the difference from that attaboy. He felt the difference. That's all the proof you need.”

“For the record, I almost had an aneurysm both times, so, clearly, there’s not much of a difference to me.”

“That's because you're hopeless. And that's on you.”

“Thanks.”

“You're also repressed at Amish levels. But that's not on you.”

“Pep talk’s fire, Trin,” he sighed, sending his head back and trying to sink even deeper in the cold bench they had taken for themselves. “No, I'm serious, keep going.”

“I'll be here all night,” she chuckled sympathetically.

“Why would you?” Asked a voice behind them.

They turned to find Mel in a big coat and a striped scarf, nose and cheeks adorably red.

“Uh, I wasn't actually gonna.”

“I know,” Mel replied cheerfully, giving them a confused look. “I was joking.”

Trinity chuckled, shaking her head. “You're one of a kind, King,” she stated, making space for her on the bench. She then put her arms around them both. “So? Where we goin’?”

“That Irish pub on Carson?” Mateo chimed in, coming back from the truck with two more beers. “What do you say, Vic? It's your birthday.”

“Oh! Uh, that sounds great, yeah,” she smiled, blushing, struggling to catch the can he threw at her.

“Twenty-one, my God, you're a baby,” Samira giggled, hugging her side, still on her adrenaline rush.

“Are you losers seriously pregaming here?” Langdon laughed, taking the spot in between Mel and Trin on the bench.

“You’re the high expert, you recommend somewhere else,” she instantly had a dig at him. “Oh, wait, too soon?”

“I actually really appreciate you not sugarcoating it, Santos,” he talked back, a snarky grin on his face. “Thank you for not treating me differently.”

Dennis cut in before she could bite his head off. “Shall we go? I'm driving but I don't know where I’m going.”

“I’ll send you the address, don't worry,” Mateo assured him. “Let's go.”

The pub had a live band and definitely nicer beer than the truck outside the Pitt. And Javadi was gone after one pint.

She had just snorted loudly at something Mateo had said and instantly covered her mouth. He was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, too tipsy or maybe too smitten to care.

Mel had told Dennis she was going outside. Maybe to call her sister. Maybe just to take some fresh air.

Santos and Langdon were deep into a split the G competition, and naturally, both as drunk as lords because of it.

Mohan wasn't in a better state. Her hair was down and curlier and her bra visible. Dennis had tried all the smoke signals he knew of to let her know that but she didn't seem to care. Maybe her coming down from the adrenaline rush and those three Vodka Lemons hadn't exactly been the right combo. Then again, it was nice seeing her enjoy something else other than intubating people.

“Oh, come on, Whitaker, dance with me,” she dragged him away from the soda he had been nursing at the bar and he almost fell from the stool in the process. “I never do this...”

“Wait, I—” Samira didn't let him get another word out and took the lead.

And suddenly, they were spinning, crossing their arms back and forth to the rhythm of an Irish song. Her laughter was contagious and, before he knew it, Dennis had tears in his eyes and sweat running down his neck. The crowd of few locals around egged them on, clapping and singing. He forgot he didn't actually know how to dance. He just did.

The air felt heavy and light at the same time.

“Dr McKay! Dana! You're here!” He barely heard Javadi from somewhere behind his shoulders.

“Please! We’re off the clock, call me Cassie!”

“We wouldn't have missed it for the world, kid.”

Dennis turned and saw the redhead hug the birthday girl and then the older woman do the same, leaving her with a small, wrapped box in her hands.

“Oh, thank you! You shouldn’t have!”

“It’s from all of us oldies. Jack and Robby, too,” she added, craning her neck. “Who, of course, are already at the bar.”

Dennis felt his heart drop.

He stilled Mohan and gently moved her out of the way.

And there he was. There they both were.

Abbot was staring, holding two beers, and because he wasn't paying much attention to anything or anyone but Samira, instead of handing the other one to his friend, he was trying to give it back to the bartender, who looked fairly confused about it.

Robby was staring, too. A small smile on his lips.

And maybe it was wishful thinking, maybe it was straight-up delirium, maybe it was that Coca Cola he had drunk back at the bar, but Dennis swore he saw a blush.

“Mel!” A scream suddenly knocked him out of his delusions and brought him back to reality.

“Mel! I won! The G! I splat it!”

“You what?” She laughed.

But before Frank could explain better or, at least, correct his use of the verb’s past tense, he slipped and spilled the remaining beer, almost in slow motion, onto himself.

“Whoops,” he giggled.

“Looks like someone might need new scrubs,” Trinity exclaimed victoriously, right behind him. “Hey Huckleberry! Aren't you glad it isn't you who's getting wet this time?!”

Dennis wanted to sink into the ground.

Let the flames of eternal damnation melt his gay ass.

Then, he met Robby's eyes.

And he was laughing.

It was a small, short laugh, more of a chuckle really, low and tired and hoarse, but a laugh nonetheless.

It was nothing.

And it was everything.

So, Dennis decided that Hell could wait.

***

"He's gay, right?”

“Uh?”

“Whitaker. Men. Doesn't he?”

“Wait— men plural? Where?”

“On planet Earth, man,” Jack huffed. “And not right now, he's dancing with Dr Mohan right now.”

“Right,” Robby chuckled. “Dr Mohan.”

“Take this fucking beer, will you?”

“Oh-ho,” he laughed. “Why so sensitive?”

“Why so red?” Jack talked back, leaning against the bar, sipping and grinning. “Discovered something new about yourself at your big age?” He continued, alluding to Whitaker with a nod.

Robby pretended he didn't hear that and blamed it on the loud music, shaking his head, even tapping twice on his right ear.

“Deaf, too, now,” Jack commented, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you are too old for him.”

“Who we talking about?” Dana interjected, taking the stool next to him, hair down and Guinness in hand.

“Robby’s boy.”

“Oh, I love that kid,” she said, turning around and immediately spotting him on the dance floor, raising her glass in his direction. He beamed at her and waved. “Looks like he's having fun tonight. God knows he deserves it. Don't spoil that.”

“How would I even—”

“Please.”

She was gone before he could protest.

“Hi!” Mohan was suddenly in her place, looking giddy and disheveled, rocking back and forth on her heels. “You guys don't dance?”

“Afraid not, unless you want us to be your first patients tomorrow morning.”

“Not even you, Jack?” Robby raised an eyebrow and slowly spun around to face him.

First name base.

Wow.

He didn't pay him any mind, instead smiled at her like an idiot.

“I'd blame it on the prosthetic leg, Doc, but it's really incoordination and general lack of rhythm.”

Mohan unbelievably laughed at that.

Robby rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

“Right. I need some air,” he announced, slapping his thighs before standing up.

“Which is really code for I need a smoke.”

Which is really code for: I'm leaving you to your lovely HR violations, brother.

But he didn't say that. “Nicotine-flavoured air,” he specified. “Happy?”

And with that, he was gone.

It was fucking freezing outside and yet, Robby felt hotter.

Whitaker was leaning against the pub’s wall, a cigarette between his lips and his eyes distant.

“Mind if I steal your lighter, kid?”

“Dr Robby!” He suddenly stood up straight. “Uh, yeah, yeah of course, I— sorry, I swear I don't usually do this.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me,” he reassured him, putting the pack back in his pocket. “I’d be a hypocrite to judge you. It’s not like I'm encouraging this, either, though. You know better and you shouldn't.”

A beat.

“We both shouldn't.”

Whitaker was silent for a second too much.

His cigarette died out.

Robby was still holding on to his lighter and for some stupid reason, instead of just giving it back, he decided to light it up for him. His palm touched Whitaker's hand. He was warm.

He cleared his throat, resting his back against the wall beside him. “You okay?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I couldn't keep up with Mohan anymore and I needed a break, but other than that, yeah, mhm, real fun night.”

“Looked like it,” Robby nodded, choosing to ignore how he had just admitted out loud that he had, in fact, been looking.

“Yeah?” Whitaker raised his gaze on him.

Doe-eyed, Robby thought and then immediately cursed himself for it.

The fuck was wrong with him, lately?

His heart was pounding. He took a puff to calm down and slowly exhaled. “Yeah, it’s nice seeing you all like this every once in a while. Relaxed and carefree, without blood all over you or other, uh, liquids.”

God help him.

“Ah-ha, yeah,” Whitaker laughed quietly. “I think I passed the curse onto Langdon.”

“Good,” Robby smiled. “He deserves it.”

“Oh, come on, don't be mean, Sir. He's trying.”

“I know.”

They both took a drag.

“And you don't need to call me sir outside of work.”

“I know,” Whitaker smiled, his voice little and, fuck maybe it was his imagination, or the beers, or his general active depravation, but shit, that was flirting.

“Don’t.”

“What?” The kid frowned, his eyes even wider.

“You know what.”

He suddenly started coughing, probably the smoke caught in his throat.

Robby’s hand was on his back in a heartbeat, patting and stroking it before his brain could realize what he was doing.

Whitaker was shaking his head, trying to speak over it. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I just— breathed in wrong. I'm okay.”

“Yeah?”

He was still touching him.

“Yeah yeah, sorry. Thank you, sir— er, Robby.”

Still touching.

“Sorry,” he repeated, “force of habit. I, well, I used to call my father that and—”

“Really?” Robby asked, finally taking away his hand.

“Yeah,” he rubbed his neck, tousling the curls that were there. “Still do. I mean, when I talk to the man, which isn't… Often.”

“Why is that, if that's not too—”

“He's not an easy person,” Whitaker talked over him. “Never was. Especially on me. My brothers would tell you that I’m his favorite… Was, I guess, which is why he was so hard on me. He didn't really understand the whole doctor thing, either, and I know I hurt him when I left. So…” He lowered his voice. “Uh… Sorry, didn't mean to trauma dump like that on you.”

“Don't apologize, I get—”

He had taken another wrong drag and started coughing again.

“Jesus,” he rasped in fits. “What's wrong with me?”

“Nothing's wrong with you,” Robby smiled despite himself. “Maybe that's enough of this, though,” he added, without thinking, taking the cigarette from Whitaker’s mouth and throwing it away.

The kid stared at him, lips still slightly parted. “Uh— Sir, I— oh, no, ehm, sorry—”

“You’re good. I'm not your father, Dennis."

“And thank God for that,” he chuckled.

Robby gave him a look, trying not to laugh himself.

“Oh!” Realization struck Whitaker a second too late. “Oh no! Shit, I didn't mean it like that, I only meant— I mean, it's not like you wouldn’t be a great dad, I mean, not to me but in general, definitely. One day, settle down… I mean, it's totally up to you. No pressure. Not that I— okay, all I meant to say was… God, help me— I— I don't want you like a dad. Not that you offered, you didn't. You did the opposite. Oh my God, I can't stop talking.” He remembered to breathe. “I'm so sorry, sir— doctor— Robby, I'm so sorry.”

Gradually, during the speech, his face had turned redder and redder. He now looked like an adorable little tomato.

Snap. Out. Of. This.

“I— what is with me tonight?” He sighed.

“Probably that twelve-hour shift?”

“Yeah, yeah, you're probably—”

A loud noise behind them covered the rest of the kid's words. The pub’s door opened and vomited them all out, one after the other, one drunker than the next.

“What up, Huckleberry!” Santos called out, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’re still driving us, yes? Or are you leaving us stranded to hop in a taxi and go let our boss here do unspeak—”

“Ah-ha!” Whitaker laughed nervously and covered her mouth with a hand. “Ah-ha, Trinity! Shut up! Ah-ha, ah-ha, she's so drunk Dr—Sir—just Robby. Better get her home,” he petted her forehead, then whispered something into her ear.

Robby was pretty sure it had been a death threat followed by a very creative biblical insult, but he was a bit tipsy, too; clearly delirious after that unreal conversation; definitely knackered post shift and post night-out. So, he left it at that.

“Naproxen as soon as you wake up, tomorrow, yeah?” Jack reminded Mohan one last time, before helping her in Santos’ Ford Fiesta.

She nodded with her eyes closed, yawned, waved, dropped her head on King's shoulder and instantly went out, her lips still curved up into a small smirk. Mel gave him and Robby two thumbs up. She then turned to face Langdon next to her but he was gone, too, snoring with his face pressed against the car window.

“Drive safe,” Robby told Whitaker in his seat, bending down to see him eye-to-eye.

“Will do,” he smiled, then turned the engine on. “Trinity, seatbelt.”

“Yes, Mum.”

He rolled his eyes and put down the handbrake. All of a sudden, music exploded from the speakers.

‘My pussy tastes like Pepsi cola,’ a woman's voice sang and Whitaker went pale.

“Trin! Trin, how do I stop this?!” He shrieked, pressing random buttons on the radio.

“Uh?”

“The bluetooth!”

‘My eyes are wide like cherry pies… I got a taste for men who are older... It's always been so, it's no surprise—’

She turned the volume down and started laughing inaudibly, sending her head back. Right next to Robby, Jack was squeezing his nose and covering his mouth in order not to do the same. Dana was speechless.

Whitaker dropped his forehead against the steering wheel and sighed.

“I— I don't— Santos’ music taste… I—”

“Sure, blame the lesbian…. ‘Cause that makes sense,” she finally put her seatbelt on. “Just drive, Lana del Rey. Just drive.”

And he did.

Without looking back.

“Well—” Jack tried, once the car had disappeared behind the corner.

“Nope,” Robby shook his head, hands in his jacket’s pockets.

“Like Pepsi cola…” Dana chuckled. “I swear to God, these kids…”

“Can someone call the taxi?”

“Depends, will you do unspeakable things to us in it or—”

“Jack!” Dana laughed. “No Robby, don't kill him— Robby— Robby!”